Chapter 24
24
Her name is Jelly Bean. She is nineteen years old. The stablemaster shared this information with me while I mounted the massive brown mare. I think he expected I would find her seniority and the cuteness of her name comforting, or maybe he just enjoys divulging the details of the animal. Either way, I am not about to let my guard down.
At least Jelly Bean strides slowly down the path, which carries us over the grassy hill to the Gothic outpost of the graduate campus. Nevertheless, every one of her steps jostles my whole body, reminding me of the dire consequences if she takes off running.
Reading the liability waiver before getting on the horse felt like grim foreshadowing of the consequences of horseback riding. In the Western Court, “omens” hold potent import—crows flying at sunrise, full moons on the eve of combat. I felt similarly superstitious signing away my right to sue if Jelly Bean acts like the wild animal she clearly is at heart. When I climbed the short set of wooden steps to mount her after bidding farewell to my coffee, I’m pretty certain I blacked out.
Mounted with Glory . Yeah, right. Mounted with Pants-Shitting Nervousness is what my clue descriptor should read.
Still, I remind myself, what am I supposed to do? Surrender over the clue?
Not going to happen.
As we continue over the rise, I wish I could enjoy the scenery. It looks right out of medieval legends, epic fairy tales, or classic romances—all the stories I grew up reading, which inspired my lifelong love of books. Shaggy foliage hems our path on one side. On the other, green hills roll far into the distance. In the summer, Hollisboro kind of resembles Hobbiton.
Clouds overhead keep us from overheating under the rising morning sun. Jelly Bean and Scott’s mare have stopped a couple times to pluck clover from the ground—the only moments when my fear cedes to finding their grazing, okay, pretty damn cute.
Otherwise, while we clop along, I find myself wondering who could ever enjoy horseback riding. I mean, the obstacle course will have felt like a massage compared to how this will hit my inner thighs. And how does everyone else cope with the fear? I feel like I’m riding a military cannon while holding a lit match. What excitement could one possibly find in the ominous swaying of a thirteen-hundred-pound animal with a mind of her own?
Yes, thirteen hundred pounds. Larger horses grow to fifteen or even seventeen hundred. I googled it. Not one of my wiser or prouder moments. I don’t know what reassurance I expected to find under the covers at 12:37 a.m., googling “weight of horse.”
Scott rides confidently ahead of me. However, he keeps stealing glances over his shoulder.
Consequently, I have to hold in my fear tears, wanting to appear completely at ease atop Jelly Bean.
“You okay back there?” Scott finally ventures. Mocking my obvious discomfort, of course. The way he would if our supervisor caught me spacing out in a meeting or something. Care to join us, Jennifer?
Well, I refuse to be mocked. “Wonderful,” I reply, stiffening my voice. It comes out piano-string sharp, unfortunately. “I…love horseback riding,” I manage. “What a fun, and safe, hobby. Maybe I’ll move to Montana and take up a life of ranching.”
Hopefully Scott knows I’m mocking his mocking. Nevertheless, he presses me. “You’re not…scared of horses, are you?”
My denial is forming on my lips when, unfortunately, Jelly Bean stops abruptly, no doubt about to throw me to my death. Startled, I shriek. Then I clap my hands over my mouth when I realize my horse is only eating some clover.
Scott, I will grudgingly credit him, does not laugh. Instead, he looks…sympathetic. Worried, even.
Ugh. Way worse. I must look pathetic if Scott Daniels is pitying me, which only reminds me more of the peril of every kind in which I find myself right now. “Don’t give me that look,” I admonish him hotly. “I’m fine. I can do this.”
He considers me, atop Jelly Bean, and then wry playfulness replaces the sympathy in his expression. Almost like he…knows our petty rivalry is the distraction I need right now. Or something.
“You could get down, you know,” he calls out. Now he obviously knows what he’s doing. Tempting me with reassurance! “Why don’t you let me go ahead and get the clue? I’ll let you look at it,” he promises.
