1. Tess #2
"One bad moment doesn't define the day." He sounds like he's quoting from a motivational business seminar, but somehow it doesn't come across as patronizing.
We reach the stable area, and I return Oliver to his stall after thoroughly looking him over one more time.
"I should go get cleaned up," I say. "I have to be in the ring in two hours."
Charlie nods. "I'll be in the stands cheering you on."
Jane returns, slipping her phone into her pocket. "Charlie's joining us for dinner tonight," she announces.
Charlie raises an eyebrow. "I am?"
"You are," Jane confirms. "Unless Mr. CEO is too busy for a family dinner?"
"Never too busy for that," Charlie says, his eyes finding mine again.
"Sounds great," I manage, wondering if the heat in my cheeks is visible beneath the dirt. "Assuming Oliver doesn't kill me in the show ring."
"He won't," Charlie says with that same unshakable confidence. "I have a feeling today might turn out better than you think."
As he smiles down at me, standing tall and impossibly handsome in the morning light, I almost believe him.
Later, the announcer calls my name, and I guide Oliver through the in-gate with the careful precision of someone handling a bomb. Thankfully, this Oliver, collected and attentive beneath me, bears little resemblance to the wild creature who dragged me through the dirt earlier.
I've changed into my spare show shirt and jodphurs, brushed the hay from my hair, and plastered band-aids over the worst of my scrapes. My shoulder still protests with each movement, but adrenaline dulls the pain as we enter the ring.
I catch a glimpse of Charlie and Jane by the rail. Something about Charlie’s presence makes me sit deeper in the saddle, straightening my already-straight back.
The bell rings. I take a breath, squeeze my legs, and Oliver moves forward.
The first jump is a simple vertical with blue and white rails. I keep my eyes up, my hands soft but firm. Oliver's ears flick forward, assessing, and then we're airborne. He clears it with room to spare, landing with a smoothness that sends relief flooding through me.
We turn toward the second obstacle, an oxer that would have terrified me this morning, given Oliver's mood. But something has shifted in him. He's transformed into the horse I glimpsed when I first met him—powerful, athletic, and startlingly focused.
Jump after jump, we find our rhythm. My body moves in perfect synchrony with his, anticipating the adjustments needed for each approach.
At the combination—three jumps in close succession that require precise timing—Oliver hesitates slightly before the first fence. I close my legs and he responds immediately. We sail through the fences flawlessly, and I allow myself a fleeting smile as we land.
The last jump looms ahead—a wide liverpool with water beneath the rails. I guide him to the perfect takeoff spot and feel the powerful surge as he launches us over it with room to spare.
We cross the finish line, and the timer stops. Clean round. No faults. I exhale fully, patting Oliver's neck.
As I exit the ring, Jane meets me with a wide grin. "That," she says emphatically, "was not the same horse from this morning."
"Jekyll and Hyde," I agree, still patting Oliver's neck. He prances beneath me, clearly pleased with himself.
"Impressive," Charlie says, reaching out to touch Oliver's shoulder as we pass. "Both of you."
I dismount carefully, my body reminding me of its earlier abuse as my feet hit the ground. Oliver stands calmly beside me, nosing at Charlie's pocket.
"Sorry," I say, pulling Oliver's head back. "He's got zero manners."
Charlie laughs, reaching into his pocket and producing a peppermint. "Actually, I came prepared." He offers it on his flat palm, and Oliver plucks it up, crunching loudly.
"Let's get this boy untacked," Jane suggests, taking Oliver's reins from me.
We reach Oliver's stall, and I'm surprised when Charlie immediately steps in to help, unbuckling the girth with practiced hands while I remove Oliver's bridle. Jane fetches a water bucket, and for a few minutes, we work in comfortable silence—brushing and tending to Oliver.
"So," Charlie says, lifting the saddle from Oliver's back and carrying it to the rack outside the stall, "does he make a habit of dragging his riders through the dirt, or was that a special performance just for me?"
I roll my eyes, hanging the bridle on its hook. "He's been challenging since I got him, but today was a new level of drama."
Charlie returns with a cooler for Oliver, draping it over the horse's still-warm back. "I've missed this," he admits, smoothing the fabric with surprising care. "The smell of the barns, the routine of it all.”
"You mean the delightful blend of manure, hay, and horse sweat?" I ask, reaching for a brush.
