20. Georgina #2
“This is ridiculous.” I turn back to him, unable to keep the smile out of my voice. “Max, you’ve decorated an entire stretch of fence for me.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Ridiculous?”
“Completely.” I’m smiling now, I can feel it. “You’ve turned my fence into a florist’s window. What am I supposed to do with all these roses?”
“I thought the terrace.” He’s smiling too, pleasure warming his face. “Rosa said she’d help move them after we’re done. But I wanted you to see them here first.”
“Here.” I look at the containers again, at the careful spacing, at the way he’s kept every container beyond the fence, well clear of the horses’ feet. “You thought about everything.”
“I tried.” He looks from the flowers to me. “I wanted you to have something nice on the way home.”
“You might have warned me.” I stroke Sovrano’s neck as he turns an ear toward my voice. “I would have prepared something more dignified to say.”
“I prefer this.” Max is smiling at me openly now. “You haven’t stopped smiling since you saw them.”
He’s right. I don’t even try to deny it. I take another long look along the fence, noticing the care with which the containers have been tucked into place, then gather my reins. There will be time to look at every rose when the horses are comfortable.
“Come on.” I turn Sovrano toward the yard. “We should get them untacked before the groom thinks we’ve gotten lost.”
We ride the rest of the way in comfortable silence.
The yard is quiet when we arrive, the groom already waiting to take the horses.
I halt Sovrano alongside the block, free my feet from the stirrups, and swing my right leg over before lowering myself onto the top step.
The groom takes his reins as I step down, and I reach up to unfasten my helmet.
“Elle.” Max has dismounted beside the gray, but he’s not moving toward the stable. “There’s one more thing.”
“More than the roses?” I pull off my helmet and shake my braid loose. “I’m not sure I can handle more than the roses.”
“It’s smaller.” He hands the gray to the groom, takes off his helmet, and sets it beside mine on the bench. Once she has led the horses into the aisle, he reaches into the clean storage box beside the mounting block. “And more practical.”
He pulls out a garment bag, the kind used for competition jackets, and holds it out to me.
I take it carefully, then pull off my gloves and tuck them beside my helmet. “Is this what I think it is?”
“Open it.”
I unzip the bag and lift out the jacket inside. It’s navy blue, beautifully cut, the kind of jacket I would have chosen for myself if I’d been shopping. I turn it over in my hands, checking the seams, the buttons, the way the fabric moves.
“Try it on.” Max is watching me with barely contained anticipation. “I want to make sure it fits.”
I slip my arms into the sleeves and settle the jacket on my shoulders. It fits perfectly, snug across the back without restricting my movement, the sleeves exactly the right length. I cross my arms and feel the fabric give where it should.
“This is the one I gave you the size for?” I’m still examining the fit. “You made it sound as though you were ordering something very ordinary.”
“I said practical.” He’s smiling now. “You supplied the word ordinary yourself.”
Earlier in the week, when we were making a list of things I wanted to sort out before the competition, I had said I needed a new jacket. He offered to order one, and I sent him the label details from the brand I liked. I hadn’t expected to be standing in the yard wearing it quite so soon.
“This isn’t basic.” I look at him over the top of the collar. “This is beautiful.”
“Look inside.” He nods toward the jacket. “The left lining.”
I open the jacket and turn back the left side, looking for whatever he wants me to see. There, embroidered in thread just a shade darker than the lining, are my initials. G.E. Georgina Emanuelle.
“Max.” I trace the letters with my finger. “When did you have time for this?”
“The jacket was in stock.” He watches me trace the letters again. “The embroidery took a few extra days. I thought it was worth waiting.”
I look at the initials again, then at the jacket, then at him. He’s standing there in his riding clothes, dust on his boots and hope in his eyes, and I feel something shift in my chest that has been locked away for a very long time.
“Thank you.” I hear how inadequate the words are, but I don’t have better ones. “This is… I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything.” He steps closer. “I wanted you to have a jacket you were pleased to put on.”
“I am.” I turn my arm to admire the sleeve, then look back at him. “Although you’re going to object to how often I ask whether there’s dust on it.”
“Constantly?” He guesses correctly and laughs when I nod. “I thought so. I’ve included the bag.”