In retrospect, Finn probably could have just told Sophia that a bareback rider didn't actually warm up on bucking horses.

But it was just so damn fun to tease her.

"I'm going to die," Sophia moaned, shifting her weight from foot to foot. "I can't believe you're doing this to me."

"You'll be fine," Finn said.

"I just learned how to ride a horse!"

"Well, now you can learn how to stay on one."

Sophia looked positively green. She was dressed in jeans and a simple black sweater today, which Finn would have bet his right arm was designer. A hockey helmet dangled from her fingertips. She was looking at the barn door as if it might grow sharp teeth and devour her as they walked through.

"I can't believe you brought that," Finn said in amusement, nodding to the helmet, and Sophia shot him a look.

"Just open the damn door, Hoag."

He obliged, sliding open the wooden door. He watched as Sophia's eyes flitted around the space, drinking in the wall of leather bridles and saddles, the polished metal spurs, the empty stalls, and then the large barrel with a saddle on top, suspended from the ceiling with ropes.

"I don't get it," Sophia said slowly. "Where's the horse?"

"You're looking at her."

Sophia blinked at him. "This is a very weird joke, Hoag."

"Come on," Finn said, "I'll show you."

Before Sophia could protest, Finn picked her up, positioning her on the tin barrel. Sophia yelped, letting out a string of expletives that Finn couldn't help but be impressed by. She clung to the ropes like a drowning sailor clinging to a life raft.

"What is this?"

"That's your horse," Finn explained. "We warm up on barrels before competitions to get the feel for riding." He leaned against a metal bar, crossing his arms. "You didn't actually think I was going to put you on a bucking gelding, did you?"

"No," Sophia said.

She was lying, though. Finn had only known Sophia a short amount of time — three months, in fact — but he already knew her tells. She bit her lip when she wanted to laugh. She rubbed her arm when she was nervous. And she scratched her nose when she lied.

"You might want to put on your helmet," Finn suggested, patting the tin can. "She's pretty wild when she gets going."

Sophia gave him such a withering look that Finn couldn't help but grin. He pushed the barrel gently, letting her get used to the motion. Sophia was surprisingly adept, he realized; she had an instinctive understanding of how to rock her hips.

Not that Finn was watching her hips.

Purely for instructional purposes.

Finn swallowed. "Try leaning back slightly." He pushed on the ropes. "That'll help you balance better."

Sophia adjusted her weight. "So, what? You just sit on a horse for eight seconds while it tries to buck you off?"

Finn stared. "No, you don't. You—" He broke off, his mind unable to comprehend the very idea that she thought bareback riding was just staying on the sodding horse. "For one thing, you can only touch the horse with one hand."

Sophia obediently pulled one hand off a rope, wobbling slightly.

"Now put the other one on the saddle," Finn said.

She did so.

"And you have to spur while you ride," Finn added.

"Spur?"

"See these?" He tapped the two metal bits attached to the heel of his boot, their edges like a metal cog. "These are spurs."

Sophia looked horrified. "Don't they hurt the horse?"

"Not really." Finn shrugged. "No more than this." He pinched her on the shoulder, and then grinned as she slapped his hand away. "I wouldn't ride if they hurt my horse," he said, more soberly this time. "None of us would."

"And you get points by..." She trailed off. "Staying on?"

"For style," Finn corrected her. "And your horse is judged too, for power and speed. You're scored out of 100. Scores in the 70s are fine, the 80s are good, and the 90s are unbelievable."

"Let me guess," Sophia said wryly. "You score in the 90s?"

"Depends if I fall off."

Sophia's hand tightened on the rope. "Does that happen often?"

"Not to me," Finn said, with just a touch of smugness. "But yes; it does happen."

Finn had been thrown exactly thirteen times in his career, and the memory of each fall was seared in his brain: the terrifying sensation of free fall, the groan of the crowd, and then the desperate sprint across the ring as the horse charged behind you, hellbent on finishing what it started.

He'd been concussed twice.

Sprained his wrist once.

But Finn was lucky; he'd only visited the hospital once, and he still had all his teeth — which was more than some of his fellow competitors could say.

"Why do you do it?" Sophia twisted to look at him curiously. "Is it the money?"

Finn shook his head. "It's the rush, I suppose. The adrenaline. The high that you get when you hear the buzzer and you know that you've managed to stay on the horse." He paused. "I guess it's the money too, though."

"You don't sound sure."

"Nobody's ever asked me that question before."

"Nobody?" Sophia fully twisted around. "But how—?"

It happened fast.

