His voice going faint, Stanley started singing “Love Song for a Vampire,” changing the lyrics to something suitably rude, and my breath eased out as they went into the other wing of the stables—but the horse above me still had his ears pricked.

“Hoy, hoy, Mr. T.,” came a soft voice, and the jingling of a bridle, and I froze. Trent? Trent was here? Panicking, I put a hand to my hot face and stared, seeing nothing but the top of his head. The horse blew his breath out, and Trent’s voice shifted, the words slurring into a hummed pattern of crooning. It was beautiful, and I strained for more, trying to understand. It sounded like another language, and though I hated him because Jasmine liked him, I couldn’t help but think it beautiful.

His tawny head flashed over the walls of the stall, giving me a glimpse of his fair skin and green eyes. He hadn’t seen me, and I watched his face, empty of the scorn he usually heaped on me. Trent’s eyes were full and shining, and he was smiling. His white hair was messy, and his ears showed. Trent never let his ears show, always combing his fine hair over them. He was skinny, lanky, and almost singing to the horse as he fondled his ears and fed him a treat.

Feeling my eyes on him, his gaze flicked to me.

Immediately his wonderful voice ceased. His lips pressed together, and his eyes took on a hard slant. Snorting, the horse drew back from him. “What are you doing in there?” he said, voice cracking and face going red. “Get out. You’re not even supposed to be here when the stable hands are gone.”

“Neither are you,” I said, scrambling up and clutching the horse blanket to me as I backed to the wall. My heart pounded when he opened the gate, sliding in and latching it behind him, fumbling the first time because of his cast. I’d be willing to bet Stanley had broken Trent’s hand to put him at a disadvantage for the rest of the summer. What a goober.

Trent was in new jeans and brand-new riding boots. I thought of my own nasty sneakers, and I flushed. Trent was rich. His dad owned the camp. Everyone knew it.

“They’re looking for you,” he said, mocking me. “You are in so much trouble.”

The horse tossed his head, feet moving restlessly between us, and I put a hand on him to remind him not to step on me. “I can be in here if I want,” I said, chin high.

Trent’s white eyebrows drew together, but when the horse snorted and laid his ears back, he looked away, quieting the animal. “This is my horse,” he said cockily. The cast on his hand made it hard for him to close his fingers on the horse’s halter, but the animal was docile enough.