Fool Me Twice (3 page)

I pick up a jog for a few laps, and then an easy lope, and I lose myself in the rhythm of it, sliding slightly in my saddle with each stride.

When I round the bend, the gate opens, and I frown at the sight of Landon leading a giant paint gelding into the ring. The same paint he hauled here last year and rode all summer. Unlike me, he
does
live on acreage. Not a massive farm or anything, but enough so that he has his own horse and a small arena, and around school people know him and his reputation, know he rodeos on the weekends.

“Whoa,” I say, leaning back and picking up the reins. Zoey executes a perfect sliding stop. “What are you doing in here?”

Landon’s bright eyes give him away. He enjoys my irritation. “I’m teaching today.”

“Where’s Tyler?” I ask, shielding my eyes from the sun.

He smirks. “Indisposed.”

“What does that even mean?”

“He fell out of the hayloft,” he says, arranging the reins over the gelding’s neck, turning his back to me. “Broke his leg.”

A sick feeling thickens in my stomach. “When is he going to be back?”

“August … ish?”

I grit my teeth. “So what, I’m going to be paired up with you for the next six weeks?”

He grins, and I want to stab him with a spork. “ ‘This is no dream! This is really happening!’” he says, but his voice is different, the Texan drawl completely gone.

I narrow my eyes as his words ring in my ear. “Isn’t that from
Rosemary’s Baby?
”

“See?” he says. “I called it. You totally like horror movies.” He puts the toe of his broken-in brown boot into the stirrup and easily swings aboard. He settles into the saddle, and I try not to notice the way his worn-in Wranglers hug his thighs, knowing it’s nothing more than a pretty candy shell on a rotten piece of garbage. He gathers the reins loosely in his hand. “It’s like we’re soul mates or something,” he says, glancing up to meet my eyes.

I glare. “You knew about it this morning, didn’t you?”

“Yes. It was obvious. I mean, only a true aficionado would quote
Hellraiser
. I can’t believe I watched so many crappy blockbusters with you last year. I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“I thought that’s what
you
were into! You’re the one who suggested all those dumb Johnny Depp movies! And I’m not talking about the movie thing anyway. I meant about Tyler. You knew this morning.”

“Maybe,” he says, his expression passive.

“Wow, you’re a piece of work,” I mutter, then raise my voice. “So that’s why you decided to talk to me. Smooth things over so I wouldn’t be trouble for you.”

The clouds shift, the sun intensifying along with my annoyance.

“Come on now,” he says, grinning to show me I’m not so far off base. “Would I really be that conniving?”

“Yeah. You would.”

I turn Zoey around, forgetting that she began her life as a reining horse, and she spins so hard I’m dangerously close to slipping off. I right myself and lope away from him, pleased I got the last word and embarrassed he’s already getting the best of me.

I slow to a walk once I’m across the arena, and Zoey half snorts, half sighs. Movement catches my eye, and I watch as the first string of horses is led out, two at a time, by three other ranch hands, knowing the guests will soon follow.

Once they arrive, I’ll have to play nice.

I’m not sure how I’ll manage.

Chapter Four

I frown, staring into the mirror at a pair of Wranglers that Bailey talked me into trying on at a local western supply store.

“They’re really plain,” I call out, over the dressing room door.

“That’s the point.” She’s on the other side of the divider, trying on a patterned red, white, and blue western button-up, presumably to wear at the Independence Day rodeo.

“The point is to look plain?” I ask, making a face at myself in the mirror.

“If you want to be allowed to work with me in the spa, you gotta blend,” she says. “Isn’t your hair a big enough fashion statement? If you must stand out, wear an ugly belt or something with them.”

“Oh, thanks!” I say. She loves to jokingly refer to my fashion sense as ugly, atrocious, hideous, or a combination thereof, but
I’ve caught her trying on the occasional piece. “Besides, you’re not even allowed to wear jeans in the spa.”

“Jeans are step one. Stay in the stable and maybe fly under the radar for a week, and then we put you in khakis and see if Mr. Ramsey lets you stay. The spa would be way more fun if you were working with me.”