Sophia slipped sideways. Years of reflex kicked in, and Finn darted forward, his hands shooting out to catch her. She collided with his chest, a whirl of arms and the oddly intoxicating smell of vanilla. Finn could feel the heat of her skin through his jean jacket.

Every part of his body reacted.

Hot blood rushed through him, and every muscle contracted, tensing at the contact. Finn could feel his heartbeat rocketing in his chest. He wondered if Sophia could feel it, too. Wondered if her pulse was racing, too.

Fine. So he found her attractive, Finn thought defensively; so what? Any man with eyes would find Sophia Huntington attractive. Anyway, Finn got the sense that she wore her beauty like a mask: a pretty accessory, but less important than what lay beneath.

"Hoag?" Sophia asked.

"Hmm?"

"You can let go of me now."

"Oh. Right."

He took a step back. Sophia bent down, brushing dust off her jeans.

"Thanks," she said. "Good save."

"Anytime," he said.

A complete lie. Next time, Finn was just going to let her fall; it was better than thinking about her vanilla perfume. In fact, Finn was now of the fervent belief that all vanilla perfume should be rounded up and burned immediately.

He cleared his throat. "Guess you should have worn that helmet after all."

"Hilarious," Sophia said flatly.

"Do you want coffee?" He kept his voice casual. "I could use a coffee."

Sophia gave him an odd look. "It's almost dinner."

"Yeah, well, every hour is coffee hour," Finn said, glancing at the offending barrel. He was never letting Sophia sit on that thing. Ever again. "You can get a matcha latte."

Sophia sighed. "Twist my arm, why don't you?"

Southern Ireland was packed today; locals lounged in the cozy chairs, playing cards or reading newspapers. A pair of giggling girls whispered in the corner. A young man in a baseball cap was typing on a laptop. And stretching above it all, rendered in cheerful, gaudy lettering was a banner that read: "Sophia's drink sold here!"

"Oh, no," Sophia moaned. "No, no, no."

"I think it's sweet," Finn said.

"That's because your name isn't on it." Sophia looked at the banner doubtfully. "How long do you think that took Saoirse to make?"

"Four hours? Six?"

"Fine," Sophia sighed. "I'll be nice about it, then."

She wrinkled her nose. An odd rush of warmth went through him, and Finn was disturbed to realize that he found Sophia's whinging kind of sweet. Or maybe it was her obvious affection for Saoirse. Maybe it was both.

Dear god, Finn thought. I'm falling apart.

"Why don't you find a table?" he suggested. "I can order."

Sophia nodded, pushing her way through the cramped space with the focus of a junior steer wrestler at his first rodeo. Not, Finn reflected, that Sophia would understand that analogy; the thought of trying to explain it to her made him smile.

Finn wove his way to the front. Matcha lattes dotted the tables, a veritable army of green foam, and he shuddered. Unnatural monstrosities. He'd never understood the appeal of drinking something more aesthetic than appetizing. Why would you sacrifice a perfectly good coffee just to snap a photo of a mediocre-tasting drink?

But then again, Finn also didn't have Instagram.

Or any social media.

So maybe, Finn reflected, he just wasn't very cool; Gemma was always telling him that he had the soul of an eighty-year-old hermit. Maybe she was right.

As if on cue, Finn's phone buzzed. A text from his sister.

Are you with Sophia? Tell her that Blush Winery just hit 6k followers!! I owe her a bottle of wine. Or twenty.

Finn rolled his eyes.

Last time I checked, Finn typed back, I'm not Sophia's personal assistant. And you have her phone number.

Gemma's reply was immediate.

Sophia gets a million texts a day. You get, like, two. And one is from your dentist reminding you to book an appointment. Who do you think will reply first?

Fair point, Finn typed. Also, ouch.

Finn pocketed the phone. He'd reached the front of the line, and a very harried-looking Saoirse looked up as he approached.

"Finn!" Saoirse beamed. "What can I get for you?"

"Coffee and a matcha latte, please."

She winked. "You got it, laddie."

Finn leaned against the counter as Saoirse prepared the drinks, surveying the café. Sophia had claimed the table next to the man in the baseball cap, and she was typing away on her phone, her brow furrowed in concentration. Again. Oddly sweet.

He sighed.

Fake girlfriend, Finn reminded himself. Emphasis on fake.

Finn turned around, forcing himself to peruse the pastries instead. Pistachio croissant. Lemon squares. Butter tarts. His stomach rumbled, and he glanced at the clock. Did he risk ordering a few before dinner? But, no; Sophia never ate pastries.

