CHAPTER 1 #3
Without another word, she turns and hands the reins off to someone near the stables. Doesn’t look back. Just walks away like she didn’t just upend my entire nervous system.
I round the corner.
Sure enough, there it is: a compact, cedar-walled stall with a latching door and slatted vents near the roof to let in the breeze.
Inside, it’s surprisingly nice. Clean, warm-toned wood, a mirror mounted above a small shelf, a bench with neatly folded towels, and a plastic drying rack tucked in the corner.
There’s even a blow dryer hooked beside the mirror, its cord coiled like a snake.
A breath slips out before I even notice it's there.
First things first: I grab a rough paper towel from the counter and do my best to wipe the sludge off my sneakers. Not much luck, but it’s better than nothing.
I scrub the caked mud from my jeans and spot clean them. The left knee is a disaster, thick with dirt, maybe some grass, and, judging by the smell, a generous smear of horse sweat. Or worse.
I peel off clothes that smell like adrenaline and barn air and hang them on the drying rack, then step under the warm stream of water.
Relief.
The heat sinks into my shoulders, loosening the tension that’s been riding me since the moment I turned onto the gravel drive. The soap smells like cedar and orange peel, woodsy, sharp, clean. I breathe it in like it’s the first real breath I’ve taken in days.
I let the water run over my neck a moment longer, then shut it off and towel off quickly, trying to be efficient.
I put on my jeans, rub my hair halfway dry, then plug in the blow dryer and point it at my scalp, blinking into the fogged mirror.
The reflection that stares back is not exactly job-interview ready. Shirtless, cheeks still flushed, hazel eyes a little wild, and damp dark curls plastered to my forehead. The distinct look of someone who may or may not have just wrestled a horse.
I’m blow-drying my jeans when the door swings open.
“Oh! Sorry! I didn’t think, ”
Both of us freeze.
She’s standing in the doorway with a rolled-up yoga mat over one shoulder and a workout towel around her neck.
Her sneakers are unlaced and her tank top is clinging in all the ways I immediately try not to process.
Her ash blonde hair is swept up into a loose bun, strands clinging to her temples.
Her blue eyes are wide at first, startled, then amused.
Very amused.
Her gaze slides down. Not fast. Not shy. She takes her time, and I feel every second of it.
Warm.
Curious.
Lingering.
She recovers first, one corner of her mouth tugging into a faint smile.
“I just finished a lakeside session,” she says. “Didn’t realize someone was in here.”
“I, uh, yeah, I was just finishing.” I grab my shirt off the rack, clutching it like it’ll somehow make this less awkward.
“No rush,” she says, stepping just inside, one hand braced on the door. “Trust me. I’ve seen worse after hot yoga. You’re doing fine.”
I blink. My brain isn’t exactly cooperating. “I didn’t… expect this.”
She tilts her head, still smiling. “The yoga class?”
“No, I mean, all of it. I came for a job interview, then ran into a horse.” I pause. “Or rather… a horse ran into me.”
That gets a laugh. A soft one, but real.
She steps back a little but doesn’t close the door yet. “You’re Nathan Jones, right? Maintenance job?”
Her eyes trace over me again, slower this time, like she’s reevaluating something. “Very nice.”
My throat goes dry.
She smiles, sticking out her free hand casually, like we aren’t having this conversation with me half-naked and her slightly damp from yoga. “I’m Carolyn, by the way. Carolyn Sage.”
Shit. Of course she is.
The other Sage sister.
I fumble the shirt into one hand and reach out with the other, trying to look anywhere but at the line of her collarbone or the way her damp tank top hugs her curves.
“Nice to meet you, Miss, uh, Sage.”
Her hand meets mine, soft, warm, confident. And lingering just a second longer than necessary.
“Just Carolyn,” she says, lips curving into a smile that’s half invitation, half dare. “And it’s very nice to half-meet you, Nathan.”
She turns, but not without letting her eyes sweep over me one last time, slow and deliberate. At the doorway, she pauses, resting her hand lightly on the frame.
“I’ll give you a few minutes to finish… drying off,” she says, her voice dipped in honey and heat. “But take your time. I don’t mind waiting for the full introduction.”
Then she flashes a grin, teasing, wicked, and slips out of sight.
The door clicks shut behind her.
And I just stand there, towel in hand, shirt forgotten, staring at the space she left like I’ve been hit by a truck full of pheromones. What the hell does she mean by “full introduction?” Does she want to see the rest of me? No way.
I exhale deeply, trying to gather my thoughts. I smooth my shirt and run a hand through my hair.
Before I exit the shower shed, I tell my reflection I’ll be fine.
But the thoughts keep surfacing:
First, I met one boss face-down in the dirt.
Then I met the other while half-naked.
It’ll be a goddamn miracle if I survive this interview with my dignity intact.