Nacho Figueras Presents by Jessica Whitman

“Oh, wait. No. No. For God’s sake, I present you with your choice of available heaven in Sebastian and Rory, and you’re blowing them off for tall, dark, and gloomy? No way. He and his death wish are off-limits. What you need is fun.”
    “How long ago did his wife die?” Georgia persisted as she buckled up.
    “Oh my God, Georgia.” Billy laughed. “You’re wondering if there’s been a sufficient interval since he was widowed?”
    “No!” Georgia protested hotly. “I was just curious.”
    Billy snorted. “You vets are worse than doctors. Extreme rescuers. But not this time. The Del Campo situation is tragic, but, like, not sexy, easy-fix tragic. Toxic, impossible tragic. Give it up.”
    Georgia shrugged, tuning him out as they merged into traffic and the stereo started to soar. She’d been right about the pain, then, losing his wife and his father in such a short amount of time. Still, she thought wryly, that raven-headed girlfriend might take the edge off his loss.

Chapter Thirteen
    G od, the equestrian set are sexy,” Billy said as they settled onto the warm bleachers and gazed out at the field the next day. “Look at them with the kinky accessories—the whips and the reins. What’s that thing?”
    “A riding crop,” Georgia said.
    “Mmm, hot. This gear’s all kinds of shades of gray. I can’t believe it’s taken me so long to realize this is the business my business should be in.”
    Georgia laughed. “Why do I feel like we have this same conversation every six months? Last time it was car interiors.”
    “You have to admit that the tight white jeans and tall, shiny boots are hot as all hell,” he said. “And look”—he clutched his chest—“leather knee pads! Be still, my heart!”
    Georgia shrugged. “They’re okay, I guess.”
    Billy snorted and elbowed her in the ribs. “‘They’re okay, I guess,’” he imitated her teasingly. “Like you weren’t checking out the goods.”
    Georgia laughed, caught. “Yeah, okay, maybe on the right guy they can be pretty spectacular.”
    Billy nodded his head, “Sing it, sister.”
    Soon, between the Bloody Marys they’d enjoyed at brunch and the pleasure of hanging out together, the pair were almost giddy with giggles. God, thought Georgia as she leaned against her friend, weak with laughter, she’d been holed up on the farm with her dad for so long that she’d practically forgotten what fun was.
    She turned to Billy and kissed him on the cheek.
    He touched his face, pleased and surprised. “What was that for?”
    “That was for making me come down to visit,” she said. “And for just being you.”
    Billy put his arm around her. “Aw, Peaches, it’s been too long.”
    As the teams took their positions, Georgia was completely unprepared to feel so impressed. She’d seen some Thoroughbred animals, but never a collection like this. The ponies were groomed to superhuman perfection, but beyond the gleaming neatness, they seemed like a different species of horse than any she’d ever known. Their eyes glittered with intelligence and restless competitiveness. Their muscles twitched under gleaming flanks as they strained against their reins in excitement. She had never seen ponies look so alive.
    Georgia suddenly had an epiphany. She got it—polo and every elite thing it stood for—it was the game that horses of this caliber deserved. These ponies were born and bred and trained every day for this release. It was in their blood. Clearly, they wanted nothing more than to race onto that field and play.
    The horn was blown, and Georgia surrendered to the thundering hooves and the solid click of stick on ball. Clueless as she was about the rules, and impossible as it was to follow anything the commentator said except the name “Del Campo,” she found herself completely absorbed. She couldn’t believe the speed with which the players rode, or the height the ball soared. Billy had been right—the game was thrilling and undeniably sexy. The