Chapter 18
Eighteen
Gazing out of the window at forty-thousand feet, I pick up my glass of champagne from the glossy walnut table in front of me and nestle back into my big, squashy leather chair. I acknowledge with a sigh that it’s going to be difficult to fly economy after this.
Flying to Paris by private jet is definitely one of the more surreal experiences in my life.
Grooms don’t usually fly with the team in this kind of luxury, but Jules extended the invitation to me, citing her last experience flying with the lads as her reasoning – apparently, Fitz and Eric got so drunk, they started stripping and asking the air stewards to set up karaoke.
‘It would be nice to have an ally, should things spiral,’ she said drily.
It’s the closest she’s come to calling me a friend.
She’s currently sitting with her mum and Mateo discussing tactics and changes for the Paris Open; Malcolm is fast asleep with his mouth hanging open, while a giddy Fitz has engaged Eric in a hilarious story about his failed attempts to woo a beautiful Iranian heiress last night, the contents of the champagne flute in his hand sloshing around with each animated gesture.
Garfunkel the corgi is curled up, dozing on a seat next to Lady M.
When Garfunkel hopped up the steps of the plane, he knew exactly where he was going and was given a warm and familiar greeting from the stewards.
Lady M informed me that, while she doesn’t bring her other dogs, who are mostly rescues and would be too nervous of the noise and various new places involved in international travel, Garfunkel is a frequent flyer.
‘If I could come back as anyone in my next life, I’d come back as that bloody corgi,’ Fitz muttered, waiting for Garfunkel to select his seat before any of us were allowed to sit.
As soon as we step onto the tarmac in France, things will go back to the way they should be: the team will be whisked off to their opulent suites at the Ritz Paris, while I’ll be making my way to a much smaller, much less luxurious hotel where the grooms are staying, one near Polo de Paris, the prestigious club hosting the tournament so we’re close to the ponies.
As amazing as I imagine the Ritz Paris to be, I’d prefer to be with the team close to the stables where our ponies are staying.
Putting down my glass, I pick at my thumbnail, distracted.
So distracted, I don’t notice Mateo has risen from his seat and made his way down the plane to sit with me until he slides into one of the seats on the opposite side of my table.
He sticks to the aisle, though, rather than sitting directly opposite me at the window, retaining enough distance between us that I can keep my legs safely from knocking against his.
One touch of his body anywhere near mine and I swear, I would find it hard not to lose myself in that feeling of when he was pressed up against me and consequently launch myself at him.
‘Hello,’ he says with a knowing smile.
My heart races. ‘Hi,’ I reply nervously.
We haven’t spoken about the kiss we shared after winning the Queen’s Cup just two days ago.
We haven’t actually spoken at all since.
As bizarre a decision as Sam thought it was when I told her, I opted to go in the lorries taking the ponies home rather than stay for the celebrations of our win.
I’d heard that the party after the Queen’s Cup was particularly raucous and it was such an exciting day, I was seriously tempted.
But it had also been a tiring week, Paris was looming over us and the kiss with Mateo had shaken me up.
It had felt too real and instinctive, like there was nothing else I could do.
I’d kissed him like an addict, no control and powerless, clambering for my hit of him I knew that if I went to the party, something was going to happen.
I knew I couldn’t trust myself with him.
I’m starting to realise how much I like him.
And I’m scared.
‘What’s wrong?’ Mateo asks, clasping his hands in his lap. ‘I can tell you’re worried about something. You have that face.’
‘What face?’
‘The one you get when you’re worried.’ He rubs a finger in the gap between his eyebrows. ‘The little crinkles you get here.’
My hand instinctively flies up to my face. ‘Do I? That sounds sexy.’
He lowers his hand and gives a shrug. ‘I think so.’
Fuck. The flutters in my stomach feel more intense than ever. It must be partly down to the altitude and not just the way his eyes seem to be simmering with heat.
‘So what’s wrong?’ he repeats as I shift in my seat. ‘Do you not like flying, either?’
‘No, it’s not that. It’s stupid. You’ll laugh at me.’
He tilts his head, looking at me expectantly.
‘Fine. I’m worried about the ponies. It’s a long way to travel and I know that you do this all the time and they’ve travelled lots, but I… I feel guilty I’m not with them.’
‘Why would I laugh at that? Any time we travel anywhere, I’m worrying about the ponies, even if it’s just to Guards or Cowdray.
In fact,’ his lips twitch into an amused smile, ‘I worry about the ponies whenever I’m not with them, even when they’re in our stables, safe and sound.
But Eliza doesn’t spare any expense when it comes to their travel and they are monitored the entire time to make sure they’re happy and comfortable. ’
‘Are all polo ponies treated as well as the ones at Maycourt?’ I ask with genuine interest, relief easing the tightness in my chest at his reassurance.
‘Almost always. Polo ponies tend to be very pampered. Patrons aren’t in this sport for the money, because all they do is spend it. There has to be a real love for polo and ponies at the root of it.’
‘Or a real love to win.’
‘That too.’ His eyes twinkle at me. ‘But the love for the ponies comes first. I’ve never personally been on a team or worked in a polo yard where that isn’t the case.
And if the patrons don’t love them intensely, then the grooms do.
