Ruby
Iwake up alone, in a strange bed, and married.
But man, did I sleep well.
This mattress must be made from Silver Linings because it’s nothing like the tiny grooms’ bunks I’ve become accustomed to over the years.
And I can stretch. Stretch from corner to corner without even touching them, and I do it now just to prove a point. Shifting down the bed, I adopt the starfish shape, my fingers and toes reach as far as they go, and I still don’t make it.
It’s amazing, and I can’t remember having a better night’s sleep.
Maybe England will agree with me in more ways than one.
We arrived here late in the afternoon, and Miles slept for most of the flight, while I was too excited to sleep.
I haven’t flown much, and I’ve never flown private.
Seeing Aspen disappear beneath the clouds was like watching a chapter of my life end.
I spent the time playing games with Story and Max, answering question after question until Story took him off for a nap.
By the time we landed, I could barely keep my eyes open, so it was expected that I’d fall asleep on the car journey from the airport to here. I could have done without drooling on Miles’s shoulder, however, and the knowing smirk he gave me when I realized.
After giving me the house rules, “I don’t cook, the coffee’s on the counter, breakfast comes down from Burlington, so write your request on the pad by the fridge,” and promising a tour once I’d slept, Miles showed me to my bedroom and left me to sleep.
I assured him I only needed an hour or two, but according to my phone screen, that was fourteen hours ago.
Which means today is tomorrow.
Like I said, Silver Linings mattress.
I’d still be asleep if it hadn’t been for the very loud, very persistent bell ringing coming from somewhere outside.
I expected it to be in the backyard for how loud it was, but when I opened the drapes, there was nothing to see except blue skies and fields upon fields of green grass dotted with sheep and cows.
So I crawled back into bed, where I’ve been lying since, flitting between dreams of promises interspersed with the memory of Miles’s kiss.
Soft yet firm, strong yet gentle. The feel of his silky stubble under my palms as he held me against the warmth of his chest, his lips against mine is something I will remember long after I’m back in the United States.
Up to two weeks ago, Miles was nothing more to me than a rich, smug, indifferent team owner. Like all team owners.
He was everything I hated about the business of polo.
Everything I resented, knowing that for me to succeed, I have to kiss ass.
He’s rich, sure. But I was wrong about the indifference.
He notices everything, pays attention to everything.
Watching him with the horses before they loaded was like watching a masterclass in meticulousness.
And somewhere along the way, he decided I was sufficiently skilled to risk his reputation for. Now my head’s in a spin, and I don’t know what to think except that I no longer hate him. And Miles Burlington is nothing like I thought he was.
The bells chime again, and I decide to get up, explore what I missed last night, and go in search of coffee.
I’m assuming Miles crashed not long after me, and I have vague recollections of the floorboards creaking outside my room, followed by the sound of a door closing. For all I know, he’s still asleep.
Wandering through to the bathroom, I open the blinds to a different view than the bedroom offers.
It looks down on the rose bushes lining the front yard, more fields, and a narrow winding lane leading to a huge fountain I remember passing before we pulled up.
Cute is probably the adjective. Cute and very English.
I pee, wash my hands, splash water on my face, and take stock of my surroundings—the walk-in shower, the huge claw tub under the window, and the basket full of every amenity I could need.
Shampoo, conditioner, and enough expensive skincare to keep Sephora in business.
What’s more, I can’t picture him buying any of it.
I wonder if Miles’s women use this room.
Does he fuck them in my new bed on my Silver Linings mattress?
Do they sleep in here? Or are these things in here for all overnight guests?
The more questions I ask myself, the heavier my chest feels.
I believed him when he agreed to no women while we were married, but seeing all this .
. . I’m not so sure. Professional polo players are athletes with high testosterone. Sex is part of the natural order.
And if I’m not giving it to him, he’s going to find it somewhere else.
It’s while I’m brushing my teeth that the sunlight catches on my left hand and the rings there.
With each slow twist of my hand, my ruby shoots out a kaleidoscope of colors, rebounding off the mirror and hitting the white wall.
It’s pretty. It’s distracting. A reminder of what exactly I got myself into.
