As if she can read my mind, she grabs my horse’s reins and holds him steady. She whispers things to him as I climb off—the whole entire process probably being the least graceful thing I’ve ever done in my life. Sports were never my life like they were some of my friends growing up, but I was good at them, and I did them because it got me away from a house I hated. I was fortunate enough to have been athletic without really having to work at it. But apparently, the years of lacrosse and the swim team at my fancy boarding school did nothing to teach me how to get off a fucking horse.
The moment my feet hit the ground, I almost want to kiss the solid earth beneath the soles of my god-awful boots. I’ve never been more thankful to be on dirt in my entire life.
“Was he so high-maintenance, Rebel Boy?” Pippa coos to the horse, rubbing between his eyes. “Did he just not know how to ride you properly?”
I grunt, taking a step forward only to find myself a little unsteady on my feet. Even with my feet planted, it feels like I’m still bouncing up and down on the horse. My thighs burn, and my cock finally feels relief to not be rammed against a saddle horn.
“What do we do now?”
If she notices my grouchy tone, she doesn’t say anything. Instead, Pippa reaches into a saddlebag on the side of her horse’s saddle. She pulls out what looks to be a handmade quilt.
My mind immediately goes to Gran, to the memories of sitting at her feet watching reruns of The Price is Right as she dozed off while embroidering quilts.
Pippa also pulls out a bag and a thermos from the saddle bag before she nods ahead of us. “Now, Camden Hunter, we appreciate the view.”
19
PIPPA
“Can I ask you something?” Camden asks, looking at me from over the top of his coffee mug.
I narrow my eyes on him. “You don’t strike me as the kind of guy to ask before doing anything. Just ask whatever you want to ask.”
We’ve been sipping on coffee and snacking on scones while we took in the landscape. It was long enough for both of us to need a refill of the coffee I’d packed in a thermos for us. I’m shocked that we’ve made it this far without clawing each other’s eyes out or at least seriously insulting each other. We’ve only shared small jabs, but for the most part, conversation between us has been easy.
I hate to admit it, but he’s an interesting man. He knows a lot about the world, and I’ve enjoyed hearing about what he’s done in life. I haven’t seen much outside of Sutten and Chicago. His stories make me want to take the time one day to see what all the world has to offer.
Camden clears his throat, bringing me back to the fact he wanted to ask me something. He seems nervous about it, which in return makes me nervous for whatever’s about to come from his mouth. If I know anything about him, it’s that he doesn’t seem like the type of man to get nervous. He traces a line of thread of the quilt my mom hand-stitched when I was a teenager.
“Why did everyone in town keep asking how your family’s doing?”
My eyes go wide as they find his. I’d been staring at the way his long fingers stroked the delicate threading of the quilt that I hadn’t been paying attention to his expression. I try not to look at it, in fear I’ll stare too long. It’s hard to look away with features as chiseled and striking as his.
“It’s a small town. People just want to know how everyone’s doing.”
The straight line of his lips tells me he doesn’t believe me. He watches me, heat prickling my skin with the path his eyes trace. “It seemed like more than that.”
Because it is way more than that. When my mom died, it didn’t just hit our family hard; it was something that rattled our entire town. She was the light of this town. Friends with everybody. My mom welcomed everyone she met into her life with open arms, and I don’t think I was the only one who kind of imagined her in our lives forever.
“Why do you say that?” My question is meant to stall, and the way he stares me down tells me he knows that. Stupid Camden Hunter. I hate how good he is at reading people, even though I imagine that a huge part of his job is being able to easily read people so he can sell to them—profit off them.
“Because there was pity when they looked at you,” he answers softly. His words don’t hurt because they’re true. It’s one of the hardest parts of grieving. You can think you’ve healed as much as you can from a sudden death, but the people around you never treat you the same. The pity in their eyes doesn’t go away with time, and it almost makes you feel guilty for doing the only thing you can do after losing somebody—go on with your life.