Page 76 of Lawless Rivals

I roll my eyes and follow her. “Tea’s overrated. I prefer coffee before I start shoveling.”

She glances over her shoulder, her gaze dropping to my fingers. “Those hands have held champagne flutes longer than a shovel.”

“Think what you like,” I reply. “My father owns horses, Sera. I’ve been around them my whole life.”

“C’mon on, Harrington. Those soft hands haven’t worked in years.”

“That’s because I lived in Paris.”

“Of course you did.”

Halfway to the yard, Saint spots us and lowers the phone, slipping it into his pocket.

“Don’t screw with her, Sera,” he says, as she strolls past him, not looking at me.

“She’ll be fine,” she calls back. “If she’s not, we’ll know by lunchtime.”

Sera doesn’t break stride. Gravel crunches under her field boots until she reaches the concrete yard and keeps walking toward the barns.

I match her pace for a few steps before my core tightens, and I glance over my shoulder to find Saint.

Our gazes snare, though his expression stays neutral. He doesn’t tip his chin, and the line of his mouth stays firm. But he doesn’t look away either.

The moment hums as the wind lifts a strand of my hair across my cheek. I push it back without breaking eye contact and consider saying something.

However, he looks away first to pluck a cigarette from the pack, slots it between his lips, and as he lights it, his eyes hold mine over the flame.

He gives me one last glance before walking toward the driver’s door and climbing in.

I angle away and ignore the way my heart races.

Sera hands me a shovel and slides open the closest stall gate. “This one’s all yours. The bedding needs changing, and the stalls hosed out before you fill them with new shavings.”

Two stable hands move along the aisle ahead of me and ask Sera if I’m new. She offers them a jokey reply that implies I won’t last more than a week. They laugh. Even though her comment is a dig, it means they won’t ask where I am after they’ve set me free.

While I get to work, she joins me in the stall and leans one shoulder against the wall, boots planted, arms folded, watching.

“Bend your knees,” she says after a minute. “Or you’ll wreck your back.”

Without looking over, I soften my knees a little and carry on, driving the fork into the bedding and lifting with steady rhythm instead of speed.

“Does your da talk business at the dinner table?” she asks.

“Sometimes.”

“So ya know what he’s up to then?”

I stop mid-scoop and lock eyes with her, sweat trickling the length of my spine. “My father doesn’t involve me in that stuff. If you want to interrogate someone, ask my brother Fionn.”

That earns the smallest twitch at the corner of her mouth. “Pretty boys crumble under pressure. I’m sure he’d be an easy target.”

“Then win him over with your magnetic Tallon charm.”

Sera laughs and pushes off the wall, stepping away. “We aren’t swapping brothers, Harrington. Anyway, I prefer real men. And you’re built for men who send flowers. Not a guy who takes what he wants.”

I brush a curl of shavings off my sleeve. “Saint took what was offered to him. He hasn’t lied to me, which is more than most men can manage.”

“Finish this row,” she says, backing into the aisle. “The lads can handle the rest. A few more stalls will ease their load.”