Why else would they do what they do? But you know more about that than me. ’
I smile down at my lap.
‘Don’t worry about the ponies, Ash,’ he adds gently. ‘They are fine. I promise.’
When I bring my eyes back up to his, my stomach backflips at the way he’s pinning me with his gaze. For a moment, he looks as helpless as I feel.
‘You didn’t come to the Queen’s Cup party,’ he says quietly.
‘There was too much to do. I had to help with the ponies.’
‘Is that really the reason?’
I swallow, my heart beating faster. My lips part to say something, but no words come out. He already knows the real reason for me avoiding the party; he wants me to say it.
I can’t. I can’t say out loud that I am trying to protect myself from him and what he does to me.
How I instinctively brighten at the sight of him.
How I’m always looking for him at the stables, always that bit distracted while I do my job by hoping he’s going to appear somewhere.
How I feel woozy and unsteady when he comes too close and I breathe in the smell of the cologne on his skin.
How when I know that I’m the cause of a certain smile, the one that lights up his eyes and forms deep crinkles around the corners of his mouth, a tingling feeling starts all the way down in my toes and makes its way up through my body at alarming speed, accelerating my heart rate and stealing my breath.
I know all too well how this will end if I let it begin.
Before I can think of a good enough excuse that neither of us will believe, we’re interrupted by a steward who has come to let us know that we’re starting our descent. Mateo thanks her and rises to his feet, sliding into the aisle. He hesitates.
‘I’ll see you later,’ he says eventually before returning to his seat.
I go back to looking out my window at the city below, my heart aching for something I know I can’t have, Basilio’s warning ringing in my ears.
He sets his sights on his quarry and he won’t be satisfied until he’s got it. Then he disregards it once it’s served its purpose.
*
I don’t think I’m imagining it. Every time Mateo scores a goal in this tournament, he looks for me.
I know that sounds absurd, but he comes cantering towards the pony lines after each one, his eyes darting across the sea of Maycourt shirts and slowing until he finds me.
And when I look up, our gaze locks and he grins while I applaud him.
I noticed this pattern in the first match of the tournament but now it’s the middle of the semi-finals and I don’t think I can get away with brushing it off as coincidence anymore.
He’s actively seeking me out when he scores a point to see if I, what, approve?
To see if I’m impressed? I honestly don’t know what’s going on, but it’s strange and adorable and making my determination to stop falling for this guy wobble and crack.
We’re up fourteen-thirteen in the final chukka when Mateo is awarded a sixty-yard penalty.
You can practically hear the groans from his opponents as he calmly measures it up before swinging his mallet and sending a stinger of a ball zipping through the air and over the middle of the goal posts, the flags going up to an eruption of applause.
Moments later, the match ends and we’re through to the final.
As the team celebrate by swarming in droves onto the pitch, I look for Mateo amongst the crowd, my cheeks flushed with excitement.
Suddenly, I spot him and our eyes meet across the field, his chest heaving with heavy breaths.
I beam at him, my heart soaring. He holds my gaze until one of the grooms jumps at him, throwing his arms around Mateo and making him stumble backwards in surprise.
Laughing, Mateo claps him on the back and, free from his gaze, my brain clears and I’m able to get back to work.
*
We have the next day off before the tournament final.
Like all the grooms, I’ve been up bright and early, feeding, exercising and mucking out the ponies, but have been granted the rest of the day to enjoy the city.
Back at the hotel, I shower and put on a pretty summer mini dress, excited to explore.
When I came here with Ren, we zipped over on the Eurostar and I spent every waking moment scurrying around after him, stressed about whatever appointment or show we had next, barely noticing our surroundings, before we returned home.
As far as I’m concerned, I haven’t been to Paris, and I cannot wait to spend the day seeing the sights and eating as much delicious food as possible.
I don’t care that I’m on my own. This is Paris.
Grabbing my bag, I leave my room and practically skip down the stairs, before crossing the lobby. With a polite smile to the receptionist, I notice the guy sitting on the bench to the side and then double take, coming to an abrupt halt in front of him.
With a bashful smile, Mateo rises to his feet.
‘What are you doing here?’ I blurt out, too surprised to remember basic manners.
‘You said last night that you were exploring the city today,’ he says, sticking his hands in his pockets sheepishly. ‘I wondered if I could join you.’
I stare at him. ‘I thought… aren’t you all invited to that swanky rooftop pool party today? Fitz was talking about it. He said it’s the hottest invitation in town.’
‘I’ve heard. But I thought your plan sounded more fun.’
All the breath in my body is knocked out by the way he’s searching my gaze, his expression apprehensive but hopeful. God, it’s unbearable how cute he can be sometimes.
‘You thought my plan of going full-on tourist for one day in Paris sounded more fun than spending the day with the rich and famous at a glamorous rooftop pool party with free booze and food?’
‘Yes,’ he says, deadpan.
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘Haven’t you been to Paris many times before?’ I check, folding my arms.
‘Yes. But I’d like to explore it with you.’
My heart is hammering too hard for me to speak.
Studying my face, he frowns. ‘If you’d rather spend the day on your own, though, I—’
‘No, no. I’d like the company,’ I admit, unable to fight a smile.
He breaks into a relieved grin. ‘Great. One day in Paris. Where do we start?’