|How old am I:||23|
|Where am I from:||I'm from Bulgaria|
|Eyes:||I’ve got lively dark eyes|
Author: Miranda Kenneally. Genres: Young AdultRomance.
John C. Goodwin III, Owner. Welcome to Hell would be a more appropriateconsidering Dad just uprooted me from West Virginia and hauled me to Tennessee two days before senior year. But it still sucks that I had to leave my part-time job exercising horses. I punch the code into the alarm box, the heavenly white gates swing open, and I steel myself for the half-mile trek to Hillcrest, the staff quarters. My claustrophobic new home.
Wikids - animals: savannah
Hillcrest is attached to the gargantuan white manor house, where a smattering of comfy rocking chairs dot the wraparound porch, waiting for someone to sit down. So here I am, back in hell, gathering my courage to go talk to the lead trainer about getting some work as an exercise rider so I can cease being cash poor. I used to exercise racehorses at the track and casino in Charles Town.
But that was at a totally different level—the horses I rode there were like driving a Ford and here they are like Ferraris. Hell, the Queen of England stables her horses thirty minutes away. Or a hack?
Just go talk to him, Savannah! The worst he can say is no…and then I can go back to loitering. I can do this. I charge down the driveway and suddenly a wailing, high-pitched alarm goes off. My first thought is: Tornado!
Seconds later I see a brown and white blur streaking across the grass. A racer. Two guys on ponies are chasing it. He must have escaped! I sprint toward the horse as he zigzags my way. The horse seems curious.
But not curious enough to slow down. The horse circles back around. I hold a hand up. Then he charges me.
I reach out and snatch his bridle. When he returns to all fours, I get up in his face again. One time a horseman told me I have a way with horses. But I do have a way with horses. Dad, however, does not have a way with words. I confirm the horse is a boy then gently slap his neck, checking the engraving on his bridle.
Tennessee Star is his name. A Ferrari.
Make a splash in savannah this summer
I never rode such a well-made colt in Charles Town. Then, from the fields beyond the manor house, a guy comes riding up on a horse. Which is technically his title, I guess. When we arrived two days ago, Mr. We were instructed to keep our distance from the Goodwins.
I should start a magazine called GQ Cowboy, and he could be the cover model every month. Wavy hair the color of straw curls out from under his cowboy hat.
His snowy white button-down shirt is spotless and pressed, tucked into his jeans, the arms rolled up to his elbows. The three coonhounds that always seem to follow him around bound up and sniff my jeans. Last night a giggling maid told me his name: Jack Goodwin. His blue eyes widen and a bright smile spre across his face. That was insane how you cornered him with no corner. Behind closed lips, I run my tongue over my slightly crooked front ones.
It makes my throat close up and my heart pounds even harder. I worked damned hard to get my part-time exercise rider job back in Charles Town. You know, to say thanks for catching my horse? Like, me and Jack alone? Besides, hanging around people like Jack is not my thing. How primitive. The horse makes clickety-clack sounds on the pavement. I can sense the cocky confidence radiating off his tanned skin.
One of the hands managed to chase them away, but not before a bunch of the colts and fillies started screaming.
Thoroughbred bloodlines are worse than the royal families of Europe. When we reach the top of the hill, the racetracks and barns come into full view.
Exercise boys are riding around both practice tracks. A field of haystacks sits beyond the tracks, and a garden full of sunflowers and vegetables lies between the tracks and the manor house.
The biggest of the six barns is larger than a Walmart. The barn Dad worked at in West Virginia is a shack by comparison. Wrigley starts sniffing my hair and nuzzles his face against mine. Does your dad own a farm? Own a farm? My bro Wrigley is nothing compared to me.
Right, bro? I feel my face turning the color of strawberry ice cream, but Jack just laughs and keeps on beaming. I better watch my mouth before the Goodwins boot me right on out of here. I reach into my back pocket to grab a sucker—an orange one. You know how some people take antianxiety meds?
Well, I eat candy. I rip off the crinkly wrapper and stick the sucker in my mouth. Instant relief. And he has a sense of humor too. Are you related to him? Related to a senator? I look down at my holey jeans, boots, and tight black T-shirt.