Chapter 7 #2
His muzzle brushes my glove—tentative, curious. Warm breath puffs against my palm. I let my fingers drift across the dip of his nose until they settle between his eyes. He blinks, long and slow.
“Alright,” I whisper, just to him. “What are we gonna call you?”
I glance around the round pen, as if inspiration might be hiding somewhere in the rafters. “Ghost? No, I don’t think that’s it.” He flicks an ear like he agrees. “Thunder?”
He snorts. Okay, fine. “Buddy?” I wince. “Yeah, okay, that was terrible.”
But then I look at him—really look at him—and it just clicks.
“Zeus,” I say softly.
He doesn’t move, but he doesn’t pull away either. Just stands there, warm breath fogging between us like he’s listening.
I keep my hand at the space between his eyes, letting my thumb trace slow, rhythmic lines along his forehead.
“You know he wasn’t just some almighty lightning god, right?
Zeus was hidden at birth. His father tried to swallow him whole.
Literally. He was raised in secret, waited in the shadows, and when the time came, he overthrew everything that hurt him. ”
The horse twitches an ear. I take that as a sign to keep going.
“He fought his way out of a world that wanted him small. Powerless. And when he got his strength, he didn’t give it back. Not ever. That feels like you.”
A beat passes, and then he steps closer. Just a breath’s worth, but it’s something.
My throat tightens, but I keep my voice even. “You don’t have to be calm today. Or tomorrow. You don’t have to earn anything fast. But you’re not weak. You’re just learning where your power goes.”
He lets out a sound, something that makes my chest pull tight.
I press my hand a little firmer between his eyes and whisper, “Zeus it is.”
I walk Zeus back to his stall slowly, one hand on the lead rope, the other brushing his withers when he starts to tense.
“I’ll be back in a couple days,” I tell him, like he gives a damn about my schedule.
But the way his ear flicks toward me, the slow exhale through his nostrils—maybe he does. Maybe he cares if I come back.
The barn aisle is quiet, just the sound of his hooves on packed dirt and the faint creak of the overhead beams. I unclip the lead and he just watches me with those dark, liquid eyes, like he’s waiting for me to change my mind.
To stay.
My throat tightens. Damn horse. I scratch the spot beneath his jaw that makes his eyelid droop, then step back.
He doesn’t look away. Not even when I’m halfway down the aisle, his gaze like a heavy weight between my shoulder blades.
Anna’s still sitting where I left her, perched on the bench, her notebook forgotten in her lap. Her wide eyes are locked on Sawyer as she twirls the end of her hair around one finger.
Jesus Christ. Really?
I collect my bag off the bench, pretending not to notice. She blinks out of her Sawyer-induced trance and turns toward me, scrambling to hold up her notebook with a wide smile. “That was amazing.”
I nod, pulling on my coat. “Thanks.”
“No seriously, I was taking notes. Like—why were you walking away from him like that? On purpose? Is that a pressure-release thing?”
I blink. Huh. Maybe she’s not as clueless as she seems. “Yeah. It gives him the choice. You can’t chase trust into existence. Not with horses.” I sling my bag over my shoulder. “Not with people.”
Anna scribbles furiously, like I’ve just handed her the gospel. She seems genuinely fascinated, which is a surprise. I still don’t think we’re destined to be besties, but hey, I’ll take enthusiasm over apathy.
She glances toward Sawyer again, then leans in conspiratorially. “Okay, but who is that man? Because—respectfully—he’s fucking hot.”
I adjust my gloves. “He’s okay.”
She whips her head toward me. “ Okay? ” Her brows shoot up. “Do you have eyes? Do they work?”
I don’t answer. Just flex my fingers inside the leather.
She gasps. “Oh my God. Are you guys exes? I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—”
I hold up a hand before she can say more. “We’re not exes. We’re not anything.”
Anna exhales in relief, pressing a hand to her chest. “Thank God. Because that would’ve been, like, painfully awkward.”
She’s still watching him. I’m not. I don’t need to. Even without looking, I can feel it—his eyes on me. It’s annoying as hell.
Anna grabs her own bag. “Thanks again, Wren. That was…seriously cool. I’m excited to keep watching you work.”
I give her a short nod and a half-smile. “Yeah. It should be…fun.”
She beams like I just handed her a gold star and turns back to her notebook. She’s nice. Bubbly. She probably had a bunch of best friends growing up and has never once sent a text that says “sorry I’m weird.” Maybe I could take a note or two from her.
I shoulder my bag and head for the exit.
Sawyer’s still standing there, arms crossed, snow dusting the tops of his boots. I don’t look at him, but he turns toward me the second I pass.