I chew on my lip, not telling her that I actually prefer the horses—at least when I’m riding. I could do without mucking the stalls. But the stable is like a different world than where she works. I fit in there. Besides, the jeans may be plain, but they aren’t actually that bad. They’re snug, a deep indigo, and boot-cut to accommodate my usual barnyard footwear.

“But if I buy these, Landon’s going to think I did it because of what he said today.”

Dead silence. I dust a few pieces of lint off the butt of the jeans, twisting around to see how they look from the back.

The dressing room door flies open, bouncing off the wall, and I jump into the air, frantically covering my body before remembering I’m fully clothed.

“You talked to him?”

“Yeah. First in the barns, where he saluted my hair. And then we had to work together for three hours in the arena. He’s going to be the instructor this summer.” I grimace. “I’m practically his assistant.”

“AND?”
she says, clearly frustrated. “How’d the convo go?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“I don’t?” she asks, crossing her arms.

I sigh. “Let’s just say I fantasized about knocking him off that high horse of his.”

“Literal or figurative?”

“Both,” I say, nodding emphatically.

“Well, at least you guys are talking, right? Now you can remember what an arrogant jerk he is and move on.” And then Bailey gets this ridiculous look in her eye, and she struggles to hold back a smile. “And speaking of moving on, I kind of thought you could use those jeans so as not to scare off the Trenton brothers.”

“Wait, what?”

“They’re coming over at eight.”

I check the giant purple plastic watch on my wrist. “It’s going to take us that long to get back to the ranch!”

“I know, but a lady is allowed to arrive fashionably late.”

“I’m pretty sure real ladies don’t invite brothers to come over to their cabins for romantic trysts,” I say, reaching out to check the price tag dangling from Bailey’s sleeve. “Thirty bucks is way too much for this tragedy.”

“I know, right?” she says, shrugging. “But anyway, real ladies don’t wear miniskirts either. I’m inventing this crap as I go along.”

“Oh, like a trashy-lady hybrid?”

She grins. “Exactly. I’m like Nicki Minaj meets Kate Middleton.”

I roll my eyes and go back to the mirror. “So … you
actually
want me to buy these jeans because the guys are coming over, and you don’t think either of them will give me the time of day in an oversized David Bowie T-shirt and patterned tights?”

Bailey fake-gags. “You do not own a David Bowie shirt.”

“I do. My sister bought it for me as a joke, and I happen to think it’s so ugly it swung back around to being cute.”

“Ew.” Bailey actually recoils at that, as if the shirt might pop up from underneath the changing bench and attack her. “Yeah, definitely not that. So go buy the jeans.”

“I
have
jeans, you know.”

“Yeah,” she says, in her best
duh
voice. “A pair with seventeen holes in them—I counted—and the pair with pink Sharpie marker art.”

“Or I could wear that fifties eyelet dress,” I say, eyeballing the jeans again.

“They’re cowboys, not madmen,” she says, with a raised brow. I’ve forgotten how many rules there are when shopping with Bailey. “Stick with the jeans. Trust me. You said you wanted to have fun this summer! It starts tonight.”

“All right, all right. I’ll get them. But you’re buying the toothpaste.”

“Deal. Because in two hours, we’re both going to be glad we have minty-fresh breath.”

Chapter Five

I’m slumped into an armchair in the corner of our living room, my feet propped up on the matching footstool as I watch
Pitch Perfect
, the oscillating fan blowing in my direction the only thing saving me from the heat.

I tried to talk Bailey into watching the latest incarnation of
Texas Chainsaw Massacre
, but she said it would kill the mood. Instead, her movie selection is doing nothing to keep my mind away from the sounds of Bailey flirting with Trenton brother number one. I know he’s Trenton brother number one because number two deigned not to show up tonight, and now I’m in serious third-wheel mode. I also know it’s flirting—even though I can’t hear exactly what she’s saying—based on the fact that she’s giggling every 2.4 seconds.

I’m trying not to be totally insulted by being stood up, but I can’t help it, and it’s totally soured my mood. Maybe if we’d
picked a movie Bailey hasn’t forced me to watch a dozen times this year alone, I could pay more attention to the story and less to the empty beanbag chair next to me.

Bailey giggles again and shoves his shoulder, and Trenton brother number one grabs her hand, then makes this whole grandiose gesture of kissing her knuckles, and I think I might actually die from saccharine overdose.

