Page 89 of Famous for a Living

I turn my attention away and break into a full-out grin.

Mark is sitting on a sleek black horse, one so large I have to crane my neck ninety degrees to see him. He’s gone all in on the cowboy act, too, I see. Shiny silver stars on his boots glint in the sunshine. His Carhartt jacket matches Zaiah’s but in a crisp, black style. No signs of wear and tear. Not even creases yet along the elbows.

A rather well-chosen plaid collar peeks out from the neck of his coat. He, too, holds the reins like someone who’s spent his life in the saddle—only this saddle fascinatingly slips all the way up his back, along with a tan strap that hugs his middle.

A clever saddle for adaptive riders, and I’m glad to see he looks as cheerful and carefree as he always does. “So you’re riding in this crazy race too?” I say. “What is this thing called?”

“Skijoring,” Mark replies. “It’s something else. You’ll love it.”

“So, what . . . you just steer a skier around?”

Mark slaps a hand to his chest as though shot. “Please, Cat. You can’t speak about such a treasured event with such flippancy. I am the guide.” He presses his fingers together like an Italian chef I knew once who used the same motion while speaking about his secret sauce. “My role is to carry my comrade to victory through a series of precise, death-defying tasks. One ill-chosen step and”—he snaps his fingers—“that’s it for Pooh and His Pals.” He drops his hand. “And yes, technically I suppose I steer a skier around.”

I laugh. “That’s your team name? Pooh and His Pals?”

“Absolutely not. We are not children. We are the Honeypot. But you may refer to me as Pooh, as I am the ringleader.”

Ah, of course.

My eyes flicker almost unconsciously over to Zaiah, cheeks warming as I see him still watching me. He looks like a man trying not to care that the girl he likes is laughing with another man. “So you’re our competition, I take it?”

“Unfortunately . . . that is the case.”

“And Zaiah is going against you?”

Mark nods. “Even more unfortunate for me, that is also true.”

I laugh. “Well.” I stretch out a hand to shake his. “I wish you all the best, Pooh of the Honeypot and His Pals.”

“Pooh and His Pals of the Honeypot.” He pulls open his Carhartt and plaid shirt to reveal another poorly made T-shirt with a crudely drawn bear beside a pot of honey.

I raise a brow. “Seriously? So this must be a thing then. You all revel in poorly made T-shirts.”

A skier yells Mark’s name across the field and he picks up the reins. “I’m up. Make ours next year and you’ll have coffee on the house for a month!” And with a pull on the reins he turns the horse toward the area where all the horses and riders are clustered.

It really is like a rodeo, I realize, watching a man on skis settling into a gated enclosure.

A few minutes later a woman steps onto the snowy track and raises a flag.

She drops it at the starting cry over the megaphone, and the gate opens, revealing the skier inside.

Mark gives a yelp and the horse charges.

Children on haystacks cheer as the man clinging to the rope swings around the track. Mark checks over his shoulder, grinning wildly, and swings the horse to the right just in time for the skier to hit the sloping hill and go flying.

The skier—one of the baristas whom I now recognize made my latte just yesterday—reaches for a hanging red ring and snatches it just in time.

Wow.

So. This is fun.

I lift my phone and shoot pictures as the horses and their hooves pound against the snow.

Mark really knows his way around the track, and as the pair race around, gathering rings and flying, I find myself cheering and clapping with the rest.

“Stop it,” Mina hisses, dampening my claps by covering them with her hands. “We’re supportive but not too supportive.”

She watches Mark and the skier with aloof eyes, careful to keep her face as placid as possible despite some surprisingly quick turns that gather cheers.