After the Fall

deliberate either—or at least, not premeditated in any kind of rational way—and he seemed to have forgiven me for that. It was nothing more than a case of incredibly bad timing, both of us being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and he’d obviously meant no harm to me or to my horse.
    I dug my fingers under the cast on my arm, trying to scratch the maddening itch while I watched Ryan and my horse make tight serpentines back and forth across the arena. She suddenly started trotting, and I expected him to correct her, but then realized he must have told her to do it. It was a slow trot, one he could sit without bouncing too much, and as they came down the rail toward me, the grin on his face was infectious.
    I shook my head and laughed. All the cast and broken bone bullshit aside, was there anything sexier than a gorgeous man on a horse? Sweet fucking Christ. Right then, I decided that if I had to give up an entire summer of riding, there were worse alternatives than spending that summer watching Ryan ride.
    Because damn .

By the time Tsarina was happily back in her stall and awaiting her evening feeding, my leg hurt like hell. Both of them did, actually. My left hip ached from lugging that stupid heavy cast around, plus not being properly elevated since I’d left my apartment, and every joint and muscle on the right side was sore from bearing my weight.
    Needless to say, I wasn’t moving very quickly.
    It was worth it, though. Well worth it. Tsarina had been ridden, Ryan had had a chance to get back in the saddle, and I’d gotten about forty-five minutes’ worth of eye candy. Not a bad evening, I decided.
    On the way out of the barn, in spite of my sore legs, I didn’t have to struggle to keep up with Ryan. He slowed down and adapted his pace to mine; just a little act of consideration, but I appreciated it more than he could have known. Asking people for even the slightest things like that bothered me, but with him, I didn’t have to. He just . . . did it.
    He helped me into the truck, and I caught myself feeling a little disappointed that the afternoon was about to be over. It was hard to believe this was the same man I’d punched in a moment of fury the other day; I rather liked his company now.
    “Do you, um . . .” I paused. “Do you want to get a drink or something?”
    “I . . . uh . . .”
    “Just, you know, thanks for working my horse for me,” I said quickly. “Not a date or anything.”
    “Oh.” His posture deflated a little, like my explanation had disappointed rather than reassured him.
    It . . . could be a date? But I kept that to myself.
    “I’ll buy,” I said. “It’s about dinnertime anyway, right?”
    He nodded. “It is. You sure? I can pay my way.”
    “I insist.”
    “Sure.” We exchanged smiles, and he put the truck in gear.
    Everyone else apparently had the same idea about grabbing dinner right then. Almost every restaurant’s parking lot was packed, though we did finally stumble across a halfway decent diner just off the interstate. Probably not Michelin-starred fine dining, but it didn’t seem like a place we might contract salmonella just by reading the menu.
    A cheerful hostess greeted us. “Two tonight?”
    “Yes, and would it be possible to get a booth?” Ryan gestured at me. “So he can put his leg up?”
    “Oh, sure. Come with me.”
    It hadn’t occurred to me to get a booth so I could prop up my leg. Thinking with my stomach instead of my broken bones, apparently, but at least one of us was on top of things.
    Ryan slid into the booth opposite me, and he gently pulled my cast up so my foot rested on the bench beside him. “Comfortable?”
    “As comfortable as this thing ever is.”
    “How’s the pain?”
    “Present and accounted for.”
    He grimaced. “You okay?”
    I nodded and waved my uninjured hand. “It’s fine. Beats sitting at home waiting for the walls to cave in on me.”
    “I can imagine,” he said, and I thought he shuddered.
    While he perused the menu, he absently ran his thumb along the perfectly trimmed edge of his goatee, and I caught myself imagining him shaving. Everything from carefully navigating the goatee’s edge to dabbing away excess foam when he was done. Maybe in reality he used an electric razor, but not in my mind. White foam and a blade or I didn’t want to know about it.
    The waitress appeared beside our table, snapping me out of my foamy little fantasy. “What can I get you guys?”
    Ryan looked at me,