The scent of whatever cologne he’s wearing hits me first. It’s subtle. Clean. Like cedar and something expensive and unfairly hot. Of course it is. Probably some limited-edition bullshit you can only get in Italy.
“You did well out there,” he says.
I glance at him. “I didn’t know I’d have an audience today.”
His mouth lifts—just barely. “Didn’t know it bothered you.”
“It doesn’t,” I say, shifting the strap on my shoulder. “What bothers me is the girl who’s supposed to be shadowing me can’t stop eye-fucking you.”
He barks out a laugh, his eyes slightly crinkling at the corners. “Why does that bother you?”
I lift a brow. “Because how the hell is she supposed to learn anything that way?”
He shrugs, entirely too smug. “Not my fault I’m eye-fuckable.”
I snort as I flick a piece of straw off my sleeve. “You reek of arrogance. Now, move.”
His grin widens, undeterred. “Funny. You’re the only one who complains about how I smell.”
“That’s because everyone else is too busy eye-fucking you.”
That gets another laugh, louder this time, and I have the sudden, inexplicable urge to kick snow at him.
“And you?” His boot nudges mine. “What’re you busy doing?”
“Counting the seconds until you move out of my way.”
He smirks like he knows I’m full of shit. “Liar.”
I turn to walk past him when my stomach makes the world’s loudest protest. A full, traitorous gurgle that echoes against the steel siding of the pen.
Of course. Because one granola bar at six a.m. was apparently not enough to power me through taming a traumatized horse.
“You want to grab lunch?”
I stop mid-step. Not dramatically—just long enough for my brain to stage a quick emergency meeting about how this is an obviously bad idea. I can already feel my face heating up, which is rude, because I specifically did not authorize that kind of response.
He definitely heard my stomach, which means this is a pity lunch. He’s offering because I sound like I’m one skipped meal away from collapsing—not because he actually wants to spend time with me.
I clear my throat. “Thanks, but I’ll pass.”
His eyebrows lift. “You sure? Don’t let the fact that I’m wildly annoying get in the way of basic nutrition.”
“You’re marginally less annoying than most people.”
He presses a hand to his chest like I’ve just declared my love for him. “High praise, coming from you.”
I start walking away. I’m escaping. That’s my plan, and it’s a good one. But then he says, “I’ll drive us to the main house.”
I open my mouth to object—again—but he cuts me off. “Just come, Wren.”
God. Now if I say no, I’ll look like an asshole. And while I don’t usually mind being an asshole, this place is paying me well. And he’s the son of the person signing my checks.
I sigh. “Fine.”
He grins and leads the way to his black Audi SUV. It’s clean. Too clean. Not a speck of dust on it. He either washes it obsessively or never does anything remotely dirty.
When he opens my door, I stop. “What are you doing?”
He blinks. “Opening your door.”
“I know that. But why?”
He leans slightly, lowering his voice like we’re sharing a secret. “Unfortunately, my mother raised me to be decent. And decency includes door-opening where women are concerned.”
He waits. I climb in with an exaggerated eye roll.
He closes it gently, walks around, and slides into the driver’s side. The inside of the car smells like mountain air and man. It’s warm. Big. Infuriatingly nice.
Naturally, I open the glovebox.
Empty. Just a pack of spearmint gum and a metal tin of Altoids that probably came from the year 1987.
He glances over. “Why are you going through my glovebox?”
I shrug. “Why is there nothing in it?”
He grins. “Because I don’t have anything to put in there?”
I narrow my eyes. “Bullshit. Everyone puts everything in their glovebox. Flashlights. Receipts. Tire gauges. Pens that don’t work.”
He shrugs, one hand on the wheel. “What does that say about me, then?”
I look around at the spotless interior. “That you might be a serial killer. A good one, at that. You leave no evidence behind.”
He chuckles, quiet and warm and just annoying enough that I have to look out the window to stop myself from smiling.
“You’re funny, Wren,” he says after a second.
I glance over at him before I can stop myself.
Unfortunately for me, he has a remarkable face—one that you don’t mean to look at, but do anyway.
His jaw is covered in blonde stubble, the kind that looks more accidental than intentional.
His nose is slightly crooked at the bridge, like it’s been broken at least once, maybe twice and never set quite right.
It only adds to the rest of it—makes him look less polished, more real.
There’s a curve to his mouth like he’s always half a second from smiling. And right now, he is—grinning, easy and unbothered, with that vague dimple that shows up just long enough to make you wonder if it’s actually there or if your brain imagined it for you.