The Five Stages of Falling in Love (30 page)

“What!” I would have made a terrible reporter. “I am
not
a liar! And I have never gambled a day in my life! And I’m
not
trying to fail out of school. A girl is allowed to take a few sick days after her three-year relationship ends! How can you possibly know so much and so little about me at the same time?”
 
This was possibly the most exasperating conversation I had ever had.

“I make it a point to know all my players, Ellie. Especially ones that come into the game waving money around like you did,” he explained patiently with that same cocky smile on his face.

I had the strongest urge to smack him. And I had never, not in my entire life, ever felt like hitting anything before!

“Clearly you have me confused with somebody else because I have no clue what you are talking about!”

“That is not going to work on me!” the anger simmered under the surface again. His eyes turned almost black with emotion.

“Okay, okay, okay,” I backtracked quickly. “I can see that. So, just for fun, how about you explain to me exactly how I came to owe you all this money and then we can figure this out together. I want you to get your money just as badly as you do. I promise, alright?”

He seemed to think that over for a minute. His face relaxed back to movie-star-stranger instead of serial-killer-hit-man. It didn’t take a genius to figure out which version I liked best.

“Alright, fine. We can do this your way. Especially if you promise you’ll help me get my money,” he said evenly and then waited for me to answer.

“Yes, I promise. I mean, I know
I
don’t owe you the money. But if there is any way I can
assist
you with it, I’d be glad to help.” What I didn’t say was that as long as I didn’t have to shoot, stab or bury somebody I would be glad to help. Really, I meant like a stern, authoritative letter I could put a stamp on and mail for him. Plus, these were mostly just empty promises until I could get him out of my apartment, lock the two deadbolts, slide the chain into place and call the police.

“About a week and a half ago, you contacted me about joining the game. I had heard your name around campus and knew that your request was entirely out of character. So I started to ask around about you and that’s when I found out you just got dumped. It made sense then, why you would want to play. Even if I didn’t think it was a good idea. I’ve been dumped before, I guess I could relate in a way.”

“
You’ve
been dumped?” I scoffed before I could stop myself. He was gorgeous, all testosterone and muscles, standing in the middle of my kitchen with his gray t-shirt, loose jeans and flip flops. Plus, he was more than just a little intimidating. I could hardly believe a girl found enough courage to break up with
him
.

He seemed to find this more amusing than anything and actually broke into an eye-twinkling grin. Yes, his eyes twinkled. I was so shocked by the expression I had to look away. He was more dangerously good-looking than ever and a strange heat lit a fire in my belly. So obviously, I cleared my throat and pretended that never happened.

“Sure, I’ve been dumped.” His smile turned wicked and I suddenly felt like he was laughing at an inside joke. “So I know what it’s like to do something reckless after the heartache.”

I snorted. “There wasn’t that much heartache. Trust me. You were right when you called him a cheating… uh, you know.”

“Douche bag?” he questioned.

“Yes, that.” I
blushed
a deep red. I wasn’t a missionary. But okay, sometimes curse words made me uncomfortable.
Which was kind of surprising since I grew up with three brothers that basically existed with “R” ratings attached to them: strong language, violent behavior and sexual content.

He let out a soft chuckle at that. I was becoming unending entertainment for this guy and I was suddenly hit with a flash of irritation. He didn’t know me!

Although… he kind of
did
know me.
Or at least a lot of random facts about me and it was definitely weirding me out.

“Anyway, when you proved you had the buy-in, I decided to give you a chance. I mean, who was I to judge your methods of coping, am I right?” he asked and actually waited for my agreement.

“I guess so.” But an ugly foreboding feeling started to unfurl inside my chest and I suddenly found it hard to breathe.

“In fact, if you remember, I even advised you to hold back some since I didn’t want to see you lose everything at once.”

“And you advised me how?” I clarified, trying to piece this together.
Except I wasn’t even sure what he was talking about.
Buy-in?
Game?
None of this made any sense.

“Private message.”
When I gave him a blank look, he continued, “Online.”

“Online,” I repeated.

“Yes, online. But you didn’t listen to me. And then you got in way over your head, lost big time, and now you owe me seven thousand dollars,” he finished arrogantly; I almost expected him to take a bow.

