Ruby
“Iam not fucking working for you.”
Next to me, Meg gasps. I don’t know whether it was because of my snarled response or the fact he offered me work in the first place. Because what the actual fuck?
“Why not?” Miles Burlington replies like working for him is the most perfectly normal step in our relationship, and I struggle to come up with a response that isn’t “I hate you” or “I don’t trust you” or something else more succinct and valid because he’s the type of person to keep digging until he gets the answer he wants.
I bet he’s never heard no before, and I’ll double it to bet that he doesn’t listen when he’s told it. Smarmy. Rich. Asshole.
Maybe this is a game. I can see him needing a power play, some kind of twisted kink where he gets off on reeling girls in before kicking them to the curb. Maybe this is revenge for almost trampling him.
He already knows I hate him, I can see it in the smirk he’s still wearing, and he expects me to come up with a better explanation than “because.”
Okay, how about this one. “Aren’t you scared I might try to run you over again?”
I’m not going to tell him it wasn’t intentional, that it was purely coincidental that I was on that path because I always use it as a shortcut. But I can’t say I wouldn’t do it again.
He barks a laugh. “Not particularly.”
“Well, I’m still not coming to work for you—”
“Ruby, you need a job,” Meg mutters quietly, her lips barely moving.
“She’s correct. Listen to your friend.”
“Do you have Superman hearing or something?” I ask, though my head’s spinning from the absolute lack of sense that has befallen everyone but me.
“Nope, just regular old ears. Remember when you asked if you could clean them out? I took your advice, and now I can hear everything.”
I scowl, both at him and the weight of Meg’s wide-eyed stare. I never told her about my run-in with him at New Year’s. I never told anyone. You can’t deny something you’ve already admitted.
I try again with a different tack. “Didn’t we already establish you’re English?”
“We did.”
“And that’s where you’re based?” I add innocence to my tone. His head’s probably big enough already without knowing I know where he’s based.
Foxleigh Park is up there among the most prestigious grounds in the polo world, alongside Meadowbrook and the National Polo Center. It was a place I dreamed of playing, but not like this. Even though I haven’t yet figured out what’s going on here, I know I’m not stupid enough to fall for it.
“It is.”
“Well, there’s the problem then. I can’t come to England.”
“Why not?” His tone is one you’d placate a child with—patronizing and slow—why can’t you put your shoes on . . . why can’t you go to school today?
In what is likely the only time I will ever thank Scott McTavish for anything, I puff my chest and say with my whole heart, “I don’t have a visa.”
“That’s not what I would class as a problem. We can get you a visa.”
“Well . . .” Tension pops my jaw, and I glare at Maverick, who’s now nuzzling into Miles Burlington’s shoulder. “I’m not leaving my horse.”
It’s debatable whether Maverick would feel the same about me, given he’s turning to putty under Miles’s long, thick fingers stroking through his mane.
Traitor. Where’s the horse who usually snaps his teeth at visitors?
The one who lunges forward when they’re least expecting and terrifies anyone within a hundred yards?
Not here, that’s for sure.
“I’m not asking you to leave him. You can bring him to England.”
Meg gasps again. I crane my neck in an exaggerated manner and shoot her another scowl—like, seriously? Whose side is she on?
But of course she’s not looking at me. She’s staring at Miles, all heart eyes and swoony sighs. Fine, I’ll do it myself. Turning back to Miles with a list of reasons on the tip of my tongue for why I have absolutely no intention of ever going to England with him, I open my mouth.
Except no words come out.
So of course he takes that as an opportunity to speak again.
“Any more ‘problems’ I need to solve?”
I can’t believe he air-quoted me. Asshole.
“Nope? Okay, good. Then I have one more question. What’s your handicap?”
Goddamn it. Why am I getting tongue-tied in front of this guy? Why does he care what it is? Last I checked, grooms aren’t required to have handicaps, or maybe it’s different in England.
It’s enough to yank me out of my annoyance. “I . . . um.”
“Do you have one? Officially?”
I shake my head, and defensiveness stiffens my shoulders. “No.”
“Who taught you to play?”
“No one. I taught myself,” I say, hesitantly.
He blinks once, then again. He looks like he’s deciding between disbelief and astonishment. “You taught yourself?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve never had lessons?”
I shake my head again, my hackles rising from the depths of my insecurity, standing before one of the world’s best who had everything handed to him on a platter. I might have talent, but the last eight years have proven that if you don’t have money, then it makes fuck all of a difference.
Also, I don’t know what any of this has to do with being a groom on his yard, unless he’s that much of a pretentious asshole that everyone who works for him has to come with the highest qualifications.
“No. I’ve never had lessons.”
“You’ve only worked as a groom this whole time? Never played?”
My heartbeat strains under the weight of his stare. “I just told you that. What the fuck is with the twenty questions for a job I also already told you I don’t want?”
He ignores me and goes in for another. “No one’s ever watched you play?”
Pushing his baseball cap, he scratches through those thick curls squashed on his head and replaces it. All the while I’m held in place with the intensity of his blue eyes boring into me, regarding me, while his brain whirrs—it’s not hard to imagine what he’s thinking.
It’s what all the players think. In fact, find me any sportsman who doesn’t. Where money leads, girls follow.
“Are you sure you cleaned your ears out?”
A barely-there twitch under his eye flickers for a second before his face splits with a wide, amused grin, and my mouth dries up.
