Page 19 of Run for the Money

I mute the phone while I order, then take everything back to my truck.

“Still there?” I ask.

“Yeah. No way I’m hanging up without finding out why you’re being so awkward.”

I throw the truck in gear and fill Edwin in on the past twenty-four hours while I drive to the venue—the call with Annette, the argument with Melanie, the silent treatment, barely making it to the final, and finally, the conversation in the hotel bar I’ve been turning over in my head for hours. I’m still talking when I park in the lot closest to the stables.

“Well, obviously you have to call the lawyer guy,” Edwin says when I’m done.

“Any other thoughts?” I prompt.

“No, that’s basically it,” he says. “It’s a silver-platter solution to our biggest problem. Why wouldn’t you call?”

“Why would I call that asshole?” I counter.

“Because he has a track record of offering free legal assistance to people like us,” Edwin says.

“He’s Melanie’s ex.”

“She literally offered to put you in touch with him. I doubt she minds.”

I don’t like the casual quality of Edwin’s tone, or how easy it is for him to suggest this. He’s gotten fairly close to Melanie over the past few weeks. He ought to care more about her feelings.

“You don’t get it—he broke Melanie,” I argue. “You didn’t see the way she was crying last night. Like, she was trying to push the tears back into her eyes or something, but they just kept coming.”

“Ha! I knew it!” Edwin shouts, so loud I jump and nearly smack my head against the window.

“Knew what?” I ask, already regretting following this line of questioning.

“You have the hots for her,” he says triumphantly. “You can’t resist a damsel in distress. That’s why you’re calling me in a panic over her coffee order.”

“Bullshit,” I say, inexplicably thinking about the way her throat bobbed when she swallowed my beer, and how she flushed when I touched her face.

Aw, hell. I have the hots for her.

“Her coffee’s gonna get cold. I have to go,” I grumble.

Edwin’s still laughing when I hang up the phone.

I find Melanie in the stable with GT like last night, but this time she’s not hiding. She’s mucked out the stall, fed him, and button-braided his mane. His coat is glossy on one side, and she’s busy working the other with a soft-bristle brush. I watch her a moment, appreciating the slow, thorough way she’s taking care of him.

Okay, fine. I’m also appreciating the gentle slope of her shoulders as she moves the brush over his withers, and the way her riding breeches hug the firm curve of her ass. Which I shouldnotbe doing, since we’re barely on speaking terms, I’ve spent the last few weeks berating her, and I’m supposed to be coaching her, not ogling her. But there’s something unbelievably appealing about her standing there in muddy Frye boots with her hair falling out of a messy bun, knowing that in an hour or so she’ll be buttoned up and polished again, not a hair out of place or a speck of mud to be found. I stop short of picturing being the reason she gets unbuttoned again, and clear my throat so she knows I’m here.

She looks up from GT and smiles shyly when she sees it’s me lingering in front of his stall. Her cheeks are faintly pink. Lord help me if that’s from my presence and not the chill in the early November air.

“So you decided to compete?” I ask.

She nods. “I want to help you, and…don’t laugh, but…I want to make myself proud.”

“I’d never laugh at you for something like that,” I say.

Her mouth twists and she arches an eyebrow at me. “Maybe laugh a little. It’s weirding me out how nice you’re being.”

“I’ve said two sentences to you today,” I splutter.

“Neither contained a curse word or a disparaging remark. Plus you’re holding two coffees, so I’m assuming one is mine. I’m a little concerned you’ve sustained some kind of head injury,” she says.

NowI’mthe one blushing. I’m going to throttle Edwin for making me aware of this…situation. Melanie’s finally committed to this competition, and now I’m distracted as hell and unprepared to work.

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