“I lost in a game of…” I prompted slowly, so afraid of the answer my hands started to tremble.

“Five-Card-Stud.”
When I continued to stare blankly at him, he finally added, “Poker.
Online poker.”

“Oh, my goodness,” I winced. Suddenly the puzzle was pieced together and in front of me. I was going to be sick. I was going to be
really
sick. I reeled in a circle, desperately searching for a place to sit down, but all of my furniture was gone.

Another wave of clarity rippled through me and my stomach actually lurched this time. I took off for the kitchen sink and gripped the stainless steel basin. I ignored the anal retentive voice inside me screaming about germs, not because I wasn’t worried about them, but because thinking about them made it worse. I choked on a gag and dropped my head forward so I could breathe in and out deeply through my nose.

“You’re not going to…? Are you going to be sick?” the guy asked from behind me. He didn’t sound concerned, just really grossed out.

I waved an aggravated hand behind me, hoping he would get the hint and just
leave
. He didn’t, or if he did, he ignored it and instead walked over to the fridge and opened it. I heard him rummage through the practically empty appliance.

My college-size budget didn’t cover much more than a value pack of Ramen Noodles. I heard the telltale sign of a pop can opening, then the fizzy bubbles of ginger ale tickling my nose.

He placed the can to my lips and tilted it back before I could protest. I took a small drink and stood up before he could force anymore down my throat. The carbonated beverage settled in my stomach and coated the nausea with something soothing.

Okay, that felt all right.

I took the can from his hand, my fingers accidentally brushing over his before I took possession and sipped another soothing drink.

“That wasn’t me,” I finally choked out, squeezing my eyes shut.

“What?” he asked. I jumped by how close he stood.

I took a step back, opened my eyes to meet his and said more slowly, “That wasn’t me. I didn’t place a bet, or play a game or whatever. It was my roommate. She must have… stolen my identity! I swear to you, not even an hour ago, I found this note that said she had a gambling addiction and she was going to rehab. She owes me money too! “

A long, very still moment of silence stretched between us before he said, “She stole your identity?”

“Yes!” I squeaked. Even I could tell how high-pitched and annoying that was, but I couldn’t help it! “
And
my furniture,” I said with further emphasis.

“I
was
actually wondering about that,” he said pensively.

“So you see? It’s not me that owes you seven thousand dollars, it’s
her
.”

“But she’s gone?
To rehab?
With all of your furniture?”
His phrases sounded like questions, but they didn’t
feel
like questions. It felt more like he was trying the words out, rolling them around on his tongue and deciding whether or not I was lying.

“Yes!” I answered anyway, hoping he would believe me.

“You can see why your version of what happened is hard to believe.” He sighed and if I didn’t know better, or if maybe I wouldn’t have slapped my hands over my eyes, I would have been able to assure myself there wasn’t a hint of amusement in his voice, or the sound of him smiling. Those things were all products of my delusional imagination.

“Yes, I could see why, but it’s the truth,” I promised, struggling to peek from behind my fingers.

“Regardless of what happened, your name is still signed on my contract.
You
still owe me my money,” he stated finally.

“Contract?”
I croaked.

“Online document, your initials were used. Unless you have a way to prove to me that it wasn’t
you
who signed the document, I have to assume it was. I mean, that’s a lot of money. It’s not exactly like I can just look the other way.”

“But it wasn’t me! I’m sure I can prove it, I just need… time,” I pleaded. My head spun with every kind of crazy thought to get out of this.

His hand went up to cup his chin in thoughtful silence for a while. His eyes roved over me again, taking in every piece of me as if to weigh it on his internal truth scales and decide whether to trust me or not. Finally, after several minutes of quiet, he said, “I’m a nice guy-”

“You’re not a nice guy! You’re a
scary
guy,” I confessed honestly and probably a little frantically before I could think better of it.

A rush of laughter fell out of his mouth before he could compose himself, “You don’t even know me!”

“You’re right! I don’t even know your name,” I pointed out, suddenly realizing that should have probably been the first thing I found out.

“Ah,” he stewed on that for a moment and said, “Finley Hunter.”