“No you won’t,” I reply as witheringly as I can currently manage.
He laughs. “We could work something out.”
I narrow my eyes. He can’t see my glare from yards ahead, but it’s worth it.
My weaker judgment entreats me to hear him out, though. Even if Scott Daniels’s patronizing concern is embarrassing, I do really want to get off Jelly Bean. “What could we work out?” I ask, making sure I sound like I’m only sussing him out dispassionately for information.
“I’ll let you look at the clue,” Scott offers, “if you admit you’re glad I came to the Experience.”
I scoff to cover my shock. Is this fighting or flirting?
Why is it so hard to tell them apart?
“Glad? Why would I be glad?” I retort desperately. “If not for you I would have gotten the obstacle course clue. I would have Erik as my alliance partner.” I would be alone right now , I can’t help adding in my head, terrified . “You’re a distraction this week,” I promise him, and myself. “Nothing more.”
A distraction . Welcome or unwelcome remains, uncomfortably, to be seen.
Scott doesn’t pass up the opportunity I’ve presented him. “When exactly do I distract you, Jennifer Worth?” he asks, and damn is he getting unnervingly good at the Val drawl. “When you’re lying in bed at night, remembering the times I’ve come close to touching you?”
My eyes fly wide.
Admitting to that—well, I’d rather Heather Winters arrive at dinner announcing she was retconning the ending of The Risen Court and Val ends up with the devious Lady Dymestra. I’d rather Erik leap out of the forest in front of Jelly Bean, wearing a frightening mask, and leave the rest of my horse ride in fate’s hands.
Not…because it isn’t true. I’d just rather not admit it.
“I have my books,” I say coolly. “I’m fine in bed.”
“Is that so?” Scott’s reply is droll. “Fictional Lord Valance has some good lines,” Scott concedes, “but he can’t touch you.”
I literally feel my lungs clench in surprise. He can’t touch you .
No, he can’t.
“Well, you have one of those things in common,” I return.
Scott falls silent and faces forward.
I smile at his back, pleased with my comeback. Relieved, even. No chance at all this is flirting. Why would we be flirting anyway?
While I ponder the question, something wet lands on my arm. I look up, finding the sky has darkened.
In dealing with Scott, I didn’t notice how heavier gray clouds were closing over the morning sun. They look…
Like storm clouds.
Sweat coats my hands on Jelly Bean’s reins. I really, really hope we can reach the graduate college before the summer thunderstorm hits.
Honestly, however, I don’t know if we will. In my near decade of living on the East Coast, I’ve learned summer storms come on fast and unpredictably.
Nervousness weakens my resolve. “If I tell you when you distract me,” I call up to Scott, “you’ll give me your clue and I can get off this horse?”
Scott hesitates. When he faces me once more, he looks characteristically victorious. As if his alliance is not just him and Erik, but also includes the fucking weather. “I’ll let you look at my clue,” he negotiates.
While I consider— really consider—he slows his horse to walk next to mine. I feel the humidity thickening, reminding me I don’t have long to consider the consequences of inclement weather.
I take a breath. Scott waits. “You don’t distract me at night,” I say.
He frowns. “Well, fine—”
“It’s when we’re not fighting,” I say softly.
The interruption quiets Scott.
“When the real you slips out,” I go on. “The sort-of-nerdy you, who’s trying so hard to act cool and like he doesn’t care. But beneath it all, you care so incredibly much.” I make myself look over at him instead of hiding from my own honesty. “I want to talk to that Scott. Sometimes it makes me forget everything else.”
He glances down. I’m in his peripheral vision, and I glimpse something pained in his eyes. For the past year, he’s concealed everything in combativeness or carelessness. Every flicker of friendliness or compassion or camaraderie he may have felt, rendered over to rivalry instead. I guess I’ve done the same around him.
“You can talk to me,” he says.
