Page 10 of Winning Winnie’s Hand

“If you look for something to complain about,” he began, “you’ll be sure to find it. I, for one, choose to see the good in things. It makes life far more enjoyable.”

Another blush threatened to rise to her cheeks, but she suppressed it. Matthew sure liked to instruct people, didn’t he?

She tipped her umbrella back even farther. “I’m not complaining, merely being observant. In my experience, I’ve found if we don’t continually look for things to improve upon, we become stagnant and filled with faults and flaws that would have been much easier to get rid of had we put in the effort in the beginning. If you look at it that way, it’s really all about saving time and being more productive. And what’s not enjoyable about a productive life?”

She ended with a smile, then waited in silence for him to respond.

His scrutinizing gaze would have made her squirm, were she not well-versed in remaining cool under pressure. “So Foxwood is filled with faults and flaws, is it?” he asked.

That’s what he got out of her whole speech? “Not necessarily. But you’d have to be crazy to say it’s perfect the way it is. I haven’t even arrived fully yet, and I already know there’s going to be a long list of improvements that can be made. Should be made.”

“Is that so?” he asked.

She nodded in silence.

“Well,” he began, looking away, “what a blessed relief for the lowly Wintours to have thee to rescue them.” He adjusted the reins in his hands. “I bid thee adieu now, as my own steed grows weary. Good evening, my lady.”

He bowed his head in what she could only assume was a mocking nod, then clanked his visor down over his eyes and urged his horse forward—directly toward where she stood.

Swiftly, she moved out of the way to avoid being hit by the mud kicked up by the horse’s hooves, but in her haste, she forgot where she stood and stepped straight off the side of the road. Her pointed heels sank into the soft mud, and she groaned as the dark grime oozed over the black toes of her footwear.

Had Matthew done that on purpose? Ridden too close to her to make her stand in the mud?

She glanced up at him, but he and his little horse just sauntered away without a backward glance, the lance high in the air like a floating, branchless tree.

He couldn’t have known what he’d done, otherwise he would have offered his help to her again, right? Or had the mere mention of her being a business consultant stripped him of any desire to continue his knightly actions?

Sadly enough, in her experience, that was the truth more often than not. This was yet another reason consulting was difficult—how swiftly she made enemies.

With a sigh, she stared down at the mud once more. Whatever. She didn’t need Matthew’s help anymore anyway. Her shoes were far lighter than the car. She could get out of this mud herself.

One by one, she heaved her feet from the slop, her heels making a “schlock” sound as they were pulled from the mud’s grip. Her legs were as speckled as an Appaloosa’s behind, no doubt from the gelding’s backsplash, but she shook off her annoyance once again.

Fort Knox. Be like Fort Knox.

She pulled a face as the phrase sailed through her mind. The words were as deeply engrained in her as was her desire to please Dad.

“Being a member of the Knox family means that nothing can penetrate your defenses,” he’d always said to her and her siblings when they were children. “It means that nothing can shake you, nothing can hurt you, nothing can rattle you. Because we Knoxes are like Fort Knox. So be like Fort Knox.”

She hated those words. Sometimes, she didn’t want to have a permanent defense around her. Sometimes, she wanted to let go and just be okay with not…being okay.

But ultimately, in her line of work, she needed metaphorical defenses. Heck, in life she needed metaphorical defenses. Because being a Knox meant that she had to deal with all the garbage handed to her—and to never get discouraged by it.

With a heavy sigh, she tramped across the road, doing her best to wipe off the mud from her heels before entering the car and using spare tissues to wipe off her legs.

As she did so, she focused on the task that lay before her with Mr. Wintour, all the while repeating to herself the words she prayed would actually help her be like the Knox she was meant to be.

“Like Fort Knox. Be like Fort Knox.”

Matthew gripped the lance tighter as he urged his horse into a trot, finding his balance instantly with Nightshade’s rhythmic clip-clopping.

He probably shouldn’t have done that—walked too close to Winnie to cause her to step in the mud. Such a decision had been petty and childish. And yet, still, it took everything within Matthew to keep his eyes forward so he didn’t pride himself on seeing what damage he’d done to those heels of hers.

He couldn’t say Winnie hadn’t deserved it. She’d been far too candid criticizing Foxwood, and he wouldn’t stand for it. None of the other consultants hired to improve the estate had ever been so boorish. He could only imagine what she’d say about the festival if she chose to accept his invitation to attend.

He blew out a breath, white air billowing out from his helmet and disappearing behind his armored shoulder as he and Nightshade drew closer to the stables.

The festival was one of his greatest joys. It was the only place he was free to be himself—to share his love of the medieval era with those around him, to bring history to life without being judged for being different.