She’d left her glasses on her tack trunk next to her phone, so she wasn’t able to make out features, but the filtered sunlight let her identify shorts, a sweatshirt. Athletic shoes.

For a second, she considered the implications of being alone in the woods with a man, but she’d just plowed into him with her horse, and a little courtesy probably wasn’t out of line.

Layne stood up and started walking toward him. Her knees weren’t a big fan of this activity, and her head wasn’t feeling much better. She unsnapped her helmet and clipped the strap through a belt loop, shaking her hair free so it wouldn’t be matted with sweat across her forehead.

“You all right?” she called. “God, I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention—” She broke off the apology, hearing her father’s voice in her head. If you’re ever in an accident, don’t apologize. It immediately implies guilt . . . .

But how could she not apologize?

He was staring at her now, and she was relieved to see that he wasn’t a man man, but a teenager, with dark hair and features that were slowly coming into focus as she got closer.

Features that shifted into something like surprise. “Layne?”

She stopped short on the path. “Gabriel?” Then she hesitated. “Or Nick? I’m sorry—”

“It’s me.” His voice was rough. “Gabriel.”

And just then, all her rationalizing went straight out the window. He looked . . . overwrought. Rumpled sweatshirt, disheveled hair. That shadow across his jaw had turned into true stubble overnight.

Regret twisted her gut. She should have called. He’d apologized and left his number, and then she’d as good as smacked him in the face.

No, she’d trampled him with her horse.

Get over yourself, Layne. He’s probably hungover.

She straightened, folding her arms. “Are you hurt?”

He must have heard her voice turn flat, because his expression hardened. “I’m all right. You?”

“I’m great.”

And then he was standing, looming over her, an abrupt shift from vulnerable and wounded to vaguely threatening. “What are you doing out here?”

She always had to battle with her emotions when he looked like that. One part of her wanted to back away to get a little more air. The other part wanted to step into him, just to see what it felt like to share his warmth.

“Riding,” she said. “What are you doing out here?”

“Running,” he said, like it should have been obvious—and really, it kind of was. His eyes flicked down her form, and she wished riding breeches weren’t quite so formfitting. “I guess I should be glad you weren’t driving a car.”

“Shut up.” Then she realized what he’d said. “Wait. You live around here?”