I laugh nervously. “And say what, Scott? Thanks for stealing my alliance, dickhead? ”
He straightens, as if in relief at my change in the somberness of the conversation. “It’s not exactly what I had in mind, but I can work with it,” he replies earnestly.
I’m instantly grateful for his humor. While the clouds haven’t shifted, his response has let a little light into my mood. In fact—I realize he’s distracted me, and we’re not far from the grad college now. I’d…almost forgotten I was on a horse.
Almost.
“Well, what if I texted, How are your goat horns looking? Oh wait, you don’t have any ,” I offer.
Scott fights his smile. “Can’t imagine a better way to end my day, actually.”
“What about, For someone good at finding clues, you sure are clueless with women ?”
He’s fully grinning now. “Careful,” he says. “With insults like those, you’ll have me falling for you in no time.”
His heart-stopping words sound sarcastic and sincere at once. The memorable description of Val flashes in my mind. He makes mockery sound like sweetest praise. Fighting or flirting. Sarcasm or sincerity. Scott Daniels, ever the man in the middle.
I’m thinking of my reply when the clouds split open.
Rain douses us, coming down in heavy sheets. I restrain the urge to shriek from the sudden downpour, relieved to find Jelly Bean is not reacting to the water itself. Our horses plod on, water pasting their manes to their necks.
Everything is fine until the first roll of thunder echoes in the distance. The animals start to spook, shaking their heads and stepping with nervous liveliness, and holy shit, my heart has leapt in my chest . I ride sitting ramrod straight, rigid in fear—
“Shh.”
Scott has noticed the horses’ fear and mine. He hushes our mounts, and incredibly, it works. Either from the authoritativeness in his utterances or the evenness of the sound, his shushing settles them, and they fall into steadier footsteps once more.
It works on the horses anyway.
I’m still hyperventilating. Anxiety is one of those feelings where once the not-okay switch is flipped, it comes with devastating, pulse-pounding, never-ending force. It’s hard to unflip it even when your surprisingly kind coworker has removed imminent danger.
“There’s going to be more thunder,” I say, rambling now. “And oh my god, did you read the waiver we signed? Would it be worse to fall off the horses or have the horses kick us in the heads? Heads? Head? Is it heads or head ? Heads, right?” Even grammar doesn’t distract me for long. “Maybe I should stay on, but what if—”
Scott leaps athletically down from his mount. With his horse’s reins in hand, he reaches, gentle yet sure, for Jelly Bean’s, removing them from my sweaty grip. He stands—fucking fearlessly—in the middle of the path, slowing the horses.
The animals follow his lead. He’s calming them, I realize, keeping them from running off.
It’s just enough to ease my panic. We’re no longer moving. I feel my pulse start to slow. I can speak without fear pinching my every hasty word.
“Thank you,” I say.
Scott nods. In the downpour, we’re drenched. His hair sticks to his forehead. Even in my extremely nervous state, I cannot help thinking that if Pemberley were to emerge around the path’s next forested corner, Scott Daniels would not look out of place.
“I—I wasn’t always afraid of horses, you know,” I say. Rambling comes easily to me when I’m hoping to divert myself from this dangerous, Scott-related line of thinking. “Growing up in Oklahoma, some of my friends had them. I thought they were cute. I didn’t ride one until I was twenty. My boyfriend at the time and I went on a trip to Mexico together. It was my first vacation on my own with a guy. I was so excited, of course. I wanted it to be perfect.”
My efforts have started to work. I’m managing to distract myself—from our equine situation and from Scott. I remember the weekend-long excursion Victor planned for our six-monthiversary. I’d read four vacation-centered rom-coms in a row in emotional preparation. I was determined to have my own.
“He was sweet. He booked us horseback riding on the beach. I was thrilled, but then when I got up there, I started to have a panic attack. Obviously, I didn’t tell him,” I recount. “I didn’t want to ruin it for him.”
Scott watches me closely in the downpour, intuiting something is compelling my spontaneous storytelling. “It wouldn’t have ruined anything, Jen,” he finally says. “At least, it wouldn’t with the right guy.”
