Racing Hearts (10 page)

Emery blanched. “Lord no. Well, unless I'm watching my weight for a race. But I never understood why anybody had to mess up a perfectly good egg by throwing vegetables into it.”

“Is that right?” Trip asked, smiling.

“Yes; the only thing that belongs on eggs is cheese. And maybe salt and pepper. Onions and red and green peppers?” She made the universal yuck noise, and Mama V laughed loudly from where she stood by the stove.

“Honey, you're going to be a lot of fun around here.”

Then she came over and placed a steaming omelet in front of Emery, cheddar cheese melting from its center. Emery's gaze snapped up. “How did you know?”

“Oh, Mama V sees all,” Trip answered for her, before digging into his own plate.

Mama V glanced between the two of them, a small smile on her face. “Indeed I do.”

 

The fog had completely cleared by the time they finished eating, and though Trip itched to take Emery riding, to watch her in her element, he knew she wasn't ready. He could see it on her face when the boy had called her out on her injury. A part of him wanted to talk to Clark, warn him to make sure no one else on staff brought up her accident, but he didn't think that was the best thing for her. She needed to face what happened, her fears. He just wasn't sure how to help her get there without pushing her away.

“Want to see the rest of the farm now?” he asked, reaching for her arm. Damn, he wasn't sure why, but he couldn't seem to be around her without touching her in some way.

Her blue eyes dropped to his hand on her arm, her eyebrows threaded with doubt, but he knew Emery well enough to realize she would have barked some feminist remark if she didn't like it at least a little.

“Um, sure.” Her gaze lifted, and the intensity in it made Trip want to reconsider his agreement with himself to be good, to keep their relationship professional. He ached to pull the stubborn, broken woman to him and put her back together again one long, mind-blowing kiss at a time. He thought of the last time his lips were on hers, the kiss full of urgency and the good-bye he couldn't say, and wondered if it would be like that now, or if they would take it slow, relish in each other more.

Shaking himself from his thoughts before his jeans got any tighter, he asked, “Okay if we ride?” Her back went rigid, and he felt her pulling away, burying in on herself, when he realized what she thought he meant. “In the cart.” He pointed at a golf cart parked by the stable, and she released a breath, smiling with relief, and he couldn't help feeling pride that he'd put that there. Damn, he was in deep, and she'd only been back in his life forty-eight hours. By this point, he should have already introduced her to the rest of the staff, passed her off to one of his assistant trainers, and gone on his way. Instead, he was giving her a personal tour of the farm. His brothers would laugh their asses off if they saw the way he was fawning all over her. Or maybe they'd be fawning, too.

The thought brought on more jealousy than he had any right to feel.

He slid into the driver's seat of the golf cart and patted the seat beside him for Emery to join him. He kept waiting for her to ask for the cane, to limp, or at the very least to show some hesitation with this much walking, but she never let on. Which either meant she genuinely didn't need it or she was too stubborn to show weakness. Both possibilities seemed equally probable.

Emery slipped into the golf cart, her hands at her side, until her left brushed against Trip's thigh, and she jerked back, placing them in her lap, then folding them together, back in her lap, and then finally crossing her arms like she needed to hold her hands down to prevent them from behaving badly. He smiled inwardly, enjoying the way she reacted to him—how she became so easily rattled. Was it possible she still had feelings for him, too?

Trip put the cart in drive before his brain could unpack that little disastrous thought, and they made their way around the farm, Trip pointing out barns, trainer quarters, training rings, and everything in between. Finally, they reached the track, and Emery drew a shallow breath, stepping out of the cart even before it was fully in park.

“You have your own track?”

Trip walked up beside her, standing far too close to be appropriate, but he couldn't help himself. When he set out to open Hamilton Stables, he told his father he wouldn't cut corners. He wanted the finest facilities on-site, and if Carter gave him those facilities, he promised to make the Hamilton brand a household name. The track went in six months later, and that year Trip had a horse in the money in two of the three legs of the Triple Crown.

“It's a seven-furlong track. I had it put in a few years back. Nothing overly grand, but it helps with training.”

“You have your own track,” she repeated, this time with a sense of awe and longing in her voice. “I begged Daddy to put in a track back home, but he said it wasn't necessary with so many tracks available to us.”

