Chapter 24 Caleb
The moment Kristal mentioned horseback rides being available, I knew I had to make this happen. The memory of Austin's smug face offering to take Ivy riding still burns. Like hell, I would let that cowboy wannabe anywhere near her on a horse.
"You sure you don't want any help?" The ranch hand, Grayson, eyes me skeptically. His weathered face says he's seen this exact disaster play out before. "These horses need a gentle touch."
"We've got it covered." I wave him off, eyes fixed on Ivy as she floats toward a chocolate-colored mare. "How hard can it be?"
Grayson shrugs, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like "your funeral" before retreating to his post.
Ivy's already bonding with her horse. Her face is flushed with excitement, those light freckles standing out across the bridge of her nose.
"Hi, beautiful," she coos, reaching up to stroke the mare's velvety muzzle. The horse dips her head at once, pressing into Ivy's palm. "Aren't you just perfect?"
My stallion—a massive beast I'm pretty sure is part demon—gives me a side-eye.
"We're gonna be friends," I say. He snorts, unimpressed.
"Caleb?" Ivy's voice draws me in. She's worrying her bottom lip as she looks up. "I could use a boost. Misty's a little taller than I expected."
Fucking finally. An excuse to get my hands on her. "Allow me, my lady." I move behind her, close enough that she has to tip her head back to see me. "Though I gotta say, watching you try to parkour your way up might've been entertaining."
"You're hilarious." But her breath catches when my hands find her waist, and that? That's the kind of sound I want to collect and replay on an endless loop.
"Ready?" I ask, though my hands are already sliding lower, mapping the curve of her hips. And yeah, maybe I don't need quite this firm of a grip to boost her up, but she's not complaining.
Ivy lets out a breathy gasp when I hoist her. My hands slide down, fingers sinking into the flesh of her ass, and I don't bother hiding the squeeze I give her on the way up. A beautiful flush spreads over her pale cheeks.
"That was . . ." She clears her throat. "Thanks."
"Trust me, Shortcake." I flash her my most innocent smile. "The pleasure was all mine."
She rolls her big blue eyes, but the tug at her lips betrays her. "Just get on your own horse before your ego needs its own saddle."
"Yes, ma'am." I turn to my own mount, who's observed the whole thing like a grumpy chaperone. "Don't worry, Satan. You're next."
"His name is Comet."
"Yeah, well, Comet looks like he's plotting my murder, so we're sticking with Satan."
Her laughter carried a lilting rise. "Maybe if you weren't treating him like he's about to eat you—"
"I'm treating him like a respected equal who—" My words vanish into a strangled yelp as I attempt what should be a graceful mount.
Instead, the stirrup betrays me, the saddle conspires against me, and suddenly I'm dangling off Satan's side. The stallion—this majestic bastard—turns his head and looks at me like I've personally offended centuries of equestrian dignity.
Ivy's doubled over in her saddle, one hand pressed to her mouth, tears bright in the corners of her eyes. But fuck me if she isn't the prettiest thing I've ever seen.
"This is a defective horse." I right myself, face burning.
She nudges her mare toward me, still giggling, her shoulders shaking as she tries to rein it in. There's this brightness in her eyes, in the way her whole face moves when she laughs, and for a moment, I forget I'm supposed to be defending my honor.
"Here, put your foot in the stirrup first, no, the other foot, then swing up like you're not actively trying to break your neck."
I follow her instructions, managing to get seated this time. "There. Practically a professional."
"Mhmm. Now try to stay up there for more than thirty seconds. I believe in you." That cool, glinting blue narrows on me, the heat in her stare making my nerves buzz. It's that too-much, too-fast kind of flutter I haven't experienced before.
The trail winds ahead, all pristine rows of grapevines drenched in sunset gold, and my stallion seems hellbent on exploring literally anything but the actual path.
"Forward," I command, trying to sound authoritative. Satan responds by beelining straight for the nearest vine.
"You have to use the reins," Ivy calls out, already several yards ahead and looking annoyingly comfortable. Her horse prances beneath her. Show-offs, both of them.
"I am using the—" Satan veers left so fast I nearly taste my spine. "Listen here, you four-legged terrorist—"
"Be nice!" Ivy's trying to sound stern but failing spectacularly. "He can sense your energy."
"My energy is perfectly—" The rest of my sentence disappears into a mouthful of leaves as Satan decides to take the scenic route under the lowest-hanging branch in the entire fucking vineyard. "Son of a—"
"Oh my god! Your face when you . . . and Comet . . ." She dissolves into another fit of laughter that has her gripping the saddle horn for support.
"This is clearly revenge." I spit out what I'm pretty sure is half a tree. "What did I do in a past life to deserve the Devil's favorite steed?"
