Page 22 of Run for the Money

The meatball that’s taken over for my brain doesn’t think that’s a bad idea at all. A lifetime of Melanie harassing me doesn’t sound like a punishment, which isn’t a great sign in terms of keeping our relationship professional. And yet, I don’t let go of her. The meatball doesn’t know how to do that.

The eighteenth rider starts her run. She’s a seasoned pro, ten years older than Melanie. If any of the remaining riders are going to unseat Melanie, it’s her. When she steers her horse toward the starting line, Melanie shuts her eyes. I keep mine peeled, watching to see how this athlete handles the course. Her approach to the first jump is slower than Melanie’s, but she makes the speed up in the middle of the course, taking narrower turns than she needs to in order to shave off seconds. It works for her—she crosses the finish line a hundredth of a second faster than the first place rider, sending Melanie down to third.

“She’s first, isn’t she?” Melanie asks, her voice barely audible under the cheers from the stands behind us.

“Yep,” I say. “But there’s still a—”

“Shhhh, no,” she snaps. “No! Jinxes!”

“Think you can watch the last two riders?” I ask. “It’s good to know who you’re up against.”

She forces one eye open, then the other. It genuinely looks like a struggle. I tell myself that’s why I tug her closer by our joined hands until our thighs are pressed together and her chin is basically tucked against my shoulder. She doesn’t protest or try to move away. If anything, she leans into me.

We sit frozen like that as the nineteenth rider takes his place. From the moment he starts the course, I know he’s not a threat. He miscalculates the speed of his approach to the first jump, and by the third he’s lost momentum and barely clears it. It’s a close enoughcall to spook his horse, and instead of heading along the course, his stallion pulls left. He corrects the horse and gets back on track, but horse disobedience is a penalty. It doesn’t matter how fast he finishes—he can’t touch the top three scores.

The final rider steps up to the starting line. Melanie exhales shakily. I know better than to say anything this time; I just squeeze her hand. The wait for the buzzer to start is eternal. Time moves molasses-slow as the athlete urges her horse through the course. I see everything in fragments: hooves curving millimeters over bars; dirt flying outward from the force of a thousand-pound animal hitting the ground; black riding boots pressing into gray horsehair; the woman’s eyes, fixed straight ahead at the finish line.

She crosses the finish line and I see the clock: 0:57:3…but that’s all I can see. The last digit is blocked by the horse’s rump. I look to the screen over the arena, but the scores have disappeared while the judges calculate final places. Until it reloads, there’s no way to know if the last rider beat Melanie’s time.

Either she gets third place, or we go into a jump-off. I refuse to acknowledge the other possibility. Melanie’s nails dig into the back of my hand, her grip rivaling mine. I’m not sure she’s breathing, her eyes fixed on the screen. It blinks, and then the chart repopulates under the heading, “Final Results.”

Her grip turns lethal and she shrieks. I blink to make sure I’m seeing it correctly, but the words on the screen don’t budge. I think my heart might burst out of my chest. Acting on instinct alone, I pull her into a hug, straight-jacket tight. She sways with me on the seat, laughing in shock and joy.

“Third place,” she says, amazed. “Nick, I placed.”

“I’m so fuckin’ proud of you,” I say, loosening the hug to grin at her. “I knew you had it in you!”

“Oh my God, I didn’t know you could smile,” she says, shoving my shoulder with hers.

Her face is too close to mine. Too much of her body is in contact with mine. I can’t be this close to her or I’m going to do something stupid, like kiss her, so I stand up, pulling her to her feet beside me. I ease backward, cool air filling the new space between us.

“Go get GT and get up to that podium, Miss Manners. Time to show the world Melanie Archer isn’t finished—she’s just getting started.”

She blushes, her smile illuminating her whole face. I turn her toward the stables and put gentle pressure between her shoulder blades. She takes the hint and jogs off to retrieve the horse. I swipe a hand over my face, feeling the smile she just made fun of me for. I can’tbelieve I’ve never smiled at her before. That’s something I’ve got to correct, especially if a smile can make her blush like that.

I shake my head, like I could knock the thought out. That’s dangerous territory. I need to remember what this relationship is—professional—and act like it. Even if I can still feel the phantom weight of her body against my side.

My hand is numb for the duration of the medal ceremony, tiny half-moons pressed into my skin from her nails. Every time I get a glimpse of the marks, I grin again. Melanie stands on the podium, a polite, gracious smile on her face as she leans forward so an official can loop a medal over her neck. GT stands just behind her, his long face peeking out from behind her, a modest floral wreath around his neck. It’s an image I’ll remember for the rest of my life.

After the official portrait is taken, someone shouts for the winners to come collect their paperwork from the jury table. I step forward to take GT’s lead so Melanie can go, but she’s not paying attention to the officials—her eyes are locked onto me. Instead of passing me the horse’s lead, she leaps into my waiting arms. I catch her as easily as if I were expecting it—hoping for it, even. Then like some corny-ass romance movie, I twirl her around, our cheeks pressed together. I don’t even mind that the edge of her helmet is pressed against my skull. She clings to me, laughing, and I’m pretty sure this is the greatest moment of my life. I never want to set her down.

I am so royally fucked.

Chapter 7

Melanie

Ihave two enormous problems hanging over me when I get to Nick’s the Monday after the competition. First, and most pressing, is that my secret’s out. My phone’s been lighting up non-stop with messages from friends and family about placing third this weekend. Most of the messages are simply links to the event results followed by strings of question marks and exclamation points. Unfortunately for me—and Nick—my parents’ response was a little more detailed.

Which brings me to the place where my first problem and my second problem collide. I’m about eighty percent sure I’ve developed a crush on Nick. On its own, it’s a minor crisis. But my parents want to meet him. At their house. For a formal dinner. In two days. The last time I brought a man to their house for a formal dinner, it was Paul, and he nearly died of embarrassment under the weight of their scrutiny, which makes this dinner a major crisis.

The link my parents sent me along with their dinner invitation is a blog post with a great big splashy photo at the top of Nick hugging me. I’ve stared at the photo for an unmentionable amount of time, so I know his hands are in a perfectly respectable place for a coach’s hands to be: one banded across my shoulders, and the other pressed against my mid-back. My legs are kicked up in the air, and there are a merciful six inches of open space between my hips and his. All body language points to something entirely platonic. The problem is my face. I’m in profile, but the stars in my eyes practically leap off the screen anyway.

If there were any doubt about the conclusion my parents drew from the picture, Mom’s text cleared it up:

I didn’t realize there was a new man in your life. We’d love to meet him, since you’ve been spending a considerable amount of time together, apparently. Dinner is at seven-thirty on Wednesday. Cocktails at seven. Please do not be late.

They don’t think they’re sitting down to dinner with my new show jumping coach. My parents think they’re meeting a new boyfriend. That’s mostly my fault, since I promised them a long time ago that I was done chasing the Olympics, and for some reason they believed me. But I really don’t want them to treat him like a boyfriend, because he will notice, which will very rapidly lead to him noticing the aforementioned crush, and then the rest of these competitions are going to be a whole lot more uncomfortable than the first one. If we manage to make the Olympic team, it’ll be unbearably awkward. It’s a crisis sandwich, with a panic garnish.

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