Goals & Holes (Blackwood Knights #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

SIMON

I give the stainless steel surfaces a final wipe.

They’ve already been cleaned by the other staff, but I like to do them again myself, then I know they’ve been done properly.

I would never leave my kitchen for the night unless it’s spotless.

Not that it’s actually my kitchen, I’m not the head chef, but still I like to make sure everything is as it should be.

The actual head chef, Conal, won’t bother.

I learned that when I arrived a couple of weeks ago.

I should be setting up my own restaurant by now, but my supposed former business partner Ruben took all the money we’d saved and disappeared.

I didn’t even have enough left for a plane ticket back to the UK.

Not that I wanted to go back there, my tail between my legs, a failure, but there was nothing left for me here in the States anymore.

I’d heard about this job from Avery. We’d met when I first came to this country and we became fairly good friends.

He’s a barman, and he said he always came here for the few weeks before Christmas and into the new year.

He promised the tips were good as people were always in a festive mood.

He’d called me when he’d found out the sous chef had suddenly left and there was a job available for a few weeks.

The money was good, and I could at least afford a ticket home while I figured out what I was going to do next with my life.

And so the next day I found myself in Aspen, high in the Colorado mountains, at a hotel and resort complex.

It’s a good thing the money is good as it didn’t take me long to figure out why the previous guy left.

The head chef is a grade A arsehole. Kitchens are high-stress environments, notorious for bad language and heated tempers, and I’ve worked in plenty around the world, but Conal is by far the worst I’ve come across.

He’s insolent and ignorant and I have no idea how he managed to get the job.

I’ve spent half my time trying to keep the remaining staff from leaving, as I doubt the hotel would be able to recruit any more this close to the holiday season, and with the influx of guests a few days ago for a sporting event, we’re rushed off our feet.

I put the used cloths into the laundry, and I’m just doing my last check round when I hear the doors swing open behind me.

I whirl round in surprise that Conal would be back tonight, as he usually leaves after the last meal has been plated, if he even stays that long.

But it’s not him. I vaguely recognise the guy from the group that arrived a few days ago.

One of the servers said they were polo players, which I thought was odd as we’re surrounded by snow—not that I know anything about polo, except I’m pretty sure you need grass—but I didn’t have time to question further, and didn’t care as long as they weren’t in the habit of complaining about the food, which so far they haven’t.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” I call out as he walks towards me, but he doesn’t stop.

Although I’ve turned most of the lights off, there’s still enough to get a good look at him.

He’s tall and lean, maybe six foot, a couple of inches taller than me.

He’s wearing jeans that look like he was poured into them, and a puffy jacket.

He has a mop of dark brown hair, and his skin is olive—that annoyingly attractive colour which doesn’t need to tan, unlike my very pale English skin which burns as soon as it sees the sun.

He’s incredibly handsome and I try not to stare as he comes closer.

I definitely don’t notice his large chocolate-brown eyes and dark lashes.

“Did you hear me? I said you shouldn’t be here,” I repeat, and only then wonder if maybe he doesn’t speak English.

He stops in front of me and gives me a disarming little smile. I ignore how my heart beats a little faster.

“I wondered if you had any . . . carrots?” he says with a flash of perfect white teeth. Well, my theory about him not speaking English is blown away, but he has an accent which I can’t quite place. South America somewhere.

“Carrots?” Whatever I was expecting him to say, it wasn’t that.

“My horse, she played well today. I was looking for a treat for her,” he asks, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to come into a hotel kitchen at eleven p.m. and ask for carrots. His accent, though . . . The rich tone sends shivers up my spine and makes my head fuzzy.

When I don’t respond straight away, he gives an apologetic shrug and a quirk of his mouth, and I find myself answering.

“Um, yes of course.”

I fetch a bag of carrots from one of the large refrigerators and pull out my Santoku knife.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I mutter to myself, as I stop with my knife poised. A thought occurs to me. “Do you want me to peel them?”

“That will not be necessary,” he answers, his warm eyes dancing with merriment. I’m glad he finds it amusing, but I still don’t know why I’m doing this. I start to chop the carrots into small, perfectly even orange discs.

