Making it to the Grand Prix level—winning—requires three things. A horse with plenty of scope, a rider who’s talented and has put in the work, and a whole lot of luck combined with perfect timing.
Your horse can colic or get an abscess the night before the competition and you’re done. You can get the flu, and it’s over. If you happen to sprain your ankle, or if your horse throws a shoe, you’ll miss your window.
It’s really that simple.
Change one or two small things, and your win is just another loss. By the time we were teenagers, I already knew the key difference between Victoria and me—other than money. Victoria has always had a burning desire to excel at showjumping. More than anything else, she wants to win. So whichever horse is looking great right before the show, she wants to be on it.
Whereas, I fall in love with my horses.
That’s it.
It’s what has always kept me amateur instead of pro. If you told me I had to choose—ride three top level horses every single day, or ride only the horse I love—I’d choose the horse I love every single time and twice on Sunday. That’s just not what makes a Grand Prix rider. I mean sure, if my timing is good, I might get to compete one day. We might even win the show we enter.
But it’s not about to become my career.
That’s not who I am, and I made peace with that a long time ago. I can’t afford a life of Grand Prix level riding, either. My family does really well. . .sometimes. Other times, it just looks like we’re doing well, because no one can fake it like they’ve made it like my parents.
That means I’ve gotten really, really good at reading rooms and knowing just what to say to keep people from sniffing out the truth about my family. I’ve gotten great at polishing up my bargain bin horse so he can trot alongside the six-figure warmbloods. I’ve become an expert at fobbing a wardrobe full of fakes off by throwing in one or two authentic items.
I’m basically a professional fraud.
That just so happens to be exactly what Emerson needs in this moment, because a bigger phony I have never seen.
“I have a proposition for you,” I say.
His eyes widen. “I’m not sure what you’re thinking, but I have a girlfriend, and I care about her.”
That stops me short. “Wait, you do?”
“Well, not exactly.” He squirms like a worm faced with a really big hook. “But I did until just recently, and I mean to win her back.”
“Does Catherine Richmond know about that?” I can’t help thinking about all her produce an heir talk.
The blood drains from his face, and he looks around frantically, as if he’s wanting to be sure no one else can hear us.
“This is a safe place to talk,” I say, which is more than his grandmother verified earlier today. “But listen, I overheard your grandmother, who clearly wasn’t as careful as you, and I’m here because clearly you need someone to guide you.” If he has a girl he likes, and what’s more, it’s a girl Catherine doesn’t approve of, this is an even better offer. “If you help me out, I’ll pose as your girlfriend, and you don’t have to feel bad about using me at all.”
“But—”
“I can help you navigate all this—just like I did with that Ivy League faux pas.”
“But I don’t—”
“You can dump me whenever you want, and—”
He grabs my hand. “What do you want from me in return?”
“I run a charity,” I say. “It’s about to be sold out from under me, or at least, the facility is. I need a downpayment to pay for that building myself instead. Almost every person in that room out there could donate enough for me to buy it, but it’s hard to just go ask. Rich people can hear the ask a mile away, so you have to approach them carefully.”
“I’m not sure what you’re thinking, but I can’t—”
“You’re not going to be able to get me the money,” I say. “You can’t just start this thing by asking Grandma for a fistful of cash. But you can work with me to bring up the need. Unlike me, since you’re not asking for yourself and it’s clear you have money, you’ll even be able to suggest that people you meet donate. Trust me, one good wingman can make a huge difference. And if Catherine Richmond’s grandson says he wants people to support me. . .” I don’t say that people will leap to get a write-off that buys them goodwill with Richmond Steel, but I hope he’s smart enough that I don’t have to.
He narrows his eyes at me. “It’s an attractive offer. I won’t lie. But it’s too complicated, with too many possibilities of going wrong.”
“How so?”
He shakes his head. “Thank you, but I’m going to pass.” Without another word, he brushes past me and back into the main room.
It’s really a pity.
He needs me, and I need him. He was my best hope, and I blew it somehow. I’m just not sure quite how. I guess my timing was off—or maybe luck wasn’t with me. I can’t help feeling a little dejected as I wander around the party. I do manage to pull a few donations of people’s literal pocket change—I promise to email them receipts—but it’s nothing great. I’ve lowered myself to casually begging, and it’s only gotten me enough to finance another week or two of basic supplies. Honestly, that would be fine. I don’t care a lot about my pride, as long as I don’t sink low enough to stop being invited to things like this.
Except that I need a hundred grand in the next ten days to have a prayer of pulling this off. Every time I think about surrendering all those animals. . .and not even having a place to bring new ones going forward.
I want to crawl into my bed at home and cry.
But then I think about my only other alternative, and that almost feels worse.
I keep thinking about Hottie today, his ears pricked forward, his nostrils rippling as he calls for me from the field. My heart hurts for just thinking about selling him, but so many other tiny faces clamor for my attention. Selling my one sweet horse could fund countless other adoptions.
I’d be the most selfish creature in New York to keep him when his sale could do so much more good. Even Hottie would probably understand. After all, he’s a rescue himself, slated for the kill pen when his career as a racer ended.
I’m dragging my feet on the way home, but when I reach my apartment, my tiny fluffs are all giddy I’m back. They don’t care that I totally bombed out tonight. Lucky looks even more delighted than they are, but she hangs back a little until the tinies have bounced and licked and bounced against my legs. Once I call her, she practically knocks me over with all her jumping, but at least I don’t have to wonder whether she’s happy to see me.
