Off to the Races: A Small Town Enemies to Lovers Romance (Gold Rush Ranch Book 1)

The gates burst open, and the line of horses fly out. I can pick Double Diablo out immediately. Our yellow and black silks make it easy to find him. Under the amber glow of the overhead lights the falling rain looks somehow suspended in motion, like this is a moment to pause and watch. Everything is about to be caked in mud, but still, “DD” looks outstanding. All lean muscular lines and gleaming coat. Even from here I can tell that he’s a cut above the rest of the horses out there. He’s in his own class.

He leads the pack right out of the gate, surging ahead of the rest to take up an early spot on the rail. Keeping him on the inside of the track means less distance to run, making it a coveted position for a front runner—which I didn’t think this horse was.

They’re on the first straight away now, and Patrick has him absolutely flying. The other horses are eating their dust. I almost can’t believe my eyes. To think that three short months ago no one could get near this horse, and now he’s leading the pack under the lights at his first race. It’s bewildering.

I shake my head in disbelief and hear Cole beside me say, “Huh,” as though he can’t quite believe it either. He told me when we first arrived that he “couldn’t wait to watch Patrick get dumped on his conceited ass by the crazy horse.” It doesn’t look like that dream will come to fruition.

Billie’s unusual training regimen of trotting him up and down around in the fields and over the hills and unique approach of treating him like a lap dog really worked. The horse is spectacular and flourished under her hand. Pride wells up in me. It blooms in my chest and twines in my shoulders, flowing down through my elbows and fingers, in a completely unfamiliar way. Like I am itching to hug her, to congratulate her. To tell her how wrong I’ve been.

I gave Billie what I thought was an impossible task. I believed I set her up to fail, and she gave me the middle finger in the most spectacular way possible. I’m not mad. She’s an impressive woman. Smart, tough, kind, beautiful.

And maybe that’s the most annoying thing about her. She doesn’t annoy me at all anymore.

Watching the pack of horses come into the final bend, I feel a lump of nervousness in my throat. Double Diablo is slipping back. One spot. Two. Now he’s lost position on the rail. I shove my hands into my pockets, jangling my keys, trying to give nothing else away with my body. On the final straight away, I can see our team lagging, like they’re losing steam.

Patrick reaches back and gives Double Diablo three hard thwacks with the whip. Something I realize I’ve never seen Billie or Violet do in all the times I snuck around the back of the barn to watch them train.

But it works. It’s almost as though the other horses drop into slow motion as Double Diablo flies past them like an avenging wraith. He drops his head and stretches out as far as he can, surging ahead with incredible power to cross the laser finish line a half a length in front of his next closest competitor.

I can’t help but grin. I gaze down in wonderment at the little black horse. He’s slowed down already, flanks heaving, and body all splattered in mud. What a night. What a show. It was close, but a win is a win.

I turn my head slowly to take in my brother beside me. He’s staring at the track, arms crossed, not a shred of emotion on his face. Typical. I get something right, and he can’t even bring himself to grace me with a smile. I punch him in the shoulder playfully. Just to irritate him. In the way that only a little brother can. He scowls at me.

“We did it,” I say, smirking, nudging him with my elbow a few times.

He shakes his head and deadpans, “I would rather have watched Patrick get dumped in the mud.”

I grab a glass of scotch and turn to lean against the bar, letting my gaze wander around the room in front of me. Cole is sullen, talking to some people he knows. He hates this shit. Always has. And lately I feel like I can’t blame him, it’s boring. But our dark horse was a winner at his first race, so I am on cloud nine.

A long swig of the amber liquid burns my throat. I feel content in this moment. I have to confess, the thought of this race made me nervous. I had pre-game jitters, and this scotch feels both celebratory and soothing. I want Billie to come toast with me.

I see movement at the door and watch Patrick walk in like he’s the king of the world or something. Some other owners in the booth who know him offer up light applause and he takes an obnoxious little bow. As though he was the one who took that horse from zero to hero. The whole scene hammers a little crack into my contentment. I know he rode the horse, but I watched Billie slave over Double Diablo every damn day for months.