“I’m sure. I just . . .” He stops talking, and I get the impression he’s reassessing whatever he planned to say. “Ruby, I want you to come and work for me at Foxleigh.”
“Why?” My arms cross forcefully over my chest. “So you can get your revenge on me? Or because you’ve run out of women to sleep with in England?
” One thick eyebrow rises at my point, but I’m not done.
“I don’t need to travel across an ocean for some perv to think I’ll spread my legs in gratitude at the chance of employment.
I can get that right here. In fact, I just left a similar opportunity this morning—”
“And I believe I already know the result if I tried. For what it’s worth, I would have kicked him in the balls.” He chuckles, but it’s dry and humorless.
My retort dies on my lips.
“I’m not interested in fucking you, Ruby.
And I’m not looking for a new groom because I have plenty.
I’m interested in your talent. I watched you in the arena.
You’re a natural, but you need some work, and I’ll teach you until you’re good enough to play for my team.
” He stares at me, and I don’t find a shred of a lie or hint of revenge in his words even though I search.
My belly flips out of nowhere. “You’ve got a week to decide.
Don’t worry about leaving. I’ll talk to Monty, and he’ll let you stay here until I get back. ”
Giving Maverick one last pat, he walks off without another word. Ruby and I stare at the spot he vacated, and even Maverick seems to follow his movement.
“Jesus. That was intense.”
Meg whirls on me so quickly I almost lose balance. “First off. How the fuck do you know Miles Burlington?”
I let out a deep sigh and sink against the stable door. Meg stays where she is.
“I don’t know him—” I begin, only for her to stamp her foot in annoyance. “I don’t. But I ran into him at the Polo Club during the holidays. He made acquaintance with the wrong end of the hose—”
“That was you? Oh my God, Ruby, everyone was talking about it—”
“I know, that’s why I didn’t tell you.”
She shakes her head and decides to forgive me enough to join me on the straw. “Did you really run him over?”
“Not on purpose. I was on the path, and Mav got spooked by something. Burlington happened to be on the path too and jumped out of the way. Landed in the bush.” I chuckle as Meg tries to cover up her snort.
“Wow. And now he’s offering you a dream chance—”
“C’mon, it’s not real. He’s not going to come back.” Maybe if I say it enough times, I’ll convince myself.
“It sounded pretty real, and he is coming back. He’s bought Calamity.”
“No way?”
“Way. And you’ll never guess who else was interested in him.”
“Who?”
“Santiago Torres.”
“Holy shit, now that is gossip. You think he did it on purpose?”
“Absolutely.” She nods so enthusiastically that she looks like a bobblehead. “See, there’s a bonus of working for Miles Burlington. You can get the gossip.”
“Gossip and what else?”
She shrugs. “He’s hot.”
“That’s not a reason to work for him. If anything, it’s a con. He’s such a conceited prick that he probably thinks everyone’s in love with him.”
“Maybe. But they probably are.” She nudges her shoulder with mine.
“Look, Rubes, this is an awesome opportunity for you. That’s all I’m saying.
Just write a list and see where you get.
You have a week.” She eases up to standing, claps her hands together to wipe away the straw and dirt, and holds one out to me.
“Now come and help me get the arena ready.”
She leads the way, and after making sure Maverick’s got enough water, I follow . . . while mentally composing my list.
Which is when I realize that in all my years of jobs on yards, no one has ever shown more interest in me than Miles Burlington just did in five minutes.
True to his word, I’m allowed to stay on the Lucky Drop Ranch.
The week goes by quickly. Too quickly for me to come to a decision.
I’ve gone back and forth. My list of pros and cons is longer than the Declaration of Independence. I get to the point where I’m clock watching, counting down the hours and minutes until he returns, and I have to give him my answer.
And when his car arrives—a blacked-out Range Rover, because of course that’s what he drives—I still don’t know what I’m going to say.
Heading out of the main barn to fetch Maverick, who’s decided he’s had enough time outside today and is whinnying loudly at the fence while also trying his best to demolish it with his hooves, I stop behind one of the wide pillars.
I watch Miles walk over to him. The first thing he does is pull something from his pocket and hold it out.
Maverick takes it so gently you’d think that’s how he behaved all the time.
His outrage at being in the field vanishes, and he turns to putty in Miles’s strong hands. Again. There’s literally no one who doesn’t succumb to his charms.
I try not to include myself, but I’ve been doing my best not to think about those hands since I watched them stroke along Maverick’s neck—veins running down to taut, muscular forearms honed from years of controlling unpredictable, flighty ponies.
Of all the players I’ve heard rumors about, Miles Burlington’s are the most complimentary.
“A stallion in the sack,” I overheard someone call him once.
Those fingers currently working through Maverick’s mane are the ones that have brought countless women to orgasm. Before I can stop it, the thought of him doing the same to me registers hard between my legs. It’s sufficiently shocking that I let out a tiny gasp.
I didn’t think it was loud enough to hear, but Miles turns around like he senses someone watching him.
When his eyes lock into mine, a slow, questioning smile creeps across his face, and I pray to God he can’t read my thoughts—because they’re definitely not for sharing. With him or any living soul ever.
Giving Maverick one more pat, he makes his way over. His stride is somewhere between a strut and a swagger, brimming with arrogance. The angle of the sun casts a shadow over the upper half of his face so all I can see is his mouth, and somewhere in the forty or so steps, I make my mind up.
“Well?”
“Yes. I’ll come to work for you.”