ZOE
If anyone asked how I ended up clinging to Blake on a horse that smelled like damp hay, existential dread, and—let’s be honest—straight-up pee, I would’ve blamed Preston. Entirely.
“This is the worst idea anyone’s ever had,” I muttered, squirming in the saddle as the horse shifted under us like it was deciding whether to cooperate or fling me into the abyss. “Blake, I swear, if this thing bucks, I’m kicking you out of the house.”
“Relax, Zoe. It’s just a horse.”
“‘Just a horse’?” I echoed, throwing my hands up dramatically—well, one hand; the other was gripping the saddle horn for dear life. “It’s a thousand-pound beast with a death wish. It knows I don’t belong here. I can feel it plotting my downfall!”
Blake laughed, the sound low and entirely too amused. “It’s literally just