And now this tool is up here bowing like he’s royalty, already changed out of his muddy silks and into his stupid khakis and polo shirt. Obnoxious little fucker. Billie is the one who deserves a round of applause.

The thought of applauding when she eventually walks in makes me smile. She would hate that, which is a great reason for me to do it anyway.

I turn back to the bar, tired of watching Patrick preen, and continue to smile privately over applauding Billie. The more I think about it, the more I really think it’s a good idea. She likes it when I pick on her, enjoys the challenge. I know she does.

Zoning out at the bar, musing to myself, I feel the room go quiet. I turn back to the door to see Billie, wild-eyed and muddy. Covered in raindrops, her bronze braid looks darker than usual. Loose pieces of hair plaster against her forehead, and her eyes look like burning coals. Wearing a black pantsuit, she looks downright scary.

I’m standing here, hands held out like I’m about to clap, but her intensity stops me in my tracks. Focused on where Patrick is standing, she starts her forward motion again, prowling across the room like a panther in her formfitting suit. Quiet and deadly. He’s facing away from her, gesticulating, like he’s recounting the most exciting story in the world. He’s clueless about what is coming up behind him.

And within a few moments I realize I am too. Because Billie stalks up behind the small man, and my brain is obviously a little slow on the uptake, because I am downright floored when she winds up one arm like she’s the batter up at a baseball game, racing whip in hand, and gives him one sharp spank smack dab in the middle of his tiny ass.

I spit my mouthful of whiskey out. Full spray. And then gape at the scene in front of me. She just walked up and absolutely wailed on the guy. That is going to leave a welt. He lets out a high pitch shocked scream and spins around to face Billie. He has to look up to meet her eyes, which gives the whole interaction this funny dynamic where he looks like a little boy who just received a public spanking.

Shock and disbelief course through me. I wipe my mouth across the sleeve of my suit jacket, not caring about the mess. I’m more captivated by the scene in front of me.

“You gonna scream like that,” Billie says, gesturing the whip up and down his body in a condescending way, “and then try to tell me it doesn’t hurt?”

Her tone is eerily calm and even. I’m impressed, because she is terrifying right now. I thought I’d seen Billie mad before, but now I feel like all I’ve seen from her mood is good-humored child’s play.

Patrick’s face is red. Red, like a dark cherry. Not a maraschino cherry with that bright vibrant dyed color. Like a black cherry. He. Is. Fuming.

“How… how dare you!” he splutters.

Pointing that whip right at his throat, Billie leans down just enough to be exactly at his eye level.

“How. Dare. You. You fucking rat bastard.”

Patrick’s hand falls across his chest in the most scandalized way. Every eye in the room is on Patrick and Billie. You could hear a pin drop.

“You work for me. I gave you explicit instructions. I brushed off your small-man-syndrome chauvinistic comments to forge a working relationship. And what did you do?”

“I will not allow you to talk to me this way, Wilhelmina. Though, it shouldn’t surprise me that Victor Farrington’s daughter is just as trashy as he is.” Billie rears back as though someone has slapped her.

Wait. What? Victor Farrington. Like former Prime Minister Farrington? Patrick huffs, puffing his tiny chest out and brushing his shoulder like there’s dirt on it. He turns to leave, but she holds the whip out to stop him.

“I’m not done yet, Little Patty. I want to make myself clear, so look me in the eye before you run and hide.” She bends even lower, her face coming within only a few inches of his, with the whip still resting on his shoulder. “You will never ride another one of my horses again. You will never come near Double Diablo again. The only view you’re going to get of him is of his shiny, black ass while you watch him cross the finish line.” She lowers the whip and stands up tall. “And as for me? My family has no bearing on my professional life. I’m no mother hen. I’m a fucking mother bear. And you poked me. So, when you see me around, I want you to turn and run the other way like the snively, little bitch that you are.”

From behind me I hear a sigh and, “I think I’m in love.” I turn to see the bartender staring at the scene in front of her with absolute awe. She shifts her gaze to me. Pointing over my shoulder she says, “That lady right there is a stone cold badass.”

She’s not wrong.