It was a fair way of thinking, but Trip prided himself on knowing the traditional ways of training and then elevating those methods to create a more modern approach. Some of the older trainers mocked him early on, but winning was winning, and soon they began implementing Trip's methods at their own farms.

He glanced over at Emery and hesitated, unsure how much he should push her. How soon. He knew she had enough drive to get over her fear, but her eyes weren't lit with excitement. They were round with terror. He treaded carefully. “Emery, you know you can—”

She cut him off quickly, the fear winning out. “What do your brothers do around the farm? Nick and Alex, right?”

Trip stared at the track, sure staying there with her fears straight ahead would make Emery uneasy, but maybe that was what she needed right now. A visual to remind her why she loved racing. He considered asking her to race right now but knew she would pull away from him again, and he wanted her close. Too close for any good to come of it.

“Nick works for Hamilton Industries, the business side of the Hamilton brand. And you met Alex, right? He mentioned a minor assault at Patty's?”

She cringed. “I wouldn't call it
assault
. I just forcefully dragged him away from our table . . . by my fingernails. There was no blood or anything. Did he say there was blood?”

“No, no blood,” Trip said with a laugh. “Though now you've got me wondering.”

“He was about to tell Patty that I worked here, which would mean a direct gossip path to Daddy's ears. I couldn't let that happen.”

Trip drew a breath and cut his eyes over to her. “You've got to tell him the truth eventually. You know that, right?”

“
Eventually
is a very long word. So back to Nick and Alex.”

“Right.” He pushed away the nagging questions in his mind—why she'd come to him, what Beckett would say if he knew, where he thought she was that second—and went on about his brothers. “Like I said, Nick works for Industries, and Alex . . . well, Alex is Alex. He does what he wants, still trying to figure out his passion. But he's recently started managing the breeding side of Hamilton Stables, working the foaling and mare barns. Keeping up with requests, talks with our staff vet, the health of our broodmares. Stuff like that. So far so good, but with Alex you never know.” Trip thought of his brother's adventures over the years—backpacking through Europe, a summer in Australia, climbing Mount Everest. He reminded Trip of a colt he'd tried to train a few years back, only to realize the horse would never race. Too wild and independent. Just like Alex.

“I didn't realize you'd ventured into breeding.”

Trip shrugged. “It made sense. One-stop shop and all that.”

She nodded slowly, and Trip wondered if she was thinking about Carlisle Farms, and their move from training to breeding. If Beckett would view this as yet another reason to be angry at Emery for working with Hamilton Stables. They weren't the only barn to offer breeding and training services, but they were certainly the best.

“So you're the only one who trains?”

Trip adjusted his stance, memories pouring in of the first time he knew he wanted to be a trainer. “When I was little, I used to practically live at the track, taking in every detail. It amazed me—the science of it, the structure, the thrill. I knew my passion by the time I was eight years old, and so I've spent most of my life learning, watching, paying attention to what works—and what doesn't. Especially to what doesn't. Before long, I went from assistant trainer at Wyncrest Farms to starting Hamilton Stables. I've loved every minute of it. I can't imagine doing anything else.”

He glanced over to find Emery watching him intently, her eyes so blue in the morning sun they appeared like something out of a fantasy. A gust of wind blew around them, causing her hair to glide over her face, and without thinking, he reached over, gently tucking the wild strands back behind her ear. She drew a slow breath, her gaze never leaving his, and Trip thought how differently this moment would go if she were anyone else. He would thread his fingers into her hair and lean in, press his mouth to hers, and take her the way she deserved to be taken. Show her she was still the woman she had once been. But then, he hadn't felt this spark with any other women. Eight years, and not a fifth of the intensity he felt around Emery.

Now, she was here, back beside him, the fire between them enough to light an entire city, and he couldn't do a thing about it. She worked for him now—an
employee
. Even having these thoughts was unethical and against the very foundation of Hamilton Stables. What the hell was he doing?

He pulled away and shook his head, clearing away the temptation, though he knew he couldn't keep it at bay for long. He needed to separate himself from her before he made a mistake he couldn't correct. “So, yeah, that's the track.”

Emery faced forward, her eyebrows drawn together at the coldness in his voice. “It's great. Thanks for showing it to me.”

