Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 86808 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86808 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
“She’s single, by the way,” Kat says as we walk out of the sitting room.
It again takes me a moment to process and when what she said hits me, I scowl. “So what?”
“I’m just saying… she’s been divorced for a year and is super pretty.”
“Again, so what?”
“You could ask her out,” Kat prods, nudging me with her elbow as we traverse the main foyer and out the front door. Kat’s pink Gator sits beside my truck.
“Quit your matchmaking,” I grumble. “I’m not interested.”
“I don’t want you to be lonely. You’re getting old—”
“I’m only thirty-seven,” I bark with faux outrage.
“And that Diane Turner is no good for you.”
That statement penetrates with utter clarity and I whirl on the front portico to face my sister. “What do you… I mean, how do you know about Diane?”
I’ve never told one of my siblings about my “arrangement” with Diane. It’s a private matter, sex only, and none of their business. What Diane and I had was so meaningless, it didn’t even bear thinking about once outside of bed.
Kat cocks a black eyebrow at me. “How do you think I know? Because Diane runs her mouth every time she’s at the barn. She’s telling anyone who will listen that y’all are sleeping together.”
“Jesus Christ… it’s a random thing. Last night was the first time in—”
“Last night, huh? Diane has a lesson later today with Monica. I bet that’s one of the first things she talks about.”
“Fuck,” I mutter and turn away from her, jogging down the porch steps. I spin and point at my sister once I reach the sidewalk. “You hear that shit, you shut it down. It’s over.”
“I will,” Kat assures, heading down the steps herself and angling toward her UTV. “But that won’t stop Diane from running her mouth.”
“I’ll have words with her.” I open the truck door and hop in. At least, I’ll have words with her when I get a minute.
If I remember.
For now, I’m heading back to the broodmare barn. I need to budget time to call Michelle DeLeon to see if I can facilitate the sale of Lady Beatrice. Blackburn Farms takes a fifteen percent commission on inner barn sales, so on a two hundred and fifty thousand dollar horse, that’s some nice change going into the bank. It’s one of our easier earned revenue streams, but it’s not where my heart resides.
That’s back with the pregnant mares, bringing new foals into the world. While the Blackburn enterprise deals in show horses, we’re mostly known for our breeding program. It’s where the real magic behind our success lies.
Everything in breeding is high stakes. We’re putting a lot of money into blending championship lines to strengthen the breed. Buyers from all over the world want a Blackburn horse and every single birth is precious to me. It represents a piece of our family’s legacy.
Which is why I don’t have time to be worried about Diane Turner spilling our private business or fending off my sister with unwanted matchmaking. I certainly don’t want to be saddled with a kid.
Simply put, I have more important things to do.
CHAPTER 3
Marcie
My sister Michelle is everything I’m not. Tall and willowy with flawless features, a natural sense of style—she can make a burlap sack look couture. She exudes grace, charm and a light, tinkling laugh when she’s amused that is so effervescent, people’s heads turn to see who made that beautiful sound. Michelle married wealthy and divorced wealthier and can afford anything she wants.
So I’m quite surprised my sister is hemming and hawing over paying two hundred and fifty thousand for a horse for her daughter, Carmen. I’ve watched my sister shell out money on ridiculously expensive things with no regard to whether it would ever ding her bank balance, because in truth, it never would. Michelle’s ex-husband, Winston P. Bradenton, is a financier and was easily able to fork over half of his money to his ex-wife in the divorce without blinking an eye. Although he certainly grumbled about it every chance he could.
“Why are you hesitating on this horse?” I ask as we share a bowl of warm tortilla chips and spicy salsa at our favorite Mexican restaurant.
Michelle and I are close. I’m two years older at thirty-four and we spend a lot of our free time together. We’re not just sisters, we’re best friends. Despite thinking my sister is utter perfection in all ways, there’s not a single drop of envy or jealousy within my mind. I love every inch of her in all her perfect forms.
That’s because, if you were to ask Michelle on any given day what she thinks of me, she’d reflect the same thing. That I’m utter perfection.
While Michelle is tall and graceful, I’m petite and sassy. Michelle’s cultured, musical intonation is a complete contradiction to my raspy voice coated in the Kentucky southern accent. Women always tell me they wish they could sound like me, and men want to know what it sounds like being with me. We both have vivid blue eyes—Michelle’s sharply keen and savvy while mine reflect the lighthearted nature with which I approach life.