I gulped. “
Finley Hunter
?” Okay, the online gambling thing made sense now. Because Finley Hunter, a senior track star, rumored to go through girls like Kleenex during flu season and ditch more classes than he attended, was also rumored to run an online on-campus gambling site the university had no idea about.

“Fin,” he smiled at me. “You can call me Fin.”

“You are a nice guy,” I drawled.

His grin widened to wicked trouble. “So nice, I’m not going to make you give me my money tonight.”

“You’re not?”

“No, I have a solution that will help both of us get what we want,” he announced confidently.

“You do?” I asked dryly with so much less confidence at the same time, I wondered what it was that he thought I wanted.

“Just don’t forget, you promised you would help.” The hard, authoritative look returned to his eyes and a shiver of nerves climbed up my spine.

I nodded because there was nothing left to do. I needed time to think this over, to hunt down Tara and strangle her until dollar bills popped out her eyeballs.

Please enjoy an excerpt from Jamie Magee’s Impulsion

Chapter One

Harley Tatum was leading her prized eight-year-old dark bay gelding, Clandestine, into the main barn. Her thighs were burning and her shoulders and arms were tight, almost numb. Her trainer, Camille Doran, was hard-core, a woman that knew this sport inside and out. She could read the horses, the riders. There was little to no softness in that woman. She expected the best and trained the best, which was the only reason Harley’s parents allowed her to be at
Willowhaven
Equestrian Center.

This was Harley’s third year working with Camille Doran. Harley was barely fifteen when she began to train with her, and now at seventeen there was no doubt that Camille had brought forth the athlete and talent in both Harley and her ride. Yet, Harley still had a long road before her, for in this sport there is no end, only new challenges around each bend in the road.

The center was not only owned by Camille Doran and her family, but was also located just outside of the town of
Willowhaven
, a town that was near a thousand miles from Harley’s home in New York.

Not that Harley would call the home she had in New York a home; she was rarely there, if at all. Her mother had placed her in an all girls’ school from day one, and when she wasn’t boarding at the school, Harley was chasing her passion in the equestrian world.
An expensive hobby that her father, who was twenty years older than her mother, found no fault in supporting.

Her father, Garrison Tatum, may have been one of the nation’s leading corporate finance bankers, but his blood was in the south. He grew up in Texas, and oil was in his blood—at least that was what he’d told his only daughter Harley more than once. He understood what it felt like to be outside, how it felt to be sore, hot, filthy—how satisfying and peaceful that could be. Harley’s mother, Claire, was against this adventure from day one, and she argued her point as thoroughly as she could, but when it came down to it Garrison had the final say, and he had the final say because not many dared to counter him—not even his wife.

Harley was entranced with
Willowhaven
Farms for more than the obvious reasons. The family aspect was what took her breath away. Every night, dinner was served in the main house. Camille’s two sons and one daughter, along with her husband, his brothers, and parents, were there. Harley had never seen her parents touch, laugh. She rarely saw them in the same room, and if she did, it was a social occasion, which included the holidays; for every event Claire Tatum made a social occasion.

Harley figured out long before she came to
Willowhaven
Farms that there was no love between her parents. Her mother had married up; even though she came from old money, she managed to find a man with older money, more money. And her father…honestly, Harley was not sure why he married, though she assumed it was because he wanted an heir. Harley was the only blood family he had left, at least that he claimed. At times, Harley thought she was the only one her father trusted and she did her best never to compromise that trust, the one, singular ally she had in this cold world she found herself being raised in.

Of course, all that did was cause more conflict when she was at home. Her mother was
vindictive,
saw everything and everyone as a threat, even Harley. There was little to nothing that would ever cause Garrison Tatum to turn his back on his daughter, shut her out of his life, his inheritance.
Her mother?
For all Harley knew, a shift in the wind would cause Garrison to leave his wife and not think twice about it.

Harley’s heart quickened as she stepped into the grooming bay. Wyatt Doran, the eldest of Camille’s sons, was there waiting on her with a secret smile. They had spent the last three summers together. There were only seven months between them, with Wyatt being the older of the two. He was tall, strong, and to say he was easy on the eyes would be a gross understatement; he was a walking heartbreaker. The sun of the summer always kissed his light brown hair, highlighting it perfectly, and his blue eyes, well, they simply gleamed. His skin was golden, pure.

