Nacho Figueras Presents

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I first learned to ride a horse when I was four years old and started playing the sport of polo by the time I was nine. Tango was the horse on which I learned to play, and Tango was my first love. I fell in love with the beauty of horses and idolized the strength and bravery of the best players. In my native Argentina, everyone has a chance to go to polo matches and see how thrilling they are. It has been my dream to share the game that I love, the game that has given me so much—as a person and athlete—with the rest of the world.

I think polo is very appealing. After all, there's a reason Ralph Lauren chose it. There is something undeniably sexy about a man and a horse and the speed and the adrenaline.

It was at a polo match that I met my wife. I was in the stands and she was coming up the stairs, and I looked at her and she looked at me, and we looked at each other. I had to know more, so I asked her cousin Sofia to introduce us and she told me, “That's funny; she just asked me the same thing.” So the cousin introduced us, and we talked for a little bit. It was the beginning of the summer, and we didn't see each other for two or three months. After the holiday, we started dating, and we have been together ever since…

I am very excited to present the Polo Season series, which blends my favorite sport with a little bit of romance. Whether you're already a polo fan or completely new to the game, I hope you will enjoy these characters and their stories.

K
atherine Ann Parker looked in the bathroom mirror and carefully applied a layer of dark red lipstick.

And then, just as carefully, she wiped it back off.

Too much. The last thing she wanted was to look like she was desperate.

She dug some ChapStick out of her bag and slicked it on, trying to ignore the Silver Lake hipster breathing behind her, impatiently waiting to wash her hands.

Yes, that was better. And everything else seemed to be working—her black hair, pulled back into a sleek chignon; the crisp white fitted button-down showing just a hint of cleavage; the modest gold hoops in her ears; the dark wash jeans that were tailored just so, the six-inch-heeled ankle boots…

She frowned. She knew her manager, Honey Kimmelman, would nix the boots. As a general rule, the men in Hollywood were short and didn't like to be reminded of that fact. And Kat was already tall, even without the heels. The boots pushed her up over six feet.

“Well, too damned bad,” she said out loud. “This is a job, not a date.”

“Um, excuse me?” said the hipster.

Kat blinked, embarrassed. She had forgotten she was not alone. “Sorry. Personal pep talk,” she mumbled, and she moved aside so the girl could use the sink.

The girl washed her hands and left, shooting one last quizzical look at Kat as the door swung shut behind her.

Kat lingered at the window, looking out over the panorama of West Hollywood. She sighed dreamily. Even the bathroom at Soho House had an amazing view.

She checked her watch—it was time. She smoothed her hair, almost went for the lipstick again, and then stilled her hand and forced a deep breath. It was just a meeting, she told herself. She'd been to a million meetings. She could do this.

As Kat eased her way to the back of the restaurant, she made a point of pretending not to notice the multitude of celebrities and A-listers scattered around the private club. Soho House was, above all, discreet. A place where even the biggest stars could have lunch, take meetings, gossip, and relax, and be sure to go unbothered. Kat had reluctantly let her membership lapse when she could no longer afford the annual fees, but she was always happy to come back as a guest.

The movie exec, Dee Yang, rose from her seat, smiling, as Kat approached the table. Dee was younger than Kat, dark haired and pretty, wearing a navy sheath that showed off her toned arms. Kat liked her at once, could see the intelligence written all over face, and recognized her warm smile as genuine.

“Kat, so great to finally meet you,” said Dee as they shook hands. “I'm such a huge fan.”

Kat waved the compliment off, smiling. “Thank you. It's so good to meet you, too.”

“And this is Steve Meyers,” said Dee as she and Kat sat down. “He's producing the project.”

A fiftyish man with graying hair, in jeans and a baseball cap, nodded but did not look up from his phone. “Hang on. Just one second,” he said, texting away.

Kat glanced at Dee, who raised her eyebrows apologetically and passed her a menu. “Have you had the burrata?” she said. “I can't resist it.”

“And ooookay,” said Steve, putting down his phone at last. “Sorry about that. Couldn't wait.” He gave Kat an obvious head-to-toe once-over before he stuck out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Kay.”

“Kat,” Dee corrected.

“Right, sorry. Kat.”

Kat's heart sank as she watched his eyes dart right back to his phone. It wasn't hard to read the room. He didn't want to be here. Dee had obviously talked him into this meeting. He probably already had someone else lined up for the job.

She forced herself to look at her menu, trying not to let the disappointment show on her face.

“So, Kat,” said Dee, “I notice a little Southern accent. Where are you from?”

Kat smiled. “My folks are originally from Georgia, but I grew up in Wellington, Florida.”

