Julia's Rival Gallop Ignites

The thunder of hooves still echoed in my ears as Julia Schmidt dismounted, her green eyes locking onto mine with a fire that had nothing to do with the race we'd just run. Sweat glistened on her fair skin, strawberry-blonde hair tousled by the wind. Rivals on the track, but off it? The air between us crackled, pulling us toward the shadowed woods where grudges could finally surrender to something rawer, hotter. I knew one touch would ignite us both. The crowd's roar faded behind us as the derby wrapped, the scent of churned earth and horse sweat hanging thick in the crisp autumn air. I'd beaten Julia Schmidt by a nose—again—but the way she ripped off her helmet and stormed toward me told me victory wouldn't taste sweet without a fight. Her strawberry-blonde hair, sleek and straight to her shoulders, whipped in the breeze, framing those piercing green eyes that always seemed to see right through my bravado. "Viktor Brandt," she spat, her German accent sharpening the words like a spur. "You cut me off on that last turn. Dirty riding, even for you." She stood close, too close, her slender athletic frame radiating heat despite the chill. At 5'7", she matched my height in her boots, chin lifted defiantly, fingers clutching the silver spur necklace at her throat—a talisman from her riding days, I guessed. I grinned, leaning in until I could smell the faint leather and lavender on her. "Dirty? Coming from the girl who nearly unseated me in the straight? Face it, Julia, you're just pissed I keep leaving you in the dust." My pulse kicked up, not from the race, but from her proximity, the way her fair skin flushed with anger. We'd been rivals for years, circuits from Berlin to these English countryside tracks,...