"Exactly." He grins, taking a step back while I brush Oliver’s face. "Can't get that in a boardroom, no matter how heated the negotiations."
Jane checks her watch. "I need to go feed Jasper before we leave. You two good to finish up here?" Her innocent tone doesn't match the pointed look she gives me.
"We're fine," I say quickly, perhaps too quickly. "Go ahead."
She slips away, leaving Charlie and me alone with Oliver, who's now contentedly drinking water.
"I should walk him out a bit more," I say, reaching for the lead rope.
"I'll do it," Charlie offers. "You should rest that shoulder."
I start to protest but stop myself. My shoulder is throbbing steadily now that the adrenaline has worn off. "Thanks," I concede, handing him the lead line. "Just ten minutes or so."
"C’mon, big guy. And no funny business." He clips the lead to Oliver's halter with practiced ease.
When they return, Oliver looks relaxed and content. Charlie hands me the lead rope, our fingers brushing again.
"He has impeccable ground manners now," he observes. "Must be my magical influence."
"Clearly," I agree dryly. "Perhaps I should hire you as his full-time handler."
"I charge exorbitant rates," he warns, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Ah, well. Back to getting dragged through the dirt for me, then."
He laughs, and I find myself joining in. Oliver watches us with pricked ears, as if he's in on the joke.
I busy myself adjusting Oliver's cooler to hide my excitement of being near Charlie. "Anyway. I should go get cleaned up."
"I'll see you at dinner," he confirms. "Jane just texted the details. Six o'clock at Riverview."
I nod, suddenly looking forward to the evening more than I care to admit. "Six o'clock."
Riverview Restaurant sits perched on a cliff overlooking the Columbia River, its wall of windows capturing the sunset in shades of amber and rose.
The hostess leads me to a table where Charlie already waits alone, standing as I approach. The setting sun catches in his hair, gilding the dirty blonde to gold, and his summer-sky blue eyes track my movement with an intensity that makes me momentarily forget how to walk.
"Hi, there." He pulls out my chair, the gesture smooth and natural. "You look...not like someone who was dragged through the dirt this morning."
I settle into my seat, smoothing the skirt of my simple black dress. "Amazing what soap and clean clothes can do for a girl."
"Jane's running late," Charlie explains, returning to his seat across from me. He's changed into a pair of navy pants and a plaid button-down shirt.
"So it's just us?" The words escape before I can filter them.
One corner of his mouth lifts. "For now. Problem?"
"No," I say quickly. "Just surprised. Jane's usually pathologically punctual."
"Unlike her brother." He signals the waiter, who appears instantly at his elbow. "Wine? Unless you're still on competition duty tomorrow?"
"One glass is fine. Oliver's done for the weekend—we're heading back to Seattle tomorrow." I pause as the waiter hands us menus. "White, please. Whatever you recommend, Charlie."
Charlie orders me a pinot gris with the easy confidence of someone accustomed to choosing wines in fancy restaurants.
"How's the shoulder?" he asks, nodding toward my left side.
"It'll be fine. Nothing some ibuprofen can't handle." I adjust my position, sitting straighter. "I've had worse injuries from the cello, honestly."
His eyebrows rise slightly. "The cello? I didn't realize it was such a dangerous instrument."
"You'd be surprised." I accept the glass of wine the waiter delivers, taking a small sip before continuing. "Repetitive stress injuries are common. Hours of holding the same position, day after day."
"Yet you choose to aggravate it further by getting dragged behind thousand-pound animals."
"Everyone needs balance in their life," I reply with a shrug that I immediately regret as pain twinges through the joint.
"You’re with PacWest Symphony, right? Jane mentioned you've been with them for a few years now."
I nod, surprised and somewhat pleased that he knows this detail about my life. "Five years. It’s not quite as prestigious as Seattle Symphony, but it's a solid regional orchestra."
"I've heard good things," Charlie says, though I suspect he's being polite.
"We have our moments." I take another sip of wine, its crispness bright on my tongue. “We've had budget cuts three years in a row now. Lost some of our best players to more secure positions. It's hard to carry on when everyone's worried about paying their bills."
A look of empathy crosses his face. "That must be difficult for you.”
The waiter returns to take our order and we tell him we’re still waiting for one more person.
"So, is it just funding, or are there other things going on?" Charlie continues.
I consider deflecting—my professional struggles aren't exactly dinner conversation—but his interest seems sincere.