“Sure thing. It's my job. I'll get you back to the stables now.”

Trip headed to the cart, hating the tension between them. All his old feelings for her had resurfaced, clouding his logic. He needed to think, to focus, but his focus kept drifting to her dark, tight jeans, the way they hugged her legs. He wondered what those legs would feel like wrapped around his—
Dammit all to hell, dude! Pull yourself together!

He took a long pull from his water bottle as they parked the cart by the barn and peered over at her to find her staring at a bay being brought in from his morning exercise. “Water for your thoughts?” He held the bottle out to her. They could do the friend thing, right? Nothing wrong with friends.

She laughed, but the sound didn't hold the warmth it should. “Just . . . remembering.”

“Well, you know the good thing about remembering?” Emery glanced over, and Trip had to order his brain to be good, because dear God above, those eyes of hers made him want to do very bad things. “It's never just the bad stuff. If we let ourselves remember, we can remember why we made the choices we made in the first place. Remember why you love racing, Emery. And never forget it.”

“O
nly one more box,” Annie-Jean said triumphantly.

They'd spent all morning setting up Annie-Jean's booth at Triple Run's annual fall festival. Each year, Annie-Jean baked dozens upon dozens of her specialty cookies for the festival, and each year, she begged Emery to man the booth with her. The first year—four years ago now—Emery agreed, only to find herself stuck for eight hours, handing out cookies, smiling away, Annie-Jean like a hardcore drill sergeant, refusing to let her leave, even to go pee. Never again, Emery had said—until now.

She told herself it had nothing to do with the possibility of running into Trip. Nothing at all. He was probably out of town anyway, or at the stables, or handling any one of a thousand things trainers handled. But she couldn't get the feel of his fingertips brushing her hair from her face out of her mind. Couldn't stop the warmth spreading over her when she remembered the intensity in his stare.

“Remember, presentation is everything. Does the tablecloth look okay?”

Emery grinned as she peered down at the white cloth, with Annie-Jean's logo—AJ's Creations—printed across the top. She went all out, a characteristic she shared with her brother, Beckett Carlisle, whether she wanted to admit it or not. “It's perfect, Annie. You're worrying too much.”

Despite it being early morning, the temperature was comfortable for fall. The trees all around them bore green leaves with yellow tips, the start of their change to the deep reds and oranges of the season. Emery loved fall, loved the feel of excitement in the air for football and festivities. Loved all the craft shows and baked goods, so long as a certain person's name didn't pop up.

“Yeah, well, this festival helps keep the lights on, so I don't want to miss anything. Plus, Patty's going to be here, and you know I can't let that traitor show me up.”

And there it was—Patty, aka the traitor.

Emery used to ask Annie why she insisted on coming to this festival when there were others in the South, including the massive Yellow Daisy Festival in Stone Mountain, Georgia, and every time Annie claimed she came because she liked Triple Run's people. But really, it was because she wanted to see if she could outbake Patty. Prove she was the stronger cookie maker.

“Are you going to make me buy some of her cookies?”

Annie shot me an incredulous look. “Foolish girl, no.”

“So you're not?”

She went about arranging her cookie display, all pink boxes and cute ribbons and glittering swirls. “I'm going to have you buy one of her Bundt cakes
and
some of her cookies.” She winked. “But we'll wait an hour or two. See what's been bought up the most. The favorites, ya know?”

Emery shook her head. “No, I don't know, you crazy old lady.”

“But you'll do it anyway 'cause you love me. Now, sit down and look pretty. People are already here.” Her gaze landed squarely on Emery, then she peered around the table, under it, then back at Emery. “Where's your cane?”

Shoot
.

“Oh, I—” Emery's words caught in her throat as she took in the man walking toward her, a crooked smile plastered across his face. Rugged jeans hung low on his waist, flannel shirt and Braves baseball cap firmly in place, like he slept with them on—or had no other clothes. She thought of his first days at Carlisle Farms, how he'd tried to impress her daddy with smart-looking outfits and overly combed hair, only to have Beckett all but laugh in his face. Then Trip was all nerdy T-shirts and worn jeans, his hands always a little callused, that smile of his always there. No wonder she fell so hard, and if she wasn't careful, it was going to happen all over again.