When I check the back patio Astroturf, it’s. . . Just eww. I got the small dog door installed to lead out to my second floor patio. My tiny dogs often shoot through and bark at nearby walkers or other residents. They also go potty when I’m not home to walk them. I guess Lucky was also able to squeeze through thanks to how emaciated she is, and let’s just say that her deposits are far more significant than Floof and Boba’s. I gag a few times cleaning it up, but then I’m really ready to get out with the babies for a walk.
Of course, my poms run out of energy after I circle the building just one time, and I’m practically dragging them by the time we get back to the apartment. I decide to leave them there for a bit and head back down with Lucky. She pulls ridiculously, and I decide to do a little work on it now. I’m doing my third lap when my phone starts ringing. “Hello?”
Lucky chooses that moment to spot a squirrel and take off after it—spinning me around like some kind of demented ice skater. I nearly drop my phone, catching it with my fingertips just as I get hold of Lucky again.
I have no idea what the caller just heard, but they probably think I’m insane.
Thankfully, it’s Easton. My brother’s used to this kind of nonsense.
“Hey,” he says. “You alright? Sounds like World War Three just started in Scarsdale.”
“I’m currently fostering a border collie,” I say.
“Oh, no. It’s finally happened.”
“Hey,” I say. “Don’t be rude.” I can tell he’s about to ignore me.
“You’ve finally lost the very last of your mind.”
“If you’d seen her, you’d understand.”
“But you subject yourself to all these miseries by actually going to shelters and seeking them out.”
“If I don’t, then—”
“Don’t say it,” Easton says. “I know they’ll die. Everyone knows that. But you can’t save the whole world.”
“I can do my best to try.”
“But aren’t the border collies those black and white ones that never stop moving?”
“They come in brown and multicolor as well,” I say.
“Yes, that makes it better.”
“Actually, she’s also a puppy.” I can’t help groaning a little, and that makes Lucky’s ears come forward. She looks so lovely when she’s paying attention and not mauling me with her overflowing and uncontrollable love.
“You’re a masochist.”
“I think you mean sado-maso—”
“Speaking of that,” Easton says. “Ace called.”
“Oh, geez.”
“He said you took the job.”
“He’s worse than I remember,” I say.
“He said you were hotter than he remembered.”
“How are you still friends with him?” I think about texting Ace to back out of it, but I really do need steady income. Even if I wind up not being able to buy the shelter from Mom and Dad, I’ll need someplace new, and the bank’s not going to budge on my reliability and steady income or whatever. Or if I decide to rent another place, they’ll want me to show that I’m making money as well.
“Most of his outrageous stuff is just a show, like there’s some kind of weird role he started when he’s around groups of people, and now he can’t seem to stop playing it.”
“It’s tiring,” I say.
“If you hate the job, you can quit. Plus, we’re good enough friends that I’m pretty sure he won’t say anything about you to anyone.”
As if I’d care about that.
“But listen, the real reason I’m calling is that I finally got an answer out of Dad.”
“About?”
“The buyers on the shelter,” he says. “Didn’t you say you wanted to know who it was?”
My heart lurches. “Yes. Who is it?” Please, please let it be someone I know, or more importantly, someone who can be reasoned with.
“Apparently there’s this big company that’s buying all the buildings in that area to make an inland warehouse. It took them a good six months to convince everyone who owns buildings near the shelter, so I’m not sure how easy it’ll be to change their plans.”
My poor excited heart sinks. “Really?”
He grunts. “I think you may know the name—Mom used to go to a lot of parties at her house. Catherine Richmond’s running things again right now, because apparently her son who was in the process of taking over just died. The company leveling all the buildings over there is Richmond Steel.”
My shelter’s right on the corner—perfect frontage to the road they’d be using to come and go. How exactly did I go wrong with that Emerson guy? He was so cute that I got distracted, and now my hasty blunder may cost me the shelter. How perfect would it have been if he agreed. Talk about the inside track.
What a missed opportunity.
Unless. . .his grandmother seemed keen to keep their deal a secret. Maybe I could blackmail her with telling. . .no. That would be too awful, even for me. Right?
“Elizabeth?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m here. Sorry. I’ve got to get some things done, though, so I better. . .”
“Right. Look, if you need anything else, let me know. I hear Mrs. Richmond’s pretty preoccupied, because apparently she’s had to drag a grandson who didn’t want much to do with the family back in to run things.”
“I may have heard that too,” I say.
“I’m not sure whether that makes it more likely or less that she might reconfigure, but I hear the grandson’s about your age. Maybe you could get to know him or even befriend him. If I had to guess, I’d say he’ll feel a little like an outsider right about now. Plus, I have it on pretty good authority that the Richmond family has a foundation that donates like twenty billion dollars a year. A tiny chunk of that would go a long way for all your mangy dogs and screechy cats.”
“None of my dogs have mange,” I say almost reflexively. Not much to say in defense of the cats. They do screech a lot.
“Thank goodness for small blessings,” Easton says. “But I really think you should see what you can do about meeting that Emerson kid. And when you do? Definitely bring your A game.”
I don’t tell him that we’ve met twice now, once when I crashed into him and I mistook him for a waiter and stormed off, and a second time when he was wearing one of the tackiest thousand dollar t-shirts I’ve ever seen and talking to Ace, who was at his most obnoxious.
I do start making plans to meet him a third time. This time, I’m determined not to crash and burn.