"It's complicated. Funding is the obvious issue, but it's more than that.
Classical music is fighting for relevance in a changing cultural landscape.
We're trying to innovate without alienating our core audience, who tend to be. .."
"Old?" Charlie supplies.
"Traditional," I correct diplomatically. "They want their Beethoven and Brahms, not experimental compositions. But those traditional concerts don't attract new audiences, and without new audiences..." I trail off, the cycle all too familiar.
"You lose funding, which makes innovation harder, which keeps audiences static, which impacts funding further." Charlie completes the thought with surprising insight.
"Exactly. It's a slow decline rather than a dramatic collapse, which almost makes it worse. We can see it coming but can't seem to change course."
"So what's your dream scenario? If funding weren't an issue?"
The question catches me off guard. "Honestly?"
He nods, waiting.
"Seattle Symphony," I admit. "It's been my goal since I moved back to Seattle. Their artistic standards, their stability, their innovation—they're doing everything PacWest struggles with, and doing it brilliantly."
"Have you auditioned?" Charlie asks.
I shake my head. "Cello positions rarely open up, and when they do, the competition is intense. International-level players usually land the positions.”
"You'll get there," Charlie says with that same unwavering confidence he showed about my riding.
The vote of confidence warms me. "I hope so."
His gaze holds mine for a moment too long, and I find myself looking away first, reaching for my wine glass.
"Jane’s super late," I say, glancing toward the entrance.
Charlie checks his phone. "She just texted. She’s stuck at the showgrounds dealing with a trailer tire issue. She says to start without her."
I'm not sure whether to be disappointed or pleased.
We order and our food arrives quickly. Salmon for me and a big, juicy sirloin for Charlie.
Our conversation shifts to lighter topics—Charlie's latest coffee sourcing trip to Colombia, my adventures with finding the perfect saddle for Oliver, mutual acquaintances from Seattle's overlapping social circles.
It's surprisingly easy, talking with him. The Charlie I remember from our younger days was distant, moving in different circles than Jane and me. This adult version seems genuinely interested in my thoughts, asking follow-up questions and listening intently to my answers.
"So both your passions involve temperamental partners," Charlie observes as we finish our food. "Horses and cellos."
I laugh. "I never thought of it that way, but you're right. Both require constant attention, regular maintenance, and occasional coaxing to perform their best."
"And both are beautiful," he adds, his voice dropping slightly. "In the right hands."
Our eyes meet again, and this time I don't look away.
I open my mouth, not entirely sure what I'm going to say.
His phone buzzes on the table, interrupting the moment. He glances down at it, frowning slightly. "Jane isn’t going to make it. The trailer issue turned into something more complicated than she thought."
I process this information, and feel the flutter of butterflies in my stomach.
“Dessert?” he asks with a mischievous grin.
“Best part of the meal.” I smile back at him.
"I couldn't agree more," he says, and signals the waiter for dessert menus.
As we linger over chocolate mousse, talking about everything and nothing, I'm struck by the strange paths that led us here—from the chaos of the morning to this moment of unexpected connection.
Oliver's wild escape, Charlie's timely appearance, the day's surprising successes and this even more surprising evening.
"I'm glad you came today," I admit as we finally prepare to leave. "There’s no telling what would have happened if you hadn’t been there to catch Oliver."
“I’m sure he would’ve stopped running on his own at some point.”
“You grossly underestimate him,” I say laughing.
Outside, the night air carries the scent of the river and pine needles. Charlie walks me to my truck.
"Drive safely back to your hotel," he says. "I enjoyed catching up with you, Tess."
I pause, keys in hand, reluctant to end the evening. "Thank you for dinner. And for catching Oliver. And for listening about the symphony."
He smiles down at me, the corners of his eyes crinkling just a little bit. “You’re so welcome."
As I drive away, I catch his reflection in my rearview mirror—watching until my truck turns the corner. A feeling that's both new and strangely familiar flutters in me, like returning to a place I've always known existed but never actually visited.
I chuckle to myself. This is Charlie, Tess. Charlie Astor. Your best friend’s brother. Perfect and completely off limits. Never gonna happen, girl.
Tomorrow, I'll drive back to Seattle with Oliver. Back to days filled with symphony rehearsals and early morning rides. But for now, just for tonight, I let myself fantasize. Just a little bit…