Wyatt stole Harley’s breath from the first moment she saw him. To this day, she had yet to understand the pull he had on her. No doubt his image alone was addictive, but there was more to it than that. He wasn’t cold, a mold of his father focused solely on himself like most of the boys she knew, the ones her mother always placed her with during her famous charity events. No, Wyatt had a good soul, something that could be palpably felt in his presence.

Wyatt had a way of being strong and vulnerable at the same time, though she doubted many had seen that vulnerable side. The first time she saw him nervous was three summers ago down by the back creek, on the fourth of July, just before he leaned in and kissed her, a real kiss.
A first for the pair of them.
She was sure she was in love with him before that night ended. As that first summer moved on, as the nerves left those stolen kisses that they would fall into when there was no chance they could be caught—there was no questioning that notion. When the summer ended and she had to leave and it felt like her soul was ripped from her body, she knew without a doubt that she’d never get over him. Whatever souls were made of, hers and his were one in the same.

The summer that followed was hotter—in more ways than one. They dared to sneak away more, to explore more.
To share more.
They always held back, found a way to stop, to hold on to their virtue, their innocence a little longer.

Harley had told herself that this summer was going to change her
life, that
this summer she was going to give him something she could never take back, that no matter what, no matter where life took them, they would forevermore live in each other’s memory. They were living in an immortal summer.

The first few weeks of this summer started like the rest, with her deep in her shell, uptight. It was hard for her to move from one lifestyle to the other, for her to let her shoulders down and breathe in, relax. Most times, she made it to
Willowhaven
Farms in mid-May and didn’t leave until the end of August. Over Christmas break, she would fly in for a week just to ride, and if she was lucky she would find a way to spend at least part of her spring and fall breaks there as well. The time in-between was hard. Doran Farms possessed the two things she was sure she could not live without: her gelding, Clandestine, and Wyatt, the love affair that she had no choice but to keep clandestine.

Wyatt’s mother would kill them both if she ever figured out there was something between them. Not because she didn’t adore Harley, but because she was a woman of her word. She had sworn to the Tatum’s that she could safely board Harley as she trained. Claire, Harley’s mother, pointed out more than once that Camille had two sons near the same age as Harley. Camille took offense to that and clearly voiced that her sons were southern gentlemen, not brood stallions.

Nevertheless, Camille built a two-bedroom apartment over the main barn. Everyone assumed it was for Harley simply because it was no ordinary barn apartment, but built to perfection, built with southern luxury, but in the end the boys took over the apartment and Harley stayed in the main house when she was there. Wyatt and his brother, Truman, didn’t mind, in fact, they loved it. It was their independence, their freedom. Their mother had warned them more than once that it came with responsibility, and daily she walked the apartment, twice, not only to make sure it was clean, but also safely kept.

This side of the farm, this side of the business, was not where Wyatt’s interest lay. More times than not, he was on the other side of the farm, the one his father managed. That side had the bulls, the broncs, was the wild side as his mother called it, but Wyatt managed to find a reason to be in his mother’s world, in the mix of her endless riding lessons more often than not when Harley was around. That should have made them obvious, but it didn’t.

Clandestine was green when he first came to
Willowhaven
Farms, scarcely broken to ride much less jump, which was where Wyatt and Truman came in. They had grown up breaking horses, training them. Wyatt’s long, strong legs and build were assets in that heart-racing addiction, not to mention that the ability to bond with horses was instilled in him from birth. He had a raw respect for the ride, knew the limits, when to push, when not to, a notion he used in more than one area of his life, meaning when it came to Harley.

Girls were just girls before Harley. Wyatt may have had a wayward crush here or there at school, gone to a few middle school dances or hangouts with a girl now and again, but most times he was too into when his next ride would be, into the boy toys the farm was stocked with. Four wheeling, the tractors, fishing, the trucks, all of it; Wyatt’s world was his family’s farm.

