Chapter Two

Piper

Before we could even think about heading to the stable, we had to stop to buy Tate a pair of jeans. It's not that my annoyingly high maintenance boss doesn't have any. It's that they're all professionally tailored, designer jeans that lack the wiggle room required to sit in a saddle and cost entirely too much money to be rubbing on the hide of a sweaty animal. We took a detour to a western wear outfitter, and I rushed in and grabbed a pair of sturdy looking Wranglers in his size. Not to mention boots. And a comfortable shirt that didn't cost upwards of two hundred dollars. All while he sat in the Mercedes, enjoying the air conditioning and a podcast about cryptocurrency.

So what if I snuck in a new pair of boots for myself? The little gift here and there is one of the very limited perks of being an assistant to someone with as much cash and as little regard for it as Tate Story.

Besides, like he's constantly telling me, I'm indispensable.

The extra stop means we don't arrive at our destination until late afternoon. I anticipated Tate's customary lack of understanding of linear time and booked two time slots to ourselves as a precaution. I've gotten awfully good at anticipating Tate's peculiarities over the years, for lack of a better or more flattering word. I could call them faults, instead, but before the thought crosses my mind, I look at the toes of my new boots and remind myself that there are far worse career paths I could find myself in. For starters, there was the guy mucking out a stall when we walked into the stable. Whatever Tate's issues may be, at least he smells better than a horse manure. Most of the time.

"Hello, there folks." A kindly woman approaches us from a makeshift office at the back of the building, a rope of braided gray hair swinging behind her shoulders with each step. Everything about her suggests that she's spent every hour of her life outdoors. "You must be my afternoon appointment. I'm Janet. Mr. and Ms. Wright, I presume?"

She extends her hand for a shake, and Tate receives it with gusto, giving me the slyest of grins. I chose the pseudonym as a play on the deal he brokered with Mingle.com. I never intended for the joke to backfire so spectacularly on myself.

"Oh. No. We're not—he's not," I sputter, trying to find a way to extricate myself from this. "Wright. We're not. Wright. I mean, together, we are not Wright. We're not married."

Subconsciously? Maybe. The idea haunts me sometimes, whispering at the edges of my daydreams—could I ever be Mrs. Tate Story? But I shove that thought down every time it dares surface. It can never be like that between us. He needs me in a way that's practical, indispensable, not romantic. I'm the cog that keeps his life running smoothly—his Pepper Potts—not the heart of his world. I have to remember that, keep my feet on the ground even when his smallest praise makes me want to float away. When Tate offers praise, it's as rare as it is genuine—like finding a diamond in a sea of glass—making it all the more precious because it tells me he really does see me, not just the role I play.

Janet shakes her head with a small laugh. "None of my business, kids. I just hope you're not this nervous on a horse."

"No, not at all," I correct her with as much gentle warmth as I can muster. "I took riding lessons as a girl. I know my way around a saddle, thank you."

She turns her attention to Tate, giving him a slow once over, noticing the jeans so new that the seams are still creased and the boots with nary a scratch or scuff. "And what about you, cowboy?"

"Extremely competent. Very experienced." Tate waves his hand in the air, craning his head to look at the few horses that are gathered outside by the fence. "Just give me the newest one. I don't want him to have picked up too many bad habits, you know?"

I grab Janet's attention with a polite cough. With a heavy whisper, I lean in close to the woman and say, "Um. Horses hate him, actually."

She nods sagely before turning on her heel and heading down the aisle between the stalls.

"You're wrong," Tate insists, holding a hand to his chest as if my contradiction has left him mortally wounded. "Horses do not hate me. They misunderstand me."

"Darryl?" Janet calls out to the hired hand we passed on our way in, her voice echoing off the high roof of the barn. "Tack up Hermes and Mavis, and bring ‘em around the side for me?"

Darryl lets out an audible groan at Mavis's name, giving me a sense of who she is before they trot her out to meet us. Tate isn't going to like this one bit. On the other hand, I am having the time of my life.

Standing in the grass outside the stable, Tate's eyes are immediately drawn to a startlingly beautiful black and white American Paint Horse. He glides toward us effortlessly, following Janet's lead with careful attention. Tate does not notice the red roan horse toddling behind Darryl with a determined, if less than athletic, gait. There's a lot of mileage on her and it shows. She's incredibly sturdy, her limbs powerful and much stockier than her companion's. I'm guessing she's a grade with a variety of draft horse DNA running through her not-so-pure pedigree.

Tate reaches out to touch the black snout of our leggy friend, before Janet angles the reins away from him.

"No, sir. This here is Hermes. He's easy on the eyes and fleet-footed, but he needs a strong hand. He's going to make a fine, handsome date for your lady friend." Lining him up neatly in front of us, Janet gestures at the saddle for me to mount, before pointing to the other horse. "You, my amigo, get Miss Mavis over there. Don't let her looks deceive you. She's got a lot of life left, on top of being just about the sweetest and most steadfast girl I ever did see. You could put a dead man in that saddle and she'd get home safe and sound. She's a reliable old girl, and you better treat her kindly."