“Stop!” he cries out and moves his hand in front of me. Only my quick reflexes stop me from chopping off his finger, or at least causing a flesh wound.

“What the fuck?” I turn to look at him, the adrenaline of the near miss making me snap.

“Not like this.” He picks up one of the discs.

“What’s wrong with them? They’re perfect,” I ask, confused. I’ve won competitions in catering college for my exemplary vegetable preparation.

“Like this she can choke. They need to be this way.” He turns his hand and mimes a chopping motion along the carrot.

“You want me to julienne carrots . . . for a horse?”

Again he gives me that little shrug and half smile, and I sigh. Of course I will. I scoop up the discs and box them up—I’ll use them in the soup tomorrow. I take three carrots and cut them into perfectly sized regular lengths instead.

“So, you’re a polo player?” I ask.

“I am.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, there’s a lot of snow outside. Surely you can’t play polo in the snow.”

“There are a few changes to playing on grass, but yes, you can. Aspen is famous for it. Or St Moritz in Europe.”

“Huh. So it’s just like hockey but with horses, then?” I look up at him and see his eyes darken.

“It’s nothing like hockey. That’s played on ice,” he replies sharply as if I’ve touched a nerve.

“Ice, snow, ice skates, horses. Seems pretty much the same to me.” I shrug.

“I’d like to see those hockey players do what they do with one thousand pounds of horse between their legs.”

“Now that would be a sight.” I laugh and he joins in. I finish chopping the carrots, then find a bag to put them in and hand them over to him.

“What’s your name?” he asks with a smile, and I get another view of his white teeth.

“Simon,” I answer.

“Then thank you, Seemon,” he says and my knees nearly buckle.

I lean on the counter so he doesn’t notice.

The way he says my name, in his accent, pronouncing the si as see, drawing it out like it’s special.

I’ve always thought my name was boring, very plain, but the way he says it makes it sound alluring, like a rich blend of expensive chocolate. I swallow and try to focus.

“What’s your name?”

“Andrés,” he replies, and again it sounds exotic to my ears.

He holds up the bag of carrots. “Well, thank you again.” He turns to go, but I feel reluctant to let him go just like that.

“Can I . . . um . . . can I see this horse that’s worth these special carrots?” I blurt out, and his eyes sparkle with amusement again.

“Of course.”

I let him go first, and following behind, I notice his perfectly shaped globe of an arse. Wow. If that’s what riding horses does . . . He catches my eye and smiles.

“How long have you ridden horses?” I ask, quickly covering up the fact I was ogling him.

“Since before I could walk.”

Yes, that would probably produce an amazing arse and probably some other interesting muscles as well.

I know very little about horses, but I’m intrigued.

I grab my coat. The staff quarters are separate from the main hotel, so I have one handy.

It’s not quite up to the biting cold of the below-freezing temperatures of Aspen nights, but I’m barely ever out of doors so I haven’t bothered to upgrade it.

Not that I have the money anyway. There’s been a fresh sprinkling of snow since I started my shift hours ago, and it crunches underfoot as I follow Andrés across the hotel grounds to a long, low wooden building I’ve not really noticed before.

The first thing I notice when Andrés opens the door and we slip inside is the smell.

Or rather, a cacophony of them. Not all of them are pleasant.

It’s also warmer than I expected for a wooden building, but I guess that’s from all the horses.

I’ve never seen so many, not that I’ve been close to any horses before.

There’s a line of horses down each side of the building, all separated by a low wooden wall, and a central space where there are bales of hay, tools, metal lockers, and various piles of unfamiliar equipment.

There are also a few people, tending to the horses.

Andrés leads the way along the central corridor until we come to a guy sitting on a bale rubbing a cloth over a saddle.

Andrés speaks to him in what sounds like Spanish.

He flicks his eyes to me and then nods to Andrés, then he rises and puts the saddle in a locker and secures it.

He says something I don’t catch, gives me another glance, and walks off.

“That’s Jorge. He’s my groom,” Andrés explains and then turns to his right. “And these are my horses.”

“Horses? I thought you said horse.”