“I’m going out!” I say, jumping up and striding through the front door before they have a chance to respond. Once outside, I’m not sure what to do with myself. I’d be a total creeper if I just sat on the porch swing, listening to them flirt.

Sighing, I sit down on the edge of a creaky step, pulling on my powder-blue cowboy boots from this morning, then sliding my jeans over the outside of the boots. Stupid Wranglers. I should be wearing something cuter, more me and less Bailey. I tried to wear my
Nightmare Before Christmas
T-shirt, but Bailey said it was too morbid. Instead, she made me wear one of her tank tops, a white one with a huge silver horseshoe, convinced it would be like a homing beacon and Trenton brother number two would stare into my chest and be hypnotized.

Too bad he’d have to show up to do that. Whatev, didn’t need him anyway. The cute one—the blond—is the one currently taking up residence on our couch, and Bailey had dibs on him, since she invited them over. Not that his brother’s not cute too, but he totally has a snaggletooth.

Who needs a snaggletooth in her life, anyway? Not me. Totally not me.

I stand and wander down the path, not really sure where I’m going or what I want to do. Or what I really want in general, for
this summer. I thought I was going to come here and be just like her, having a blast and not caring about the repercussions. I guess I’m more of a lover than a flirter.

Or maybe it’s just being here and seeing Landon and remembering what it was like to fall in love that makes it impossible to ignore those feelings. Makes it impossible to just be casual and flirty.

Stupid Landon and his stupid smile.

I pass by the last cabin in our row and wave to a pair of cowboys playing poker on a tiny folding table. One of them nods at me, but the other is too busy staring at his hand of cards. I’ve never really figured out if they like me or just put up with me every summer, but they seem to respect Landon. Maybe they’re more into arrogant jerks than totally kick-butt, awesome girls.

I walk down to the stable, but the doors are shut, and I don’t particularly feel like going inside and lighting up the place and remembering just how alone I am. The stables are so quiet at night.

So I bypass them and opt for a nice walk, strolling the dirt pathways past the spa, following the curve of the golf course. The
whoosh-whoosh-whoosh
sound of the sprinklers kicks in, ensuring our pampered guests have perfectly green … golf greens.

In the late dusk light, the air is warm but not overwhelming, and the crickets around me sing as I leave the faint glow of the ranch behind, cresting a small hill. Below me, the Columbia River flows, wide and slow. Downstream a few miles, the water is surrounded by enormous cliffs carved out by glaciers. But here, near the ranch, the banks are little more than a gentle slope, the brown
landscape turning green and then muddy. In one area, the bank curves in, creating a side pool, a perfect swimming hole you can only see once you’re right on top of it.

It’s cooled off considerably, yet I’m sweating by the time I make it to the river. I’m not dumb enough to swim alone, but maybe I’ll kick off my boots and roll up my pant legs and sit on the old log near the shore. Just enough to cool down a bit, enjoy the feeling of the water on my legs.

As I round the boulder everyone uses to hang their towels and clothes on, though, all thoughts of the water fly out the window.

Landon’s standing there with this back to me, staring into the darkness, shirtless.

Shirtless
.

The muscles of his back are well defined, pulled tight over his shoulders as he fiddles with what must be his ever-present belt buckle, a big silver and gold shiny thing he wears all summer long.

“Don’t you know you get fired if you swim alone?” I say, before I can stop myself. As if he ever cared about anything found in the employee handbook. It’s loosely enforced, if that, and Landon always did play by his own rules.

It’s like he knew I was coming, because he doesn’t startle, he just yanks on the buckle, making the buttery leather snake out of the belt loops. Then he turns around and gives me that wolfish smile, his teeth glinting in the moonlight.

“Does it look like I care?”

My mouth goes dry. His chest is smooth and tan, and the top button of his Wranglers is unbuttoned.

“You never really did,” I say, not sure if I’m talking about me or the rules.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” he says, and I can tell he’s not talking about the rules either. He swallows, then he grits his teeth, the muscles in his jaw jumping. “I did care. A lot.”

Did. Past tense. Why can’t I feel that way? These thoughts, feelings, they should be past tense. He wasn’t even man enough to dump me at the end of the summer. Instead he just started making out with someone new.