I have to bite the inside of my cheeks to stop myself from laughing as Tate struggles to throw his leg up and over the other side of the saddle. After a few unsuccessful minutes, Darryl ends up butting his shoulder up against Tate's hip, trying to leverage him onto the horse. To Mavis's credit, she seems thoroughly unfazed by the entire experience. Perhaps I could learn a thing or two from watching her approach to life.

Janet gives me a quick overview of the trail directions, much to Tate's chagrin. He always wants it both ways, wanting to be in charge while at the same time not wanting to be responsible for anything. He just wants to make decisions and feel big and let all of the little details disappear like they always do when I'm around.

He doesn't feel big now, perched on top of a horse that hasn't had a rider over the age of thirteen in the last ten years. Mavis keeps sighing heavily and turning her head around to stare at his booted foot as if she knows. Still, I let him take the lead, edging Mavis at a slow trot toward the entrance of the trail in front of Hermes and me. We make it a long while without incident. Mavis seems like she could do the trail in her sleep, not needing any of Tate's incredibly misguided guidance. Then, Tate starts to get visibly annoyed at her lack of momentum, pulling at the reins and lightly kicking at her sides. I can see the trouble brewing in her body language, partly because I've spent enough time around horses to know when they're about to explode, and partly because I've spent enough time around Tate to know that there is a limitation to how much of him any creature bearing an X chromosome can experience in a day.

And poor Mavis has been pushed to the edge.

Tate lets out an undignified yelp as she rockets forward, charging down the path through the trees at a speed I never would've expected from her. Janet was right when she said the old girl's still got it. Hermes responds instantly to my commands, galloping after her with stunning poise. Watching Tate get tossed around the saddle so violently I'm sure his tailbone is bruised would be a lot funnier if he wasn't headed directly for a very large tree branch.

My knees press tightly to Hermes' sides as my heartbeat rockets. Dammit, Tate. I don't think he'll be able to authorize my paychecks and per diems if he's heavily concussed. I push Hermes a little harder, thankful for the years of lessons each summer at horse camp back home in North Dakota, and I angle us toward Mavis, straining in my saddle to grab at her reins. They slip from my grasp the first time, but I'm able to secure them in my palm on a second try, and with a few short tugs and Hermes slowing down alongside her, it doesn't take long to get her under control and out of the path of the tree.

"Piper, what would I do without you?" he asks, brushing bits of leaves and twigs from the front of his shirt before straightening his hat. "I thought for sure I was going to fall off."

Find a whole team of people to do the work that I do every day , I think to myself with a smile. Because I am worth so much more than I get credit for.

"I don't think you'd want to find out." I scratch Hermes gently between the ears, and he happily shakes his head in response. "No more horses for you."

Tate thinks for a moment. "Skydiving?"

"Keep dreaming." He'd probably chicken out at the last moment and end up buying the plane just for kicks.

"Deep sea diving?"

"You hate diving. And deep water." And swimsuits. And cold water on your junk. And taking instructions. And having kelp touch your body. And the taste of saltwater. "And…"

"Okay, nothing with any kind of diving." He slumps forward in his saddle in defeat, leaning his weight against Mavis's massive neck and shoulders. She doesn't seem to register his presence anymore. Oh, how I wish I could say the same for myself. "Wait! I've got it. I'll get shot into space like Jeff Bezos."

He smiles to himself like a satisfied child, his hat starting to slip sideways again, and I have to resist the urge to reach over and fix it. The man makes more money in a day than I'll see in my lifetime, and yet he's the most helpless thing I've ever seen.

"I can't with you. How about you be the only billionaire who slows his roll and doesn't do billionair-y things?"

Tate pauses, his grin fading as he considers my words. He glances away, his gaze tracing the horizon where the sky melds with the tips of distant trees, a thoughtful shadow crossing his chiseled features. With his piercing eyes, sexy scruff, and muscular build, he's that hot nerd type that women go crazy over. "Maybe you're right," he finally concedes, the words almost lost to the wind. "Maybe it's time I tried just being Tate for a while."

I can't help but laugh, a light, freeing sound that surprises even me. "I'll believe it when I see it," I challenge, turning Hermes to head back. Tate follows suit, a resigned yet amused expression on his face as we navigate the trail that leads home.

As we ride, I can't shake the feeling that moments like these are fleeting. Being here, in this pseudo-fantasy with Tate, makes me wonder what our future might look like if things were different. If Tate could ever step out from behind the billionaire facade and just be himself with me. I know there's an amazing man hiding underneath the fa?ade. But taking down the brick wall he's built? That's just another daydream, isn't it?

For now, I'll take what I can get—one unpredictable adventure at a time with the most unmanageable billionaire I know.