“And you…” Billie starts up again. Oh, God. Who’s next? I spin around to see her pointing the whip at my brother, who is rigid like a statue. A soldier through and through. His gray eyes are downright cold and glacial, while hers are hot and molten. This will not end well for either of them.

“If you ever use me or my horses to win brownie points in your billionaire-baby sandbox, I will bury you there myself. Are we clear?”

Cole looks downright murderous. I move towards Billie to intercept the looming explosion.

“Ms. Black, that is not your horse,” he says. “It’s my horse. He’s an asset.”

“Give your head a shake. Before me,” she pokes her chest with her pointer finger, “he was an expensive lawn ornament. Not a Denman Derby contender. He is a living, sentient being—not a pawn. And you put him in the hands of an asshole who has your asset so scared he can’t stop trembling in his stall.” She tosses the whip down at his feet, causing Cole to rear back ever so slightly. Which is a bigger reaction than I’ve seen out of him in years.

“I will never forgive you,” she finishes, her voice breaking on the last sentence. God, I need to get her out of here. Now.

In three long strides, I’m at her side, pressing my hand into her lower back, trying to guide her out the door.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” she bites out, shrugging me off and waltzing out of the room with her head held high. Like she’s royalty. Like she fucking owns this place.

I follow her into the hallway. She looks around like she’s unsure where to go and opts to head towards the fire escape at the end of the hallway.

“Billie, slow down,” I call, as she bursts out the door. She’s like a tornado losing potency. I can see her facade starting to crack.

“Leave me alone, Vaughn,” she shouts over her shoulder, blowing out into the dark rainy night.

I pause at the door. She’s asked me to leave her alone, but I don’t want to. I lean back against the wall next to the door, pinching the bridge of my nose. Trying to figure out what to do next.

“Is she okay?” I hear from down the hall.

“Hey, Hank.” I drop my hand and look up at the ceiling, “I don’t know.”

“Did she put on a show at least?” he inquires with a smile in his voice.

A laugh bubbles out of my throat. “Did she ever.”

“She’s an impressive woman.”

I roll the back of my head along the wall to look at him. “She is,” I agree, honestly.

Hank just smiles, that irritating, knowing smile of his, nods his head, and turns back down the stairs with a wave. I gaze back up at the ceiling, weighing my options, trying to figure out how best to approach her right now.

I reach my left hand up to the emergency exit door and knock three times. “Billie? It’s Vaughn. I’ll just wait here until you’re ready for company.”

“Man. You’re like the clap. I can’t fucking get rid of you,” is her muffled response.

My lips quirk. Most women I know would be happy to have me following them around, but not Billie. Nope. To her I am nothing but a painful STD.

“In that case, I’m coming out,” I reply, pushing the bar across the door to open it.

She stands there on the landing of the metal staircase, holding the railing, looking out over the lit-up track. “Careful, Boss Man. I’m liable to murder someone tonight. And you’re not exempt from my list.”

I stand beside her, leaving a couple feet of distance between us. Just to be safe. I grip the railing and look out over the track. Silent moments stretch into minutes.

“Why didn’t you go off on me in there?”

“Lost steam, I guess,” is her quiet response.

“I have a hard time believing that.”

“Because I know you well enough to know you’ll be beating yourself up about it anyway. I don’t need to say anything. You’ll shoulder your family guilt and any guilt I give you like you’re a modern-day Sisyphus or something. And you were probably too busy trying to bang the bartender to watch the race anyways.”

That was a low blow, and my fingers clamp down on the metal bar. “Is that really what you think?”

“Sure is,” she spits out while turning to rip the door open and head back inside. But not before I can turn and slam a palm down, forcing it closed from behind her. “Vaughn, I am so not in the mood for your trust fund baby temper tantrums right now.”

“Billie, turn around.” She stands still, silent. All I can hear is the rain falling heavily on the metal stairs. “Now.” I use my boardroom voice.

She turns quickly then, one hand raised, “You know, go fuck yours…”

I capture her wrist in my hand, push her up against the cold metal door, and press my lips onto hers, interrupting her fighting words in one hard, punishing kiss. She doesn’t respond or fight it, so I stop. I’m pinning one wrist above her head, when I pull my face back to gauge her reaction.

