Sparks ignite between a rising equestrian star and her idol, a brooding billionaire horse owner, in Tillie Cole’s new equestrian romance, out next week, and I have a sneak peek for you.
Excerpt
I’d never been a good sleeper. I theorized it was from my childhood on the ranch. Early mornings and late nights meant I was used to functioning on very little rest. On top of that, the excitement of meeting Huxley today, mixed with the lingering jet lag, made for a restless night. I glanced at the clock beside me and saw it read just after midnight.
Rather than tossing and turning for hours, I threw back the covers and dressed in thermal jeans, a warm base layer underneath a red plaid shirt, and a thick equine robe. Pulling on my Stetson, gloves, and my well-worn cowboy boots, I slipped out the cottage door and made my way to the barn where Huxley was housed.
Golden Oaks was a stunning equestrian center by anyone’s measure, but under the full moonlight, the lawns tipped with frost, and the huge pond with a fountain water feature in the center, it looked truly magical. The grass crunched under my feet as I took the shortcut over two fields to the barn.
The main house was in full view from this vantage point. Low lights glowed on the outside porch, and a few windows were dimly lit behind light drapes. Other than that, the only soundtrack of the night was nocturnal owls in trees and the shuffling of horses’ shod feet as they shifted in their stalls, their huffs of breath hitting frozen air.
The barn where Huxley was housed came into view. It was a stunning Dutch barn painted in white with black beams, smaller than many around the property, but big enough to hold around ten horses. Huxley and Seraphina were in this one. An indoor jumping arena was attached to the side for quick access, but that was out of bounds for some reason. We riders used the other arenas just a short walk from the barn.
I entered the barn, and the warmth from the heating system immediately began to thaw my frozen bones. I filled up a feed bowl with chaff and made my way to Huxley’s stall. Most of the horses were lying down or sleeping standing up, but as if he sensed my approach, Huxley put his head over the stall door. I smiled as his head bounced up and down in excitement, smelling the food. I opened the stall door and stepped inside, placing the bowl on the ground.
I smoothed my hand over his neck and down to his shoulder under his winter blanket. His coat was shiny and soft, and he felt cozy and warm in his rug. Crouching down, I righted his crooked forelock and said, “I couldn’t sleep, baby boy. So I came to see you.” His ears twitched at the sound of my voice, but Huxley wouldn’t be pulled away from his late-night feast.
Leaving the stall, I then topped up his haylage and made sure his automatic waterer hadn’t iced over. I folded my arms over the stall door and watched Huxley. As he finished eating, he moved his head beside mine. I kissed his nose. “We have a tough season ahead of us, Lord Huxley,” I said, using his full show name. “But I think we can do it. Don’t you agree?” I asked, and as he huffed his nose over my hair, I smiled.
Stepping back, I patted him on the neck. “I’ll be back in the morning for training,” I said. “Get some rest, beautiful boy.”
Not quite ready to go home yet, I turned right instead of my usual left and wandered along the stalls. Every single horse here was exceptional. There were hundreds of stud farms around the world. Aunt Jeanie even had one herself. But when it came to the cream of the crop for international show jumping, dressage, and eventing, there was no higher caliber than a Knighton-bred horse.
Finding myself at a closed door, curiosity got the best of me. The barn was open and airy, and it was clear that something existed behind this door. Never one to mind breaking a few rules, I decided to take a look. Making sure the coast was clear, I slid the barn door open and peeked inside—there were a few more occupied stalls. Perplexed, I wondered why these few horses were housed away from the others, but as I walked along them, it didn’t take me long to realize that it was because these were the Knighton family’s horses.
I first passed by Lord Barnaby, a pitch-black stallion who looked ripped straight from Hades’ underworld. He belonged to Atticus. Next was Lady Aurelia, Forrest’s five-star winning eventing horse. After that was Lord Sebastian, Felix’s regal dressage horse. But when I turned another corner, everything within me froze, and I lost the ability to breathe.
Staring back at me with pitch-black eyes and a coat so pristine it looked like the purest white silk, was Lord Henry. My heart kicked into a sprint, and a highlight reel whirled in my head of all my teen years spent watching this horse achieve the impossible. Lord Henry flicked his head up and down, seeking my attention, and I moved my feet closer. When I stopped before him, I lifted my hand and in total awe ran it down his thick, muscled neck. It wasn’t an exaggeration to say I was starstruck. Most people got flustered at seeing their favorite actor or singer in person. Me? It was this horse. The most impressive one to ever exist.
Lord Henry looked to be still in perfect fitness, even though he’d been retired from the circuit for eighteen months. In fact, he looked like he could join the Sandings Grand Prix tomorrow and dominate in the most prestigious arenas the world had ever seen.