"Comet's spirited." She wipes her eyes, still giggling. "If you'd let Grayson come with us—"
"We don't need a babysitter."
"No, you just need a helmet. And possibly bubble wrap."
The sun dips behind the ridge, turning the field to molten amber.
Ivy shifts in the saddle, eyes scanning the horizon, and the light catches in her braid, setting it off in streaks of cobalt and deep indigo.
My fingers curl tighter around the reins, and my chest pulls tight like it's bracing for impact.
Because this version of her—wild and free and completely herself—is the one I don't want to share with anyone else.
I'd let this hellspawn of a horse drag me through every vineyard in the state if it meant I could stay in this bubble where it's just her and me and nothing else gets in.
It's quiet. Easy. The silence doesn't ask for anything. Being next to her feels good in a way I don't question. Like peace I didn't know I was allowed to have.
"So . . ." She trails her fingers through Misty's mane. "That email from Pixel Dreams looked promising."
The moment fractures, and I remember why I don't let myself want things like this.
"Been taking bets with myself on when you'd bring that up."
"Why didn't you tell me about it?"
"Because it's nothing." The lie comes out rehearsed.
"A gaming company practically begging you to interview?" She guides her horse closer, her eyes cutting through my armor. That's not nothing, Caleb."
"They probably mass email everyone."
"Caleb." Her tone doesn't waver. "Why won't you even consider it?"
The truth claws at my throat, desperate to escape. But this is Ivy—the girl who's seen me faceplant into every metaphorical wall and still believes I'll eventually learn to duck.
"Because what if I'm not good enough?" The words tear out of me before I can lock them down.
"What if I walk in there and they realize I'm just .
. . some guy who got lucky with a few lines of code?
What if . . ." My voice catches, rough and exposed, and I hate how much is bleeding through.
"What if I finally try for something real and prove everyone right about me? "
"Or what if you're exactly what they're looking for?
" Her eyes blazing with that fierce belief she's always had in me.
"I've seen your stream, Caleb. Yes, maybe I don't get half of what you do, and can't even begin to wrap my head around the coding part, but you know your stuff.
You light up when you talk about it. The way you see games, how you can make them better—that's not luck. That's talent."
"Ivy—"
"No, listen to me." She cuts me off. "You're allowed to want more. You're allowed to be good at something and own it."
"It's easier to stay at home." I attempt a smile. "Known territory."
"Safe isn't living, Caleb."
"The job's in Boston," I counter, like distance is the real issue here. "At least for the first few months."
"That could be good, right?" Something flickers in her expression. "Fresh start, new city."
"Yeah." I watch her in the fading light. How do I tell her that Boston might as well be Mars? That the thought of facing that opportunity without her in my corner makes my lungs forget how oxygen works? "Maybe."
Her gaze lingers on me before she speaks. "You need to stop floating, Caleb. You're better than this limbo you've built."
Her words hang there, not as a question, but as a weight I've carried in silence and still can't bring myself to say out loud.
Because the truth is, she's right. I've been floating for years.
Have been since Matt graduate with honors while I scraped by.
Stuck in this half-state—drifting, stalling, convincing myself it's safer.
Floating means I don't have to fail. It means I don't have to watch the people I care about move on while I stay exactly where they left me.
And maybe most of all, it means I get to keep this—her—close.
Because if I reach for more and fall flat, I won't just lose an opportunity.
I'll lose the one constant that's made any of this worth it.
But I swallow those words back like bitter medicine. Instead, I let the silence stretch, and pretend I don't already know how this ends.
"While we're on the subject of avoiding things . . ." Her voice shifts. "Are you finally going to talk to Matt?"
The question settles between us, and something inside me locks up so tightly it hurts. "And we're done here."
"I just think—"
"Why is it your job to fix everything?" I don't raise my voice, but the bite in it is deliberate.
She recoils like I've slapped her, and guilt immediately floods my system. "I'm not trying to fix anything. But I hate seeing you both hurt when it's obvious you miss each other."
"Ivy . . ." I exhale through my nose, jaw clenched, pulse knocking hard in my throat. "Can we not do this right now?"
"Fine." But her voice has that careful neutrality that means I've upset her. "We should head back anyway. It's getting late."
"Hey." I ride closer to her. "I'm sorry. I'm being an ass."
"You are." But her lips quirks up. "A very uncoordinated ass."
"But a charming one, right?" I offer her a smile that walks the line between cocky and contrite, which usually gets me off the hook. "Besides, you love me anyway."
She softens slightly, like she always does, and relief floods my system. Because that's our pattern—I mess up, she forgives me, we go back to normal. A dance we've perfected over years.