“Hot damn, is that him?” Annie-Jean made no effort to hide her excitement, nudging Emery continuously in the side until Emery felt sure she'd have a bruise.

“Yes. Now stop before I kill you,” Emery said through clenched teeth. “He's coming over.”

“Actually,” a deep voice said, “he's already here.”

Emery's eyes lifted to find Trip standing in front of their booth, his arms crossed, the sexiest smile she'd ever seen on his face. A fine layer of stubble covered his jaw, making him appear even more rugged than usual. God, why couldn't he have aged to look like Mr. Sampson? Or act like most trainers? Or drink a lot, so he had a beer gut? Something, anything. But this man standing before her wasn't like most trainers—or most people, for that matter—which made it all that much harder to ignore the connection between them. She wondered if he felt it, too, or if it was all in her head. She'd had that thought a lot the weeks and months after he left, doubt giving way to depression. Until she herself became an adult and realized he'd done the adult thing. He'd taken a job, an amazing job with Wyncrest. How could she fault him for that? Her mind couldn't. Her heart? Another story . . .

“I didn't think I'd see you here.” She fidgeted her way through the lie, sure she was going to hell any second, the fast track on a path paved by her lies.

“Really?” He cocked his head, fighting to smile wider. “So, the
sponsored by Hamilton Stables
didn't give you a clue?”

Emery followed the direction of his nod to find a large sign hanging at the entrance to the festival, the Hamilton Stables logo visible for all to see. Chicken on a stick! She'd been here all of twenty minutes and she'd already stuck her foot in her mouth. She glanced over at Annie-Jean for help, but she only shrugged, then stood and reached out her hand.

“I'm Aunt Annie-Jean.” She flashed a flirtatious smile and stroked Trip's outstretched hand like it was a loveable tabby cat. “
You
are something else. Do all Triple Run men drink from the same water as you?”

Good God. Was all her family this embarrassing? Yes, yes they were.

“Annie, I think he'd like his hand back.”

Annie-Jean's smile broadened as she held his hand for another second. “Right.”

Trip's knowing eyes fell on Emery, and her cheeks burned still brighter. “Is there a comment somewhere in that smirk?” she asked with a little too much sass. But she couldn't help it. She didn't do well with people mocking her.

He laughed. “There's lots of comments, but I'll hold my tongue.”

“I'd like to hold your—”

“Annie!”

She looked over at Emery innocently. “What?”

Emery drew a long breath. Was nine a.m. too early to start drinking? “I need to grab another box. Want to help me?” she asked, hoping to save him before Annie jumped over the table and straight into his arms

“After you, lady girl.”

“Why do you call me that?” she asked once they were away from the crowd.

Trip shrugged. “It fits the you I see in my head. The before and the now. A beautiful woman on the outside, a spunky girl on the inside.”

“You think I'm beautiful?” He'd once told her she was the most beautiful girl in the world, but eight years had passed, and with it brought age and scars and a lot of things that made Emery feel anything but beautiful.

“Everyone on the planet thinks you're beautiful. Me? I think a lot of things about you. But don't worry, most of them are completely inappropriate.” He winked, and a laugh broke free from her lips.

“Something tells me you shouldn't be admitting that to me. Or anyone else.”

Trip tucked his hands into his pockets. “You'd be right, but I promised you once I'd always be honest with you. See no reason to start lying now.”

Emery felt his gaze drift over to her as they continued on to Annie's Suburban, but she refused to look over. She didn't trust her face to hide her thoughts. The truth was, she didn't feel he'd been honest with her at all. If he were honest and upfront, he would have told her about Wyncrest before he accepted the job. Instead, he'd kissed her cheek and walked away, never to call or return again. A part of her wondered if she'd sought him out just to see if he'd flinch the first time he saw her again, but she couldn't deny he was the best, and feelings aside, her career needed him . . . even if her heart received a little damage along the way. She told herself she could handle it, but with Trip a foot away, the sentiment didn't hold like she'd hoped.

Once at the ridiculously large SUV, she opened the back cargo doors, but the box had slid to the farthest spot from where she stood. She peered into the endless abyss, knowing she couldn't reach it without crawling inside. Her foot tapped against the gravel road as she tried to think of any way around it. Just when she'd decided there was no way she was crawling into this truck with Trip outside, staring at her ass, she heard a soft chuckle.