Lord Henry was the lightest gray horse I’d seen in person. He was eighteen hands of pure power, muscle, and grace. I’d always thought that he looked just like Shadowfax from Lord of the Rings. Up close, I could confirm that he was his doppelgänger.
“It’s an honor to meet you, Lord Henry,” I said, removing my huge, robe-style coat now that I’d warmed up, leaving me in my plaid shirt and jeans. I hung my coat and hat on a nearby bridle hook, and then just stood, running my hand gently over Henry’s face. “You are the greatest horse I’ve ever seen jump,” I said, like he could understand me.
Canyon would tell me that he could. He was as close to me as a brother, and he always said that horses understood our emotions and tone of voice, rather than the words themselves. I liked to think that was true. I wanted Henry to know how much I admired him.
It was like I was deep in meditation, seeing my dream horse in real life. What I would give to just simply ride him over a course once. Henry stood still and let me fawn over him like the gentleman he was. Suddenly, a loud crash sounded from a nearby door, disturbing the serene moment, making Henry spook and retreat into the safety of his stall. Not wanting to be seen, I ducked into the empty stall beside Henry’s, putting myself well out of sight.
The name plate on the stall’s door said “Lady Dahlia.” My stomach sank. That was Genevieve Knighton’s horse, the one that fell on top of her in Saint-Tropez. I hadn’t seen or heard of Genny or Dahlia since.
I momentarily wondered where the mare was and whether she was okay when arrhythmic footsteps sounded in this private area of the barn. My heart began to thunder. I wasn’t meant to be here, that was for sure. The closed barn door had clearly told me that this section was out of bounds. If I was caught, I knew I’d be in trouble. I pushed myself farther into the stall’s corner, trying to blend into the dark.
Then I heard, “Hello, Henry.” The softly spoken words were said with a slight slur, but I held my breath when a familiar posh English accent instantly sent goose bumps down my spine.
The sound of Henry’s door latch opening echoed off the barn walls, piercing the silence of the night. The shuffling noises of someone stumbling hit me next, then nothing until, “Sorry, boy. I’m not in a good way tonight.” Not a part of me moved as I listened to the man I’d idolized for too many years to count talk to his treasured horse.
Jasper Knighton was on the other side of the wall. The Jasper Knighton.
“Two years,” Jasper said, his voice catching and making my heart squeeze at the pain in his fractured tone. I caught the sound of sloshing liquid hitting glass, then a deep swallow. The smell of whiskey drifted on the frigid air to where I was stood. A long sigh came next. “I haven’t been able to find out who it is yet, boy,” Jasper said, and the sadness in his voice echoed how I’d felt once too.
After a couple of minutes of quiet, I carefully looked between the metal bars of the stalls and froze when Jasper came into view, dressed in black jeans and a white Aran wool sweater. But what had tears pricking my eyes were his arms wound tightly around Lord Henry’s neck. And how the stallion, understanding how broken his rider was, just stood there and let him shatter against his light-gray coat. In one hand, Jasper clutched a half-empty bottle of whiskey. His dark-brown hair was longer than it used to be, falling in messy waves over the side of his face.
Feeling like I was intruding on a very private moment, I began to inch slowly out of the stall. Once in the main section of the barn, I turned to make a beeline for the back door when Henry suddenly moved, the sound of his shod feet scraping on the ground, and Jasper asked, “Is someone there?”
My eyes were wide as I stared straight ahead. My heart began to pound. As much as I didn’t mind being caught doing what I shouldn’t, I wasn’t sure I could face Jasper Knighton. Over the years, I’d built this man up to be a veritable idol in my mind.
The sound of Jasper leaving the stall came from behind me. “Who are you?” His words were slurred, but when I heard the bolt to Henry’s stable door open and close, I felt Jasper’s approach. Knowing I couldn’t get out of explaining myself, I turned slowly and finally met his eyes.
My chest felt like it had been cracked wide open when Jasper Knighton’s thirty-two-year-old face came into view. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot from what I presumed was the whiskey, but they were sharp and focused on me. Thick dark scruff covered his cheeks and chin, and his longer hair fell in loose waves over his forehead.
Jasper Knighton was quite literally the handsomest man I had ever seen. He was tall and broad, with lean, toned muscles and a face that was perfect but for a slight scar that ran through his eyebrow from a riding incident years ago. I remembered it like it was yesterday. In Monaco, after jumping a fence, his reins snapped in two—a freak accident. But the buckle of the rein shot upward and sliced through his eyebrow, causing it to bleed. Despite this, Jasper stayed seated on Lord Henry, clearing the last fence of the jump-off by holding on to Henry’s platinum mane and trusting his stallion to keep him safe. It won him the Grand Prix. It was the greatest display of horsemanship I’d ever witnessed.
