Ruby #2
Not bothering to listen to any more of what he has to say, I storm out of his office and slam the door behind me. It’s only when I’m back in the fresh air and feel the early morning sun on my face that the adrenaline pumps a little less furiously and reality hits.
“Fuck.”
It’s still early enough, and the yard is quiet.
I was on duty this morning, so everyone else will roll in closer to eight.
I’d already fed the horses and brought them in when I went to see Scott, so everything is set for the day.
Maverick is whinnying for more breakfast when I walk toward the stables, his big chestnut head leaning out of his stall.
Stroking down the blaze of white along his nose, I say, “We need to find a new home again, Mav.”
Leaning forward, he dips his head and nuzzles against my shoulder as if to say, It’s okay, Mom. Wherever you are, I’m happy.
Pulling my phone out, I bring up the number of the one person I know who might be able to help.
“Hey, Rubes, what’s up?” Megan answers immediately.
In the background is running water and a lot of neighing. It’s breakfast time, and she must be on duty.
I first met Megan when I moved to Aspen and sent my résumé to anyone I could find.
Head groom at the Lucky Drop—a well-known polo ranch frequented mostly by wannabe players with lots of money, amateurs, and rich kids whose parents wanted them to learn how to ride—she offered me a part-time role as an extra set of hands.
The pay was ridiculously low, but Maverick could stay, so I jumped at the chance.
We clicked immediately, saving each other’s ass on more than one occasion.
And I need her to save mine again now.
“Hey, can I bring Mav over? I need to keep him somewhere tonight while I figure things out.”
“Sure, babe, what’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you when I get there.”
“Okay. I might be out in the fields, but the last stable on the left is open. You can use that one. If you come in through the side entrance, no one will ask any questions.”
“Thanks, I’ll be there in an hour.”
“Sit tight, Mav.” I drop a kiss on his nose and rush to the groom’s room, where I sleep above the stables.
Shoving everything I own into one small backpack, I sprint back to where Maverick is patiently waiting, tack him up, and lead him out.
No one notices me leaving. I peer over at Scott’s office in case he’s looking out the window, but I see nothing.
I don’t bother to turn around when we make our way out of the entrance gates and begin the six-mile hack.
For the next two hours, I try to figure out a way out of my situation—homeless, stable-less, jobless—but I come up blank.
In the years since I left home to play polo, I’ve prided myself on my ability to land on my feet no matter the adversity, but if I’m being honest with myself, I can’t see a way out this time. And that is scary.
All the knocks I’ve taken have left permanent dents. I’m starting to wonder if maybe I need to reconsider my future, because all I’ve learned is that polo players are assholes, and money doesn’t buy you happiness. I only need Maverick for that.
As instructed, I take the side path to the entrance around the back, where I dismount and let Maverick take a long drink of water from the trough.
It’s busy for a Tuesday—there’s a group of kids having a lesson in the outdoor school, while several older teenagers are brushing down their ponies before tacking them up.
The main stable block is awash with enough activity.
It gives me a little hope that they’re busy enough to need an extra set of hands, and I can buy myself time.
Once he’s finished drinking, I lead Maverick along the cobbles and down to the end stable.
Inside, I find a very inviting fresh bed of straw, at which Maverick lets out a series of loud whinnies of approval and trots inside.
The minute I have his tack off, he eases down and rolls over before curling up like an oversized cat.
Dropping my backpack in the corner, I join him on the straw, leaning into his massive body as I stroke under his ears and think.
Much to my chagrin, McTavish’s parting words are going around and around my brain. It’s true. Miles Burlington is a heavyweight in the world of polo and could kill any prospects of getting a job in another yard again.
I believe he’s that much of a dick. Truth be told, I’m surprised he hasn’t found me already and gotten me fired after his hosing down at New Year’s.
Even though I only met him the one time, his reputation precedes him.
Arrogant. Egotistical. Womanizer.
Ruthless on the field, lethal with a mallet, and no stranger to dirty tactics. Just like the rest of them.
Easing out my phone, I pull up Google to remind myself he deserved that soaking.
Most Talented Polo Player of this Generation
Miles Burlington Moves To Nine In the New Year Rankings
Miles Burlington Makes A Spectacular Save To Score Winning Goal
Miles Burlington is People’s Sexiest Man—Sports Edition
Alongside the headlines, pictures flood my screen—chiseled jaw, a smile that seems to melt the panties off the stupidest of women, and eyes bluer than the summer skies. Ugh. That’s enough of that. I put my phone away.
But my brain is reluctant to switch off.
I mean, sure, he’s hot in that stupid, conceited way with his thick, dark curls flopping strategically over his forehead, like you know he’s done it on purpose.
Polo players are hot. Look up the definition in the dictionary, and you’ll see a line of top goal players.
They’re ten a penny, especially during high season, so I don’t know why everyone loses their shit for Miles Burlington.
“He’s nothing special,” I tell a sleepy Maverick and let out a chuckle, remembering the look of horror when the cold water hit him. The chuckle turns into a huge yawn.
Quitting your job, packing up your worldly belongings, and hacking six miles is more tiring than it sounds. Leaning farther down into his soft belly, my eyes slowly close, and I give in to a quick power nap.
I’m drifting in and out of sleep when a flurry of rushed footsteps and excited whispers passes by the stable.
“Miles Burlington—”
“Did you know he’s an English Lord—”
“Did you see him?”
“He’s so hot—”
Because Maverick’s snoring is so loud and my brain isn’t quick enough to catch up, I don’t immediately realize the words I hear are not in my head. I’m not dreaming.
Rubbing my eyes, I shift on Maverick when something in my peripheral vision startles me violently. It’s a real-life nightmare.
I’m looking up straight into the blue eyes that I’ve annoyingly not stopped thinking about since the first time I saw them, because Miles Burlington is leaning over the stable door staring at me, along with the infuriatingly smug grin I want to smack off his extremely tanned face.
“Hello again.”