I swallow. His kindness just making him more attractive in the rainstorm, which was not the point of my rambling. “I’m proud of myself, though. I haven’t even cried while on Jelly Bean. Progress,” I announce while Scott steers us under the forest canopy to escape the rain. He holds the horses’ long reins, one in each hand.
The posture accentuates his shoulders unfairly. I suspect if he knew how he looks right now, he would consider a career change. Jelly Bean, on whom I remain seated, walks obligingly with him while water glues my ass to the saddle.
“Just wait,” I say. “Next time I am forced to ride a horse with a cute guy, I’ll be unstoppable.”
Scott sends me a smile over his shoulder.
“Cute, you say?” he repeats. Under the leaves, he watches me like he very much wants me to elaborate, raising one eyebrow in inquiry.
And for once, it isn’t Val eyeing me. Scott isn’t imitating a fictional sex symbol or playing a game or whatever. His newly mastered expression isn’t performed smolder. It’s just…him.
Our eyes remain locked, water beading in our eyelashes while thunder pounds in the skies and in our veins.
“Gracious me,” cries the stablemaster, breaking the moment. The man we spoke to before has run up behind us, his boots caked in mud kicked up in the rain. “Sorry about that! These two”—he rubs Jelly Bean’s flank, coming up next to me—“are usually pretty unflappable even in weather, but I can take them from here.”
He retakes the reins, and the horses huff like they’re glad to return to his more experienced hands. Well, that makes four of us. Or, possibly five. I won’t speak for Scott, although I expect he was enjoying the company of his horse.
“The clue is in the quad. I won’t tell anyone that you didn’t technically ride there.” The stablemaster nods up at the nearby grad college. On the hill under the dark clouds, the ominous edifice looks like it would suit Dracula, not Darcy.
Nevertheless, clue information is clue information. The quad is close, close enough to run on foot without getting hopelessly drenched or exhausted.
I say a private thanks to the weather for sparing me the rest of the ride. Maybe it’s not in Scott’s alliance after all. Maybe I have atmospheric pressure and solar patterns on Team Jennifer. Except—then I remember I have to dismount without the step stool I used to get on. Jelly Bean has one more opportunity to fling me off in the meantime, causing certain injury. Or at least certain embarrassment.
You can do it , I urge myself. With all the courage I have, I stand in the stirrups, reverse engineering my process of getting on. I swing my right leg over the saddle to join my left. Okay, halfway there. Now how to get from the horse to the ground…
Why do they have to be so tall?
I know I have only one option. I lower myself down with my right leg, ready for impact. I’m definitely going to come up short of the ground, probably leaving me dangling in ungainly helplessness until I drop into the mud—
Instead, I meet a hard body behind me.
The firm interception halts my fall, steadying me. Scott’s hands find my waist. With him… holding me, I continue my descent more evenly, reaching the ground without issue.
I turn in his arms, hesitantly, not wanting to face how much I want him exactly where he is.
“I had it,” I say.
He’s close, only inches from me in the hushed murmur of the storm. We’re dripping wet. Rainwater has plastered Scott’s shirt to the planes of his chest and soaked his hair and his face. His mouth. He doesn’t move, doesn’t step away, doesn’t release my hips—he could, but he doesn’t.
“You would have fallen in the mud. We did that once already this week,” he replies. “Let’s move on to something else, shall we?”
Obviously, it’s fucking hot. It’s right out of a fantasy. “Like what?” I ask breathlessly.
The stablemaster has started leading the horses back to the pasture. Jelly Bean’s huge flank no longer hems me in. Which means I could also step out of Scott’s reach, easily.
I don’t. I don’t want to.
His fingers tighten on my hips. Then his eyes dart to the quad. I know exactly what the mischief in his gaze promises. “Don’t think because you helped me, I’m going to just give you the clue,” I warn him.