“You cannot play polo with just one horse,” he says as if it was common knowledge, but clearly I know nothing about horses.

“How many do you have?”

“I only brought five with me, but I have twelve more back in Argentina.”

“Who has that many horses?” I say with incredulity.

I can’t contemplate it. He laughs softly, a warm sound which reaches into my core.

He doesn’t answer, though, which I take to mean my question was ridiculous.

Well, clearly we live in different worlds.

The only thing I know is that horses are expensive and he has seventeen of them, whereas I can’t even afford to buy a warmer coat.

I shiver slightly as if the reminder of that has chilled me.

He’s obviously very rich. I shouldn’t have come out here; I don’t belong.

I’m just contemplating what excuse I can use to leave.

“Would you like to meet them?” he asks.

Damn his voice and it’s honeyed accent that has me wanting to hear more. I could have left if he’d just stayed quiet.

“Um, alright.” I look past him at the horses and all I can see are their backsides. Okay, I know two things about horses, the second is to stay away from their back ends—they kick.

“This is Marvel, Furia, Terco, and Saban.” He points to each horse in turn. “And this one is Chispa.” He goes towards it, just walking up to its tail. It doesn’t move at all, just flicks back an ear and carries on eating hay from what looks like a bag made of string.

“She did well today.” He moves along the wall towards her head and takes the bag of carrots from his pocket and feeds her a few. I stay where I am in the centre of the building.

“Would you like to say hello?” he asks, looking over at me.

“I, um. I’ve never been that close to a horse before.” I’ve touched one over a fence—the front end of it, the safer end, though I suppose the teeth are still dangerous.

“Come on, she won’t do anything.”

I take a deep breath and tentatively approach her, and she doesn’t move so I get a bit closer.

Still she doesn’t move, so I squeeze myself along the low wall next to her, as close as I can get.

I don’t breathe again until I’m standing next to Andrés by her head.

He doesn’t comment on my nervousness, just gives me a kindly smile when I reach him like I’ve achieved something amazing.

He turns back and offers her a few of the carrots, and she gently lips them off his hand. His expression is soft and I can clearly see how much regard he has for her. Love even. Oh to be looked at like that by someone so handsome. Lucky horse.

“You can stroke her if you want,” he says softly. Having come so far I might as well, since she doesn’t look like she’s about to eat me. I reach out and touch her nose. It’s like warm velvet and not at all what I was expecting.

“Oh, she’s so soft,” I exclaim in a loud whisper, and he chuckles. Chispa blows out a loud breath and I withdraw my hand quickly, tucking it against myself.

“Let her smell you,” he says and I shoot him a look.

He must be kidding, right? But his face is impassive, so I slowly hold out my hand below her nose, and she huffs a soft breath over me that almost tickles.

He places some of the carrots onto my hand and she gently mouths them from me.

I feel emboldened to stroke down her neck, smoothing down her red-brown, almost ginger hair.

“What does her name mean?”

“Chispa? It means spark.”

“It suits her,” I say and he laughs again.

“Why doesn’t she have a mane?” I ask, touching the short bristles on the top of her neck.

“We clip the mane of polo ponies, it’s called hogging. It stops the reins, mallets, and other equipment from getting tangled up in it.”

I nod; it makes sense even if it makes them look a little odd.

“I’d better give some carrots to the others before they get jealous,” he says, and I press myself against the wall again to exit her stall. I hover in the central walkway while he distributes the rest of the carrots.

“Well, thank you for letting me meet your horses, but I’d better get to bed,” I say when he comes over. It’s nearly midnight and I have to be up early to start making breakfast.

“I was thinking,” he says, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “My horse got her reward, how about I reward you for making them for her?”

A hookup? Is he offering me a hookup? I stare at him for a few seconds but his smile looks genuine.

“Um, there are rules about, you know . . . staff and guests,” I sputter. “We’re not allowed to, um, mix.”

He takes a step closer. He’s a few inches taller than me and I have to tip my head back a little to look at him.

“No one will ever know, Simon.”

I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. He said my name in that goddamn sexy accent. I can’t possibly refuse him.

“What do you say?” His voice is rich and dark, and I just nod my answer to him.