Then out of nowhere, Heaven descended on his family’s farm when he was just shy of sixteen and life hadn’t been the same for him since. Every thought, she haunted, more so when she was not at the farm, when she was away at school or home, when they couldn’t even dare to call one another. That was hell on Earth, Wyatt was sure of it.

Wyatt could still remember how uptight his mother was about the ‘Tatum girl’ coming to the farm. Camille had met Harley’s mother and found it offensive the way she looked at their farm as if it were some backwoods redneck playground. The woman seemed disgusted with nature in general. Even the plantation home that had been in Wyatt’s family for near a hundred years failed to impress that woman. Insulting, considering it had hosted several presidents in its lifetime.

The only reason Wyatt’s mother even dared to put up with the notion of the proposition of training Harley was that she knew
Clandestine’s
bloodline. She had heard of Harley, too, seen clips of her riding.

Camille had pulled out all the stops weeks before Harley arrived. Twice the
number of farm hands were
hired, and she brought on board a full-time housekeeper and cook.

Wyatt hated Harley before he met her. He was sure they all did, simply because instead of riding his four wheeler or even breaking horses, along with everyone else he was making sure that water buckets were scrubbed, if not replaced, cobwebs were swept away, the rings were dragged, the tack was cleaned, and anything and everything that could be was cleaned or restored.

But when she stepped out of the rig that had brought Clandestine, when the wind brushed her long, strawberry blonde hair over her shoulder, when the sun hit her eyes, which were a mix of green and blue, when he saw her shy smile—he felt the wind sucked completely out of him.

He was expecting some holier than thou girl, uptight, rude. What he found instead was that she was timid, somewhat at least.

Harley was the one that let down the ramp to get her horse off the rig, a horse he was sure was too big for her. She was barely five-three, a hundred pounds soaking wet, and Clandestine was well over seventeen hands, a
warmblood
, nothing but power. It would be up to Wyatt to harness that power and his mother to finesse that grace, to bring that out in the horse and the rider.

At first, they assumed Harley was just with the transport driver, his daughter or something. Truman even made the wry comment, “Well, look-a-there, boys, money
can
buy happiness.” He glanced at Harley. “Did you meet the owner, or was the butler there when you picked him up? If his rider is anything like the mother,
ya
’ll
might
want to hang close. Apparently, they don’t like dirt.”

Harley looked him dead in the eye. “I have more of my father in me than my mother. And yes, Donald, the butler, was there when we loaded. He likes to give Clandestine carrots and wanted to make sure he had plenty for the long ride.”

Truman’s eyes went wide, and his mouth gaped in mortification. Wyatt burst out laughing at that point. Camille had rounded the trailer just in time to hear her youngest son humiliate her, and she let her hard glare say as much.

“You rode all the way down with him?” Wyatt asked once he had backed out Clandestine.

“Why would I not?” she said as she ran her hand across
Clandestine’s
neck. Under her breath, she said, “Everything that I own is on this trailer.”

And that was true. She may have had a top-notch education, any clothes and what have you to her name, but all of that was handpicked by her mother, a suffocating mold she was forced to fit into.
This gelding.
She found him. She was the one that carefully laid out all the reasons she wanted him to her father.

At the time, there wasn’t even a stable at her New York home, but there were ones at the school, and that was a point she used with him. She told him that because her grades were flawless and she already rode at the school that without a doubt the school would board him. Harley ensured she had the history of
Clandestine’s
bloodline, the name of the finest trainer in New York, every detail in place, literally months of planning before she approached her father.

She had to wait for a moment alone with him. She wanted to look him in the eye when she asked, wanted him to see that this was not some whim, but a well thought out request. Even though Garrison spoke to Harley every day while she was away, when Harley was home her mother rarely left her alone with her father and was obvious about that point. Harley could not figure out how any mother could be jealous of her own daughter, but she was almost positive her mother was.

One day at a charity event, her mother rose to give her speech to the crowd. That was when Harley spoke to her father. She even handed him the file that she had strategically hidden under her place setting. As she made her plea, she caught the glare of her mother from the podium.

Garrison Tatum was well aware of the tension in his family. Though he knew what kind of woman his wife was, Garrison was the type to use every adversity as an advantage, which was why he was so revered, why his wealth had more than tripled in his lifetime.