“Well, go ahead. Do you need me to lift you up? Or maybe I could fetch you a step ladder?”

She glared at him. “Funny how you giants all act like it's so, so hilarious when we short people can't reach something.”

“Honey, I'm not sure you count as short. Maybe we should call you mini. Mini Emery. I like that.” His grin widened, taking over his face, perfectly white teeth flashing at her, with the exception of the front incisor, which had a small chip in it. She didn't remember the flaw being there before and felt it suited him just fine.

“Let me guess,” Emery said, pointing at the tooth. “You pissed off the wrong lady and she decked you?”

Trip full-out laughed, the sound so intoxicating Emery forgot momentarily why she was so agitated. God, she missed their flirting—missed him. Sadness clamped down on her heart, and she bit her lip to keep from showing just how much he affected her.

“True enough. Though she didn't deck me so much as toss me into a fence. We're still friends, though.”

Emery's frown curved into a smile. “Wait. You were thrown from a horse?”

He leaned in closer. “I'll tell you a secret: everyone's been thrown. Many times. Part of the job. The question isn't
if
you'll get thrown, it's
if
you'll get back on. What about you, lady girl? Will you get back on?”

Her heart slowed down, beating in time with his breaths, their eyes locked, and she could swear he felt it, too—that intense pull in her gut that urged her to press her mouth to his and see if he tasted as good as she remembered.

She thought of how perfectly they used to fit together. Their hands laced. His arms around her. And then the sweetness in his eyes as he slipped inside her for the first time—her very first time—and she was gone. So far gone she didn't know it until she reached the sky, and then he left her with no way to get back down. The fall back to reality after he left had broken her heart. Did she really want to trust it with him again? Was he worth the chance?

The moment drew long, and Emery thought maybe, just maybe, he was going to take the risk, but then he looked down and ran his palms over his thighs. “Um, I'll do it.”

“Do what?” she asked, unable to hide the desire in her voice.

“The box. I'll grab it.”

“Right. The box. Sure, thanks.”

God, she needed an antianxiety pill or six if she hoped to survive her time around him.

Grabbing the box, Trip followed Emery back to the booth, but the easiness between them had shifted to something darker. “All right, then. Good seeing you, Emery. I need to . . .” He motioned toward the rest of the booths. “Check around, make sure everyone's good.”

She nodded. “Of course. See you tomorrow, then.”

He hesitated, like something else—more—was on the tip of his tongue, then sighed. “Yeah . . . tomorrow.”

Clenching her eyes shut to gain some distance from him, she reopened them to find Kate sitting at the booth beside Annie-Jean. “Um, hey. What are you doing here?”

Kate crossed her legs and grinned, pointing over to the Hamilton Stables sign. “I heard the Hamilton boys were sponsoring this event, and I wouldn't mind seeing a certain Hamilton brother again.”

A few customers came by, and Emery scooted out of the way, taking a seat on the ice chest between Annie and Kate. “What about Chris or Matt?” Or hell, anyone else. The last thing Emery wanted was her best friend shacking up with Alex Hamilton. Her life was complicated enough as it stood. Add in Alex the player breaking her friend's heart and she would have yet another reason to turn her back on Hamilton Stables. She couldn't do that—not now, when she was so close.

“They're just . . . I don't know. Not the right fit.”

Emery reached for a white chocolate macadamia nut cookie from the sample tray, only to have Annie swat her hand. “For customers.”

“I'm a customer.”

“You are paid help,” Annie said, pushing the tray out of Emery's reach.

“Since when have you paid me?”

Annie sighed. “Fine. I'll buy you both drinks at Rudy's after the festival.”

“So, let me get this straight—I sit here for eight hours and you buy me a five-dollar drink? Something's not right here.”

Annie stared pointedly at her niece. “Yes, you're right. Something's not right here, and it don't have a thing to do with me or cookies. Though I guess that depends on what you kids call it these days.”

Shaking her head, Emery turned back to her friend. “And Alex is the right fit?”

“Not sure yet, but with an ass like his, I'm willing to find out.”

Annie hit Kate's arm, and both women peered up to see a mother in front of them, her hands cuffing her son's ears, a goofy grin on the son's face.

“Cookies?” Emery asked innocently.