“Wellington?” Steve said, momentarily interested, “I think my first wife went down there once for some expensive thing she had to buy a crazy hat for. Tennis? Cricket?”

“Polo, probably,” said Kat. “Or some other horse-related activity. It's pretty much all horses all the time in Wellington.”

She could just imagine Steve's first wife, tan and toned, her face a mask of Botox, taking out her frustrations about her jerk of a husband as she violently stomped divots on the field in her Chanel suit and oversized hat.

“That's right,” said Steve, “polo. You ride?”

Kat shook her head. “Nope. I am not what you would call a horsey person.”

Steve nodded. His phone pinged. “Oh man, it's a text from Michael.” His voice sank to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know,
Bay
. I have to answer this.”

As he turned away from the table, Kat tried to push down a rising wave of annoyance.

“So anyway,” said Dee hurriedly, “I absolutely love
Winter's Passing
. It's one of my all-time favorites. I cry every time I watch it. And you were practically still in school when you made it, right?”

“About a year out,” said Kat.

“It was a crime that it lost the Oscar,” said Dee.

Kat smiled ruefully. “Well, you know what they say, just an honor to be nominated.”

Steve looked up from his phone again, smirking. “But then…
Red Hawk
.”

Kat felt the smile freeze on her face. “Yes.
Red Hawk.
”

Steve made a clucking sound with his tongue. “Man, how much money did that one lose? It was some kind of record, wasn't it?”

Kat met his beady eyes defiantly. “Came this close to making the Guinness book.”

Dee laughed. Steve didn't even crack a smile.

“Hell of a thing to be remembered for,” he said. “And didn't you have a fling with Jack Hayes while you were filming? He dumped you right after the box office numbers came in, right?”

Kat fought the urge to stab him with her fork. “Something like that.”

“Well, they should have known better, really. Talk about ruining the source material. I mean, what little boy was going to want to see a girly version of
Red Hawk
comics?”

Kat stiffened. “And what Hollywood producer is so out of touch that he still thinks a bunch of little boys are driving the box office?”

Steve sniffed. “Yeah, because stunt-casting a female director obviously brought the audience out in droves.”

Kat slowly counted to ten in her head before speaking again. “You know, I made a lot of mistakes on that film, but I'm pretty sure that being born female wasn't one of them.”

He shook his head. “Shoulda stuck with what you know.”

She cocked her head. “Oh? And what, exactly, do I know?”

“Rom-coms. Princess movies. Fifty Shades of Crap.”

She stared at him. “You're kidding, right?”

He shrugged and looked back at his phone. “Your movie tanked. That says it all.”

Kat felt her face flush, and some very choice words rose to her lips, but Dee hurriedly interrupted. “But that was all years ago,” she said in a placating tone. “I'm sure you've done a ton since then, right?”

Kat took a deep breath and forced herself to turn away from Steve so she could give Dee her usual spiel about having some work in development, about how she was working on a new spec—but before she could even really start, Steve's phone pinged again.

“Oh, yep, gotta take this one, too,” he interrupted.

That was it. She'd had enough.

She put her hand on his wrist and gave him her sweetest smile. “You know, Steve, I feel like we kind of got off on the wrong foot. Can we start over?”

He looked back at her, suspicious at first, but she just kept smiling until she saw the exact moment when he relaxed and a new kind of interest kindled in his eyes. His gaze slid down to her chest.

Bingo. She licked her lips in anticipation.

“It's cool,” he finally said. “But I seriously gotta answer this text.”

“Oh, is that Michael Bay again? Are you really friends with him?” Her Southern accent was suddenly thicker.

He smirked. “Played tennis with him just last week.”

She looked up at him from under her lashes. “That is so amazing. I heard he only works with the best. You must be really good at what you do.”

He straightened his shoulders. “I think it's fair to say that I know what I'm doing.”

“I can see that.” She smiled again, squeezing his arm. “I bet there's a lot you could teach me.”

He raised his eyebrows. “I bet you're right.”

She giggled. “Oh, hey, is that the latest iPhone? So neat. Do you mind if I take a look at it for just one little second?”

Steve chuckled. “Haven't seen it yet, eh? I had my assistant stand in line for twelve hours to get this thing.” He passed it over.

Kat stood up, dropped the phone on the floor, and ground it under her heel.

“What the hell?” yelled Steve, his face going beet red.

Kat looked him in the face. “Oops. I'm so sorry,” she said, deadpan. She stomped down again. “It must have slipped.”

She smiled blissfully as she leaned even harder, enjoying the satisfying crunch of metal against metal.