Jasper’s lips parted and a slip of breath pushed through, bringing me back to the here and now. My long dark hair was free from a tie and fell to my waist, rather than being held back in my usual daytime braid. His eyes roved over every part of me. I felt completely exposed, but shivers of excitement traveled like lightning over every inch of me.
“You look like an angel,” Jasper rasped, and his comment only made me lose my composure even more. “You’re stunning.”
Years of hero-worshipping this man, and a decade of finding him the most attractive man in the world, came crashing down onto my soul as he uttered those words. I fought the smile that threatened to pull on my lips and could feel heat bursting on my cheeks in a bloom of red blush. I tried to speak, but nerves held me a silent captive.
Jasper stumbled closer. He smelled of a heady mix of sandalwood, mint, and horse. And right now, of whiskey. His eyes glazed as he stepped closer still, and I ceased breathing. Jasper raised his hand and gently took a strand of my hair between his finger and thumb, stroking down its full length.
“So soft,” he said, then lost his footing. I reached out and caught him before he hit the floor. Jasper was much heavier than me, but I managed to walk him backward and balance him against the wall between Lord Henry’s stall and Lady Dahlia’s old one. Like his body couldn’t take any more, Jasper slumped to the floor, legs spread out before him, still clutching the whiskey bottle like it was his lifeline. My hands held on to his arms, and the force of his fall had me slumping down before him too. I looked up to see Jasper grinning, and the sight should not have been as hot as it was.
He then proceeded to laugh. My heart skipped at the melodic sound. “Angel,” he said, and took hold of my hand. I stared down at our intertwined hands. His were rough and calloused from all his years riding, I presumed. But they were warm and seemed to fit perfectly within mine. “I’m sent an angel to get through tonight, and she finds me like this,” he said again, forcing me to meet his dark eyes. He was still chuckling, but the pain that poured from his gaze made my stomach churn in sadness.
Without releasing my hand, Jasper took another swig of his whiskey, shaking his head as he swallowed. He held the bottle out for me, then pulled it back before I could refuse it. “Silly me. Angels don’t drink whiskey. Only fucked-up souls do.”
“Jasper,” I said, searching around me for any sign of help. I needed someone stronger to help me lift him.
“You know my name,” he whispered, causing me to face him again. He set his bottle of whiskey down and ran the tips of his fingers down my face. “Such beauty,” he said, then stared at my eyes. “Your eyes look turquoise, like a tropical sea.”
I tried to stop my foolish heart from melting at his compliments and vowed to keep to the task at hand. “I need to get you home,” I said, worried about how the hell that could be done when he could barely walk.
“Not home,” Jasper said, firmly, almost panicked, shaking his head and dropping his hand from my face. He took another swig of his whiskey. He looked up to his left at Henry, whose head was over the stable door, watching his owner crumble. “Anyway, he’s my home,” Jasper said, and the softly spoken sentiment brought tears to my eyes. “My proper house is a cell.” He huffed a humorless laugh. “A big cell, but a cell nonetheless.”
I tried to pull back my hand from his, but he held on to me tighter. “Don’t leave me yet, Angel. Please . . .” he begged, all playfulness gone and only devastation causing his body to slump. “I . . .” He choked on his words. His head fell back against the wall. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
I warred with what to do. This was Jasper Knighton. I had broken into his private stables, and worse than that, he was, in a roundabout way, my employer. I was pretty sure any fraternizing was frowned upon.
“Please, Angel,” he begged again, and when I looked to his face, I didn’t stand a chance. I’d been this broken once in my life. And I still remembered that pain like it was yesterday.
Pushing my worry aside, I released my hand from Jasper’s and got to my feet. Jasper’s shoulders slumped, and the sadness that engulfed his perfect face cut through my chest. He watched my every step with his dark-brown eyes, a plea to stay within their chocolate depths.
I rocked on my feet. I needed to leave. I needed to reach the main house and get one of his cousins to help. I didn’t know Jasper personally, but I believed he wouldn’t want any of the professional riders here seeing him in this state. But then, I didn’t want to give away that I’d snuck into the private section of the barn either.
Shit.
Then I looked down at him and saw the silent tears falling down his stubbled cheeks. In that second, I knew I wouldn’t be going anywhere.
Jasper watched my every move, like I was gravity, and he was being pulled toward me. Nervously tucking my hair behind my ears, I moved beside him and sat down. I left an inch of space between us, but Jasper shuffled closer until his thigh was flush against my own. The heat from his body almost set me ablaze. More so when Jasper’s hand found my own and he entwined our fingers together.
I stared at our joined hands far too long. I blinked a few times just to be sure this was real. I was here, in the Knighton family barn, with Lord Henry behind us and Jasper Knighton holding my hand. I felt like I was hallucinating.
Copyright © 2026 by Tillie Cole.
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