Her molten eyes bore into mine. Absolute shock paints her feminine face. I cup the base of her skull, brushing the pad of my thumb across the high point of her cheek bone, and smirk back at her. The look on her face is endearing. I want to soften her up and work her up all at the same time. I’ve learned tonight that I like her like this, all feisty and wild and unpredictable. Her chest is heaving, and she looks cornered. A little bit scared.

“I’m sorry,” I breathe.

I expect her to lash out, for more cutting words to fly past her bee-stung lips. Instead, she fists the lapel of my suit jacket and yanks me back into a kiss. Her lips move frantically against mine—so different from our first kiss—burning me up in a way I didn’t think a single kiss could.

Raw emotions flow between us. Anger, frustration, tension, and yearning. So much yearning.

She turns from cold hard stone to flowing lava beneath my hands. Her entire body relaxes under my contact. But our lips are still at war with each other. Nipping. Sucking. Sparring. How she and I have been since the day we met. I fucking love it.

I release her head and slowly trail my hand down to her neck and hold her there for a moment. Giving her throat a gentle squeeze, making her whimper into my mouth.

“God. Billie. You drive me crazy,” I rasp, desire coating my voice. Because it’s true. In every sense of the word, she does.

She pulls back to meet my gaze, wet skin glowing in the low light. She looks beautiful. Painfully so. I watch a droplet of water fall from her hair and roll down to rest in the hollow just above her collarbone. I release her hand and bend down to kiss her there. Her eyes flutter shut and her head tips back. She moans. And it’s like an instant blood rush to my already aching cock. We’re fully clothed, and I can’t remember the last time I was this painfully hard.

“Vaughn,” she whispers, running both her hands through my soaked hair, “what are you doing?”

“Shutting you up,” I murmur against her skin, as I drag my teeth and feather soft kisses up her throat before giving her ear a good hard nip.

“Mmm,” is the muffled sound she makes in response. “You’re going to regret this tomorrow.”

I stop at that, bringing my pointer finger to the dip just below her bottom lip. I press it there to tip her head back and her exotic eyes flutter open to meet mine.

“No, I won’t,” I respond, dragging my finger up towards the seam of her puffy lips. Eyes glued to mine, she parts her lips and then sucks my finger. Hot tongue swirling around it.

“Fuck,” I mutter, watching her suck on my finger and stare me down in the most sinful way.

I shift my hips closer, pressing into her so she can feel what she’s doing to me. My hard length lines up exactly right with her pelvis. The way she looks right now is fucking criminal. Wet, and hot, and smoldering. My finger in her mouth is an image I’ll never be able to scrub from my mind.

I pull my finger out with a wet pop. She presses her lips together and drops her eyes, a shy blush staining her damp cheeks.

“Don’t you dare look away from me, Billie Black,” I say, gently tipping her head back up.

She looks down and to the side, all that brazen confidence seeping out of her now. I come back to cupping her head and kiss her gently this time, softly. Trying to coax her back from her retreat. Trying to tell her things through my touch that I’ve never said out loud. Our lips move together, slow and sensuous this time. Sweetly. Like waves lapping at the beach in a perfect rhythm.

She sighs into me, sliding her palms up the front of my dress shirt, exploring my body, running her nails down my back underneath my blazer. I open my eyes, like a total middle school creep, and watch her. She’s pouring herself into our kiss, and the weight of it almost knocks the air from my lungs. Like a boy who’s just been pushed off the playground equipment.

Eventually her hand comes up to my cheek, and she drops her chin, absently running her fingers through my tousled hair. She meets my gaze again, but not with the fire from a few minutes ago. Not the way I want. And in this moment, I know I’m not going to like what she says next.

She rests one hand on my chest and says, “Thank you, Vaughn,” before turning and walking back through the door into the dark hallway.

I stand there at a complete loss to understand what just happened and adjust myself in my pants. The memory of her mouth on mine is burned into my body, and something my aching dick is obviously not ready to let go of. And quite frankly, something my mind isn’t prepared to let go of either.

And thank you? A fucking thank you? After we both just completely incinerated each other? With chemistry like that?

I don’t think so, Billie.