“Now, that would hardly be fun,” he replies. His eyes return to me, and I guess Elytheum’s magic has followed us out here. Only under fantastical skies could I imagine fireworks dazzling even in the rain.
“Agreed,” I say.
He grins, and I can’t help doing the same—until, in the same moment, we take off, dashing out from the forest cover.
Into the rain, we run. Free of horse-related panic, the giddy fun of the ridiculously inconvenient weather seizes me. My shriek changes into laugher as the rain pelts my face and I keep my frantic footing in the muddy ground, managing to hold Scott’s pace. Finally, I find salvation under the first archway leading into the graduate college.
It’s smaller than the main campus, architecturally similar but with only a couple connected quads. Whew . Despite the mad-dash fun I’m having, I don’t want to spend hours out here scrounging around in the rain.
I start in the archway itself, progressing into the first main quad. Frantic and with water warping my vision, I search the statues, the Gothic corridors, the lawn—every nook and waterlogged cranny—while Scott does the same.
Of course, we hit different spots, each of us wanting to stake our success on our own strategy. While Scott hurriedly inspects the corners and perches of the statue of another seated college founder, not unlike the one we found in West College, I lift up the cinder-block doorstop outside a now-closed door. Nada.
Fortunately, he’s no more successful. Spinning in the rain, searching for my next opportunity, I notice a tree near him, limbs low enough for the clue to perch there, trunk thick enough for its whorls to hide what I need.
It’s promising, but Scott is presently closer to it. If I run for it, he’ll want to look there. This week has proven multiple times that he can outpace me if he wants.
Stealth, not strength , I remind myself. Fighting my shaking hands, I do the unimaginable. I stall. I diligently inspect the stained glass, practically certain no clue hides in the corners of the windows. In my peripheral vision, I watch Scott finish rummaging around the benches near the statue. He stands up, surveys the rest of our surroundings, then moves on to the second archway, undoubtedly figuring he’ll get a head start on the next quad.
It’s my moment. The second he’s gone, I rush to the tree.
I roam my hands over the large, knotted trunk, searching for hollows. I find none. No, no, no . If I’m wrong, Scott’s very real head start on the next quad might cost me the clue. How is he so good at this?
I reach up, inspecting every angle, ignoring the rain—
There . A scroll is tied with twine to the cradle of a bough!
Euphoric, with fingers clumsy from the cold, I fumble to untie the string. I gently extract the scroll, which only the leaves of its resting place have protected from the downpour. While I know the organizers have planned for nearly everything, I doubt even Amelia foresaw the possibility of her friend dropping the graduate college clue into the mud and eviscerating the scroll’s handwriting.
With my prize clutched carefully in my hands, I retreat.
Of course, my steps carry me exactly into the line of the archway leading into the connecting quad.
Quite naturally, Scott looks up when I’m in view, glimpsing the scroll in my hands.
Right then the rain starts sheeting down harder and faster. Okay, the weather is conspiring against both of us, clearly. Scott races for me, and I race for the corridor along the side of the quad, heading for cover in which to wait out the rest of the deluge. I have no idea when we’ll be able to return to the main Experience campus. Luckily, summer storms often dissipate as fast as they come on.
When I get inside, the rain is waterfalling down the apertures. My breath is fast with adrenaline. Knowing I have only moments to collect myself, I slick my wet hair back from my face with my free hand. With the other, I put the clue scroll into my back pocket.
Pounding footsteps suddenly stop in the archway.
I whirl, finding Scott watching me from the rain.
“Looks like I win again,” I chide him. “You’ll have to be faster next time.”
He enters the corridor.
My mocking dies in my throat when I glimpse the hungry look in his eyes. He strides forward, his soaking-wet shirt sticking to his chest. His every step carries him with urgency. With want.
He looks like he’s spent a hundred years in the storm, and the first shelter he’s found is me.
“Congratulations,” he says . His voice is raw.
He continues forward. He’s feet away from me now, and he doesn’t stop.