And the more I look at it, the more I think there’s no way Miles would have spent six figures on a ring for a marriage that’s only going to last a season.
He might be rich, but one thing about billionaires is that they like to keep hold of their money.
On the other hand, maybe it’s an investment where he can make his money back.
That’s more like it, it’s an investment.
Which makes me responsible for it. To that I say hell, no.
It’s the type of ring polo patrons’ wives wear while sipping cold glasses of champagne. It’s not for the player. I can’t muck out the horses wearing it. Hose them down. I’d be galloping up the field and praying it didn’t fly off.
It’s impractical, is what it is. It’s irresponsible.
Easing it off with a dab of soap, I lay it carefully in the little dish on the shelf above the basin, leaving only the delicate band of diamonds.
I return to brushing my teeth and stare at my finger.
I’ve been wearing that ring for less than twenty-four hours, but somehow, my finger feels empty without it. It looks empty.
So I slide it back on and make a deal with myself to only wear it around the house, like dressing up. Because when you boil it down, that’s all this is. Dress up. A make-believe marriage.
After running a brush through my hair, I tug on the only pair of sweats I own and quietly ease open my bedroom door.
Looking left, I see Miles’s door open, which means he’s awake and likely downstairs.
I hesitate on my first step, a wave of apprehension washing over me.
What happens now? Is he waiting for me? Are we supposed to have breakfast together?
To the outside world, we’re husband and wife, but within these four walls, we’re roommates who barely know each other.
I go slowly. My efforts at staying undetected are futile when the door hinges creak so loudly they’ve alerted Miles—and anyone else—to my presence, and padding down the floorboards, I realize this house is just one noisy step after another.
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I duck under the low ceiling and brace myself.
I expect him to call out as I get closer to the kitchen, but when I walk in, I come up empty.
“Miles?”
My call goes unanswered, even when I try again. I might have woken up married, but my new husband’s nowhere to be seen.
I’m alone in the house.
Immediately, a sigh of relief escapes. I’ve been told many times I’m not the most morning-y of people, and now I get to take my time calibrating to my new surroundings.
My first stop is the coffee machine in the corner, where I find a note.
Wifey,
I left early to take care of some business. Coffee beans are in the machine, milk’s in the fridge, and mugs are in the cupboard in front of you.
Meet me at the stables at 10 a.m. for your first lesson.
Your ever faithful and loving husband,
Miles
Iknow I said I didn’t like being called “wife,” but I smile nonetheless. I have the feeling I’m going to need to get used to it. I know this much already—Miles isn’t the type of person you can tell what to do, and the more I object, the more he’ll continue.
While I wait for the coffee to drip, I look around.
Instead of cookbooks, framed photos fill the shelves, along with trinkets and memorabilia.
There’s a place for everything. I get closer, studying each picture—Miles and his family, Miles as a little boy, Miles with horse after horse after horse.
Empty magnums of champagne have been placed next to photos of him as part of winning teams—at Cowdray, at the Argentine Open, the Dubai Classic.
The biggest frame, however, is reserved for a man who can only be Miles’s dad, with him as a little boy.
Miles is sitting on a stable gate, held in place by his father, while on the other side, a huge black horse peers over.
An unexpected surge of emotion rises up my throat, stinging my eyes until I’m forced to squeeze them shut.
I turn, wiping away the moisture, and cast my eyes over the rest of the room.
There's a domesticity to this house that's heartwarming and surprising. Even the dish towel has little ponies on it. There are piles of polo magazines, and I roll my eyes when I realize they all have Miles on the cover. Opening the cabinets, I find everything neatly stacked, lined up, and labeled, just like in the fridge when I fetch the milk. It’s also full, which means someone must have stocked it before we returned.
Carrying my coffee, I make my way through the rest of the house.
It’s small, cozy, with more low beams that make me wonder if Miles has to walk with a constantly dipped head.
More photos hang on the walls—all of family, horses, and dogs.
None, I realize, of other women. In fact, any evidence women have been here at all rests solely in my imagination and the basket of products in the bathroom.