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"A piece."
WHAT?!
A deep chuckle escapes him. "God, you're cute."
My head spins. Oh my—
BANG!
I whip my head toward the noise, just in time to catch the horses blazing out of their gates. "And they're off!" the announcer blares through the speakers. My heart lurches in rhythm to their hooves, kicking up dirt as they battle for the inner rail.
I search through their ranks, realizing I don't have a clue who is who. "Uhh..."
"You little fibber," Hayden murmurs. "You didn't see Hayzeus, did you?"
My teeth sink into my lower lip, earning a tsk, tsk, tsk from his tongue.
"Canterbelle is number fourteen. Riiiiight—there." He points. "Ohhh, he's in the middle of the pack. Not bad, not bad. Nothing like my number two, though, in red. Right th—"
I look over, finding him aghast, then follow the line of his gaze. Number two...? "Uh, oh. Seems the first pick isn't doing so hot. Is he... behind Canterbelle?" I watch in disbelief, as they sprint down the near stretch, approaching the first bend.
"No, no, no, that can't be right."
"Wait..." I gasp.
"It's Canterbelle, surging through the pack!"
"Oh my god!" I smack Hayden's arm as he buries his face into his palms, riddled with shame, watching through the slits of his fingers.
As they round the second and final bend, my chest heaves wildly. Canterbelle is right there in the lead, neck and neck, with another horse.
"It's Canterbelle and Practical Choice, on the home stretch, pulling ahead! Four lengths... Five lengths... Six! They're stride for stride, arriving into the final furlong! Ohhh, it's coming down to the wire. Who's it gonna be?! Oh my goodness, it's a photo finish!!!"
The crowd roars as they cross the tall white post, at the exact same time. Bright camera flashes light up the finish line in rapid succession, capturing the spectacular moment. Calamity rocks the floors below, shaking the foundations of Churchill Downs. Cheers pour through the air, as thousands of spectators leap to their feet.
Hayden and I, we're no exception.
Actually, we're the most rambunctious pair on the entire balcony. Amidst high society who clap politely and exchange courteous nods, we laugh in each other's arms, jumping and wooing and squealing like little kids, forgetting all the rules that bind us, blurring the lines between reality and the terms of our contract, until they're as indistinguishable as the trampled finish line below.
All while, the world awaits a picture-perfect decision...
THIRTY-ONE
HAYDEN
Money looks good on everyone.
Juliana, though? She's in a league of her own.
I suppress a groan as she leans over the lounge's balcony, neglecting the fact that it's four stories high, and watches the winner's circle through a small pair of binoculars. Her dress is spectacular—a solid shade of lilac, stopping just above her knees. It's classy yet strapless, and cinches tightly around her figure.
I don't care how much it cost me.
She needs ten more.
"That's a lot of flowers." She leans farther, spiking my adrenaline.
I glance toward the winner's circle. She's not wrong, though there aren't any more than usual this year. Primarily roses. Hedges curve around the circle, forming a horseshoe shape that contains a flock of photographers snapping photos of the horse prancing around, as if it knows its accomplishment. A blanket of roses drapes across its backside, behind the jockey holding an enormous bouquet, mounted atop a saddle labeled with the number eight. Not two, as I had hoped.
