Mistletoe and Mr. Right by Lyla Payne Page B

warm on the inside. The difference is that the stalls here are filled with half a dozen beautiful horses—three brown-and-white fillies, two male palominos, and a gorgeous black stallion.
    Grady stops outside the last stall and turns around, crossing one ankle over the other, and leans back against the bowed wood. “Tell me, Jessie. How long has it been since you’ve ridden?”
    I glance up, wondering if I’m hearing a double meaning that isn’t there, and choke on my tongue at the twinkle in Grady’s eyes. Instead of shying away I let a teasing smile onto my lips. “Too long, Mr. Callaghan. Too long.”
    *
    Grady took the news that it’s been years surprisingly well and coached me along the way as we saddled the horses—okay, he did most of the lifting and saddling—but now that I’m standing alongside a palomino named Bach with one foot in the stirrup, nerves start dancing in my stomach.
    â€œYou’re not going to puke, are you?”
    â€œNo.” I reconsider, holding the reins tighter as the horse shies away from me, nervous because I am. “Probably not. Although you’ve already seen me do that once and the second time isn’t nearly so embarrassing.”
    â€œJust as disgusting, though, I’d wager.” He grins, dimples catching the light from the midday sun. He settles his hands on my waist and any other thought drops straight out of my head. It’s so oddly natural. “You’ve got to be calm, because horses are jittery dicks when they freak out. On the count of three, yeah?”
    I barely manage to nod before he gets to the assigned number and gives me a boost that leaves me sitting upright in the saddle. I take a deep breath that’s too shaky and it has nothing to do with the horse.
    â€œThere, see? Grand.” He swings up onto Garth, the second palomino, settling in with an ease that’s both impressive and attractive. Which is weird because finding a man who could sit a horse has never been on my list of must-haves when it comes to a guy. “Hold the reins looser—there you go. Dig your heels in to go forward, the firmer the faster.”
    â€œGot it.” Maybe. “Where are we going?”
    â€œOut to the pasture, up a hillside or two. I wish the snow had held off because we could have seen some great ruins.”
    â€œThat would have been nice.”
    I set off, letting Bach saunter a head or two behind Garth, trying not to let my horse feel how he intimidates me. Garth could splatter my brains with one well-placed hoof if he decides he fancies such a thing on this beautiful morning, but Grady’s easy confidence settles my fears. By the time we hit the bottom of the first hill and start upward, I feel good in the saddle. Good enough to look around, breathe in the air, and answer Grady when he asks how Brennan and I met.
    â€œAt a frat party.”
    â€œYou don’t seem like the frat-party type.”
    The comment almost sounds like an insult wrapped in a compliment, as though he can’t decide which he means. I decide to hear the compliment because the day is too perfect. “You don’t have to drink to have fun at parties. News flash.”
    â€œI’ll have you know that I don’t drink all that much, either. For an Irishman.”
    I laugh in spite of myself. “Oh my goodness, Grady Callaghan—did you just make a joke?”
    â€œIt’s been known to happen.” He laughs, too, that honey sound that sticks to my skin.
    â€œYou know why I don’t drink much—what’s your excuse?”
    He shrugs, that closed expression fighting for purchase on his face again. The pause goes on so long it seems like he might not answer, so when he does, there’s no doubt the response isn’t going match the lighthearted tone of my question.
    â€œMy pa drank. He drank so much he forgot the way home one night and never came back.”
    My heart climbs