Page 23 of Run for the Money

I could always tell my parents the truth—that there’s nothing romantic happening between Nick and me. But that will make them more suspicious. They’ll behave exactly the same way—interrogating Nick like national security is at stake—but Dad will repeatedly wink at me, as though we’re sharing some kind of secret and Mom will sigh twice as much as a normal person ever does. Even if Nick doesn’t pick up on the crush, he’ll definitely notice all of the weirdness and judge me for it.

Worse, Nick could decide there’s not enough star power in my bones to warrant sticking around through this nonsense, and he’ll find some other rider to save his butt. Which, I have to admit, is a pretty nice butt from what I’ve seen through all the perfectly broken-in Levi’s he wears. Today’s pair is no exception. He bends over, manure fork in hand, and I bite my lip so I don’t audibly gasp at the sight. This is the first time I’ve ever found the act of mucking out stalls sexy. From my ineffective hiding spot by the open stable door, I’ve got a front-row seat to the Nick Korbel Buns Show, and it is absolutely worth the price of admission.

“Pretty good view, isn’t it?” Edwin whispers, coming around the side of the stable to find me staring.

Okay, leering.

“Something unrequited going on you want to tell me about?” I tease quietly.

“Not from me.” He holds up his left hand and the gold wedding band on his fourth finger glints. “Even if there were, pretty sure my wife would fight him for me. God, I love her. I keep telling Nick he should get a wife, too, but he’s not warming up to the idea yet.”

“Commitment-phobe?” I ask, hoping the shadows are hiding the sudden flush the thought of Nick getting married brought to my cheeks.

“The phobiest,” Edwin says. “The man’s longest relationship is with that pair of jeans, and I’ve got it on good authority he bought ‘em last winter.”

It’s a disappointing answer, but I have to shake it off. I’ve got no reason to be dreaming of wedding bells when Nick has said a grand total of seven words to me since we left Cheyenne, and four of them were “