"Here you go," Saoirse said.

The Irish woman slid two drinks across the counter, recapturing Finn's attention. He stared at the matcha latte. Today's creation was adorned with what appeared to be a cow with three legs. Or maybe it was a stool with a cow's head.

"Beautiful," Finn offered politely.

Saoirse's eyes narrowed. "Are you poking fun, laddie?"

"Of course not," Finn said, tapping his card against the machine. "Although I must admit, most of the cows I've seen have four limbs."

Saoirse pushed the drinks closer. "You've not been pissed on Irish whiskey, then, wandering down a dirt road at four o'clock in the morning." She looked over his shoulder, frowning. "Who's that with Sophia?"

Finn spun around.

The young man with the baseball cap was leaning over her, one hand pressed against her shoulder. Sophia was shrunk against the wall. She was fiddling with her gold bangle, her eyes darting across the café, bearing a strong resemblance to a foal with its foot trapped in a gopher hole.

The man leaned down to murmur in her ear.

Finn saw red.

Jealousy punched him in the gut, so fast and hot that it was dizzying. He wanted to knock this guy's hand right off Sophia's shoulder. No, Finn thought, he wanted to knock him around. The intensity of the emotion frightened him.

Finn watched, stomach churning, as the young man drew closer. Sophia tried to wriggle away, but the stranger's grip tightened.

He stiffened.

Right.

That was it.

He was about to start in their direction when Saoirse snatched up her rolling pin. "Do you want help, laddie?" Her eyes narrowed. "I fancy bashing some skulls in."

"I've got it," Finn muttered. "Trust me."

"Give him hell for me."

Finn's smile was grim. Gladly.

He stalked across the room. Sophia's face was the picture of relief, but Finn was too amped up to fully focus on her. His hands shook with adrenaline.

"Hey, buddy," Finn called. "Back off. She's taken."

The man turned. "And who are you?"

"The boyfriend."

The man's gaze flicked over him, unimpressed. "Not for long."

The other dude still hadn't moved his hand from Sophia's shoulder, Finn noted, which only pissed him off more. He gave the stranger a pleasant smile.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Finn said. "I didn't introduce myself properly; I'm the guy that's going to kick the shit out of you in the next three seconds if you don't take your hands off Sophia." He arched an eyebrow. "You do know how to count that high, don't you?"

The man purpled. "You—"

"Hoag," Sophia said. "Let's just go."

A pulse thundered in his ears. "Give me a second."

"Now." Sophia rose. "Please."

She was shivering slightly, her arms wrapped around herself. She seemed to be purposefully avoiding looking around, and it took Finn a moment to realize why; several people had their phones out. Damn it.

Finn took a steadying breath. "Okay. You're right. Let's go."

The stranger winked at Sophia. "You know where to find me when you change your mind, darling."

Sophia ignored him, ducking her head. Finn gritted his teeth. I will not hit him, Finn told himself. I will not hit him, I will not hit him.

Through sheer willpower, he made it to the parking lot. Finn's imagination was already running through a million different scenarios, most of which involved storming back into the café, kidnapping the stranger, and then slowly steam-rolling him with a combine. Sophia leaned against his red truck.

"Thank-you," she said. "For what you did in there."

He swallowed. "It's okay."

"Right." She yanked open the door. "Let's go home."

Finn watched, incredulous, as Sophia swung into the passenger seat. She fiddled with the stereo, looking entirely too calm.

"That's it?" Finn demanded.

She twisted the dial. "What do you want me to say?"

"He was harassing you, Sophia. That's fucked up."

"You don't get it," Sophia said tightly. "Men are always like that with me. Do you think any of my ex-boyfriends asked me out for my sparkling personality? No. They dated me because of how I look. Some people are likeable because they're smart or funny, but not all of us were born that way. This is the hand that I was dealt in life, Hoag." She waved a hand to indicate her face. "This is my reality."

She might as well have smacked him across the face. Finn gripped his car keys. He opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Finally, he managed, "You can't seriously believe that, can you?"

"What?"

"That people only like you because of how you look."

She looked away. "Let's just drop it."

"It's not true," Finn said forcefully. "You have so much going for you, Sophia. You're smart, and creative, and what you're doing to help my sister—"

"Finn," Sophia cut in. "Please."

She sounded on the verge of tears. And she'd used his first name, Finn realized, which she never did — especially when they were alone. Something inside him broke. He couldn't look at her as he climbed into the driver's seat.

"Okay," Finn said gruffly. "Come on. I'll take you home."