Chapter 12
Finn doesn’t notice me right away when I enter the stable, giving me the opportunity to watch him nuzzle a beautiful dark
horse who’s way too big for my liking. I still can’t reconcile the Finn I’ve gotten to know over the past few days with the one I’ve read
about. Maybe it’s my non-monarchist upbringing, but I can’t seem to think of him as royalty—he just seems like a normal boy
with a secretly soft heart and a wicked sense of humor.
Finn gives the horse a kiss on the nose and feeds him something from his hand. I clear my throat. Finn hears me and turns
around. His face lights up when he sees me, his mouth breaking into a grin. “I’ll go fetch Rosie,” he says, leading her out
of the stall and into the crossties. Her soulful eyes are telling me not to be afraid. Not of her, not of Finn. “She’s already
groomed, so I just need to tack her up.”
I pet her neck and breathe in her outdoorsy scent. “Can you teach me how to do it?” I ask.
Finn walks me through the steps of positioning the pad and the saddle and buckling the girth. Then he shows me how to put on her bridle, something I’m definitely not ready to do myself as it involves putting your fingers in the horse’s mouth to get them to accept the bit.
He hands me Rosie’s reins, then goes to grab his own horse, the dark brown one. “This is Ivanhoe,” he says. “Don’t be jealous,
Hannah, but Ivanhoe is my one true love.”
“I’m not jealous,” I say too quickly, too sincerely, which makes Finn laugh.
We lead the horses out of the stable where, once again, Finn helps me into the saddle from the mounting block. Although this
time, he offers a comically wide berth, like he thinks I’ll electrocute him if we touch. He reminds me how to hold the reins,
then mounts his own horse, eschewing the steps entirely. Instead, he places one foot in the stirrup, then hoists himself up
in one smooth motion.
“Show-off,” I say.
He clucks to Ivanhoe, who takes off at a brisk walk. I’m just about to squeeze Rosie with my calves, like Finn showed me,
but she follows Ivanhoe without being asked. “Good girl,” I whisper. “Thank you.”
Ivanhoe begins to prance in place and toss his head. It’s clear he wants to speed up. Finn remains tall and relaxed in the saddle, seemingly unbothered by the fact that his enormous horse seems poised to take off at any moment. “Relax, mate,” he says, reaching down to pat Ivanhoe’s neck.
Ivanhoe settles down as we walk down the drive and turn onto the dirt path Finn and I went down before, the one that cut through
the meadow. “Want to try a trot?” Finn asks.
“I’m not sure. How fast is that?”
“It’s a jog. And you’ll be fine. Rosie will take care of you. Besides, you have a natural seat.”
“Excuse me?”
“Get your mind out of the gutter, you dirty American. It means you’re naturally balanced in the saddle.” He gives Ivanhoe
an invisible signal and the horse springs forward. Rosie follows suit and breaks into a quick, slightly bouncy jog.
“Oh god,” I say, grabbing on to the front of the saddle for balance as my teeth rattle in my head.
“Try posting,” Finn calls over his shoulder. “Like this.” I watch him rise up and down in time to Ivanhoe’s steps.
I try to mimic him but the movement is awkward, and frankly, I’m terrified of letting go of the saddle. But then I take a
deep breath, press down on the stirrups, hover for a moment, then lower myself back down.
“There you go,” Finn says. “Just like that.”
I bounce around for another minute, and then suddenly feel myself begin to move in a rhythm. Up down, up down, up down, all
in time with Rosie’s steps. “I’m doing it!”
“That you are, cowgirl. Well done.”
We’re still going a little faster than I’d like, but it feels more thrilling than terrifying. The path narrows as we approach the woods up ahead, but Rosie’s pace remains steady. I take another deep breath, and sigh as the scent of pine floods my senses.
I’m happier than I’ve been in a really long time. Maybe ever. I try to capture every image, squeezing it as I’m experiencing
it now and as a memory.
“You okay to keep going?” Finn calls over his shoulder.
“Yes!”
And then suddenly, we’re in the woods, Rosie trotting briskly behind Ivanhoe. It’s like something out of a movie. Out of a
fairy tale. The path is so narrow, tree branches form a canopy above us, giving the dappled light a greenish tint. We round
a bend and suddenly we’re riding alongside a brook, crystal clear water surging around moss-covered rocks.
Finn slows his horse to a walk, and Rosie follows suit. “Shall we take a break?” Finn asks. He dismounts gracefully, then
comes over to help me slide off, much less gracefully. We lead the horses to a quieter section of the brook to let them drink,
then Finn hooks their reins over a branch and motions for me to follow him to a patch of grass overlooking the water.
I stretch to accommodate the growing ache of muscles I didn’t know I have.
“Okay, so riding actually is a workout, then,” I say, reaching my hands to the sky. My shirt shimmies up with the motion. I can feel the cool air on my stomach—and I catch Finn looking.
“Try to control yourself,” I tease him.
He tears his eyes away from me and nods toward the lake. “Beautiful evening for a swim,” he says.
I can’t deny that it is. The sun is setting slowly; the air is the temperature of fun and bad decisions.
“You’re just trying to get me to go skinny-dipping with you,” I say.
“I’m truly not,” he protests. “I’ll prove it.” He takes off his shoes and socks and runs into the water with the rest of his
clothes still on until it’s deep enough to dive under. When he emerges, his hair is slicked back and appears darker, giving
me an unobstructed view of his handsome-as-a-devil face. But that’s not even the best part. Because the only things more chiseled
than Prince Finneas’s jawline are his chest and stomach, both of which I can see clearly, thanks to the shirt clinging to
him like a second skin.
“Hot damn,” I whisper.
“What was that?” he calls back. I shake my head to indicate I didn’t say anything—at least not anything meant for his ears.
He waves me over, the water rippling around him as he moves. “Don’t be a fraidy-cat, American Hannah. Come on, then.”
In a rare moment, I don’t allow myself to think.
I take off my sneakers and socks and run in, splashing without grace, without a care in the world.
My shorts and cropped shirt immediately flood with water and stick to me.
But, oh, the water feels incredible. Just cool enough to counteract the humidity I’ve been fighting all day.
When my toes can no longer feel the squishy bottom of the lake, I frog-kick my legs and swim until I reach Finn.
Unable to touch, I start treading. We’re facing each other, grinning like two fools who don’t care how uncomfortable the ride back up to the stables will be. Ethel’s words ring in my ears.
Friendship, my erse.
“The last time I treaded water this long, it was to pass my swimming test,” I tell him. “I think I was twelve.”
“Poor teeny tiny little Hannah,” he says. He cups one hand and squeezes his fist so that water squirts toward my face.
“Hey,” I protest, and reach for his offending hand. He squirts me with the other one and I’m simultaneously attempting to
stop him while trying not to drown. But I don’t struggle for long because he reaches an arm around my waist to hold me, steady
me. Instead of keeping his fists closed to stop him from spraying me again, my arms end up on his shoulders.
My heart is pounding. No person has ever looked as gorgeous to me as he looks in this lake, in this twilight. All I want—all
I’m desperate to do—is to press my lips against his, just to see if they’re as soft as they look. My lids are heavy. His are
too. Our noses are about to touch.
Suddenly, he pulls away. It’s so jarring, so humiliating, I forget to tread water and my shoulders submerge. His hands reach for my waist to lift me, but I’ve caught myself.
“We should head back before it gets dark,” he says in a tone I can’t read, a tone I don’t like.
“Yeah. Definitely,” I say, and swim toward shore without looking back.