Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 70174 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70174 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
And then, just as quickly as the kiss had deepened, Tommy broke away, breathing hard, his forehead pressed against mine.
“Damn,” he muttered, voice rough.
I blinked up at him, dazed, lips still tingling. “Why’d ye stop?”
He exhaled a ragged laugh, cupping my cheek, his thumb tracing my jawline. “Because, sweetheart, if I don’t, we’re gonna be in a world of trouble.”
I bit my lip, still flushed and breathless.
He smirked, running his fingers through my hair one last time before settling back against the blanket, pulling me into his side. “Promise me something.”
I sighed, letting my head rest against his shoulder. “What now?”
“Promise me you won’t call him.”
It wasn’t that simple. It never had been.
But lying here, wrapped up in Tommy, feeling more alive than I ever had before…
“I’ll try,” I whispered.
And for now, that was enough.
CHAPTER 12
Tommy
The training center was alive with movement—riders adjusting their stirrups, stable hands leading out the young horses, Rory giving instructions with a sharp eye and a steady voice. It was the same bustle I was used to at Blackburn Farms, but there was something infinitely more exciting about watching the young racehorses thunder around the track.
I stood by the rail, stopwatch in hand, watching as one of the riders urged his horse into a gallop, dirt flying from its hooves. The gelding stretched out over the track, muscles rippling under a gleaming bay coat, his breath coming in short huffs as he ate up the ground.
“Mark it,” Rory called to me, tracking the horse’s stride like a hawk.
My thumb depressed the button. “One minute, three seconds.”
Rory nodded, a pleased gleam in his eye. “He’s improving.” He jerked his chin toward the track. “See how he settled into the pace right before the second furlong? That’s what we want—smooth, confident.”
This was all like Greek to me, but I was learning a lot and grateful that Rory was involving me. He could’ve easily set me to cleaning stalls for the entire summer, but instead, he was immersing me in the training world of racehorses.
I watched as the bay crossed the far turn of the track, the rider easing him back down to a steady canter. I’d been around horses my whole life, and it was easy to see the difference in how they were trained here compared to back home.
I could best summarize it as less polish, more grit.
The riders didn’t just work the horses—they read them, adjusted to them in real time. It was raw and instinctive, more of a partnership than a strict command.
“Clock starts, clock stops,” I mused, still watching the track. “I would think that’s the number that matters. But you seem to care more about the way they move than just how fast they are.”
Rory grinned, his green eyes glinting with amusement. “Because that’s what makes a real runner. Fast is good, but if a horse doesn’t have the mind for it—if he’s just chasin’ the wind instead of workin’ with it—he’ll never win where it counts.”
A stable groom approached, leading a young chestnut filly aptly named Star for the same shape marking on her forehead. She shifted her weight nervously, ears flicking back and forth. The boy murmured to her, adjusting the reins to hold on to her head as she tried to shake it.
“She’s got energy to burn,” Rory muttered. “Tommy, walk her to the starting post, let her settle before they take her off.”
I moved forward, running a soothing hand down the filly’s neck as I took her reins from the groom. “Easy, girl,” I murmured, leading her onto the track. She tossed her head, testing me, but I kept my grip steady, my other hand firm on her shoulder.
You couldn’t manhandle horses this size, but you also couldn’t baby them. They needed a handler they could trust, someone steady, someone who wouldn’t react to their nervousness by getting tense themselves.
Rory watched me as I led her, a considering look on his face. “Ye’ve got good hands, lad.”
I grinned, patting the filly’s shoulder as she finally exhaled, her body loosening. “That’s ’cause I was raised right.”
Rory chuckled and turned back to the riders, calling out the next lineup.
I glanced across the track, spotting Fiona’s dad in conversation with another trainer near the fence. I’d never seen him down here at the training center and I wondered why he was making an appearance. From what I understood, the brothers kept the two distinct parts of the farm—breeding and training—separated from each other. I hadn’t quite figured out all the family dynamics, but it didn’t seem to me that Seamus and Rory liked each other very much. But for all the things I didn’t like about Seamus Conlan, I had to admit—he produced some of the finest young racehorses I’d ever seen.
Of course, I’d also argue it was Rory’s training that really made them so great. He was a good man and an even finer handler of horses. I suspect my dad knew exactly what he was doing by sending me here to work for Rory this summer.