Laughing, she cocks an eyebrow in my direction and subsequently drops my arm. “I spend seven nights a week servin’ drunks, and I’ve seen that look a million times before. Don’t go gettin’ bloody knuckles just yet. That’s their brother.”
“Oh.”
“Mm-hm, oh.” She shakes her head.
Every emotion coiling through my system spins completely out of control, and despite not wanting to take this moment back, I don’t want to meet her this way. Not when she won’t remember me.
No, I’ve waited nearly three weeks already. I can wait one more night.
After grabbing a business card from my wallet, I slide it across the bar. “If she looks like she’s gettin’ in anything but her brother’s truck at the end of the night, you best call me.”
Pushing off the bar, I take one last look at her on the stage.
London Daniels.
Not for long, little lady.
I am going to make her my wife someday.
I know it. ’Bout time she does too.
“LONDON!”
Shhh.
“London!”
Go away.
“I’ll get the hose if you keep pretending not to hear me.”
I squint one eye open and find my brother standing over me with a shit-eating grin on his face. “I’ll kill you,” I groan, pulling the blankets up over my head. “Go away.”
I’m about to claim victory, but it’s short-lived. The blanket is yanked off me.
“No can do,” he says. “The horses will be arriving soon. Rise and shine, American Idol.”
Karaoke.
Shania Twain.
“Oh, God.”
Did that really happen?
“Oh yeah, it happened,” Owen answers on behalf of my sluggish brain.
Looking down, I realize I’m still in my clothes from last night, boots and all. “Shit.”
“That’s exactly what you look like.” He chuckles, and I throw my pillow at his head. “I’m not surprised though. After you upchucked out my truck window, you spent the rest of the night praying to the porcelain throne.”
After sitting up, I pause at the edge of my bed and wait for the spinning to stop. I haven’t drank for what has to be at least two years. The more intense my training got, the less time I spent on things that didn’t enhance my professional game. It would seem I don’t hold my liquor quite as well as I used to, if the hangover I am sporting is a telltale sign.
“Here.” My older brother thrusts two Advil and a glass of water in my direction.
After snatching them from his hand, I greedily swallow both pills and chug the glass of water. When my stomach protests against the hydrating liquid, I groan.
“Oh God, are you going to be sick again?” he whines, taking two steps backward and raising his hands in mock surrender.
“Why are you still here?” I growl, wishing he were close enough to hit.
As the thought occurs to me, my pillow comes back to haunt me. He launches it across the room, and it connects with my pounding head.
“I hate you,” I murmur, toeing my boots off.
“The first trailer will be here in fifteen minutes,” is the last thing he says before the door to my apartment closes and the sound of his boots going down the barn stairwell hits my ears.
After standing up, I pad to the bathroom, and the sight in the mirror is absolutely terrifying. My long hair is sticking out every which way, the mascara I was wearing is now under my eyes and running down to my cheeks, and my dress, well . . . that appears to be crooked.
I look like a hot mess. Emphasis on the mess.
I debate whether it’s even possible to look half decent without taking the time to shower, but come to a hard no on that decision.
Ten minutes later, I’m showered and no longer smelling like something found in a barn—despite the fact I am, indeed, something that can be found in a barn. Checking the time and realizing I have none to spare, I slip a pair of cut-off jean shorts on and pull an old camouflage hoodie over my head before stepping into my work boots and forgoing doing up the laces.
I grab my aviators and a hair elastic off the kitchen table, putting my hair in a ponytail as I descend down the stairs two at a time.
“You look how I feel,” Aurora moans as she walks through the barn doors.
Walking up to her, I shove my hands into the pocket of my sweater and kick dirt in her direction. Then I sit on a bale of hay. “Morning.”
“Morning,” she repeats, plopping down beside me and putting her head between her legs.
Honestly, from what I can remember of the night—which, I’ll admit, is only anything before my fourth beer—it went better than I’d expected. There were, of course, the people who stared, which I really only encouraged by making an idiot of myself on stage, apparently. But, aside from that, most people left us alone, seeing as Owen had decided to join us. He wasn’t the kind of guy whose baby sisters you messed with when he was around, not unless you wanted to be wearing a shiner come the next morning.
We were lucky anyway. It was more of the older crowd—our daddy’s age and such—there last night. I’d sure have gotten a lot more negative attention had the place been more of a high school reunion. Everyone in a small town loves to knock their peers down a few pegs, even when we’ve long since graduated.
I hear the sound of tires coming down the road and lean forward to see what looks like three massive truck-and-trailer combos a few minutes away.
Daddy must have heard them too. He’s coming down from the house, adjusting his ever-present ball cap on his head.
“Holy hell,” Owen says as we all move to stand in the driveway. “Look at them rigs.”
He isn’t kidding. Each truck and trailer match—white, black, and gold, with logos reading Tucker Farms on every door. It’s impressive, and I’m sure they cost a near fortune. Real estate must be damn good work to be in around here.
The first rig in the convoy pulls to a stop in front of us, and a petite brunette close to my age climbs from the passenger’s seat.
“Good morning,” she singsongs.
I wince behind my sunglasses. Her chipper voice is a little too loud for my hangover’s liking.
“I’m Charlotte.” She looks directly at Owen when she speaks, and I’m thankful everyone misses the rolling of my eyes. I’m hardly ignorant to my older brother’s reputation and poor taste in pastimes, but occasionally witnessing it can be somewhat gag-worthy. “I’m Mr. Tucker’s barn manager. I’ll be overseeing the transport today, and ensuring all the horses get settled.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Charlotte. I’m Owen.” My brother grins, sliding his hand into her outstretched one.
After knocking him with her hip, baby sister is the next to chime in. “I’m Aurora.”
“And you must be London,” Charlotte says in my direction. While the statement hardly comes across as harsh, there’s an underlying context there.
I’m not sure why I didn’t consider the possibility that all of these people coming today might know who I am, might have seen the shot I blew or the tabloid articles that ripped me apart because of it.
I let my eyes wander over her from behind the safety of my black lenses. She’s around my height and slender—although, if I had to guess from the constant rigid position of her breasts, which stretch her white polo tight across her chest, they’re likely fake. Everything about her is posh, just like the vehicle she arrived in. Not a hair on her white breeches, not a scuff on her black riding boots, and not a strand of hair in the braid that runs down her back out of place. She’s the Equestrian Barbie, and as I slip my hand into hers, my confidence gets knocked down a peg or two.