Page 48 of Saddle Storm

“Then why are you here?”

He hesitates. Just a beat. “Because I want to help. Because where you and Max are—” He pauses, reading my face, which I know has all kinds of walls pulled up but I can’t help it.

“What?” I snap, impatiently.

“Never mind,” he mutters, and it’s barely audible.

I frown in confusion.

“Another time,” he assures with a firm nod before backing away.

That shouldn’t make my chest ache—him giving up. But it does. “Of course,” I scoff. “Another time. Hell, maybe the next time you’re in town for a broken limb.”

“Storm.”

I step back, the weight of everything pressing down at once. The residual resentment toward Silas. Toward Jasper. Medical bills piling up. The fear of falling apart when I’m all Max has to look up to.

The fleeting moment of happiness last night with Silas.

What we could have been. That’s what breaks me the most. How easy and fun it was. I’ve been on dates before. Sometimes, Max would come along—be it that I didn’t have a sitter. Or a reason to let guys think twice before asking for date number two.

A test of sorts, I guess. Something Carrie Thorne taught me fifteen years ago. If a horse doesn’t take to you from the start, it never will. Just how they’re wired. Not to mention, Max and I are a package deal.

And that’s how Silas treated us. Without blinking an eye.

I step into him abruptly, hands fisting in his flannel, pulling him down into a kiss that’s more collision than invitation. It’s desperate and angry and all too quickly, it’s over, because I pull back with a sharp inhale.

His eyes are wide with surprise.

With another breath, I open my mouth, but words never make it out. Silas’s hand slides around my throat and pulls me in as his mouth claims mine again. Deeper this time, slower. A sound breaks between us, low and needy, and I can’t tell if it’s his or mine when our tongues meet.

He backs me up between stalls, left hand lifting my arm above my head. He pulls back with a soft breath. “Help me out here.”

Before I could think twice, I bring my other arm up and he grips both wrists with one hand. A smile playing on his lips before he devours my mouth again. His slinged hand pressing my stomach gently as if feeling for the bubbles fizzing inside me.

His lips are warm, perfect. The same but better than I imagined. I moan with a need for more. But he pulls back, leaving me breathless and trembling.

He’s breathing hard too, resting his forehead against mine. “So fucking long, Storm,” he whispers. “I’ve been waiting too damn long to kiss you like that.” He releases my wrists, hand trailing down my arm making me shiver. He smirks and snakes his fingers around my neck and into my hair. “But let the record show.” He presses his warm lips to mine again, soft and brief. “You kissed me first.”

16

I don’t remember leaving the barn on Monday. Couldn’t even tell you if I closed up for the day properly.

I know my feet wobbled.

My heart raced.

My mind was on overdrive—but that came later. After I got home and stared at the ceiling until exhaustion took over.

What I can tell you is the amount of times my alarm went off this morning just to get me out of bed.

And the first thing I touched—were my lips. Like I could still feel him there.

The heat of his mouth. The pressure. The way I waited for it to feel like a mistake. A stupid reckless one. And it never came.

Which is probably the problem.

I exhale slowly, forcing my shoulders to drop as I breathe in the late afternoon autumn air as I ride Skye uphill toward Dallas’s house. I’ve been stopping to sit with Willow at least once a week since she’d given birth—feeling like she could use the company. And I could use a gal pal. Especially when she practically started pulling me off the field to come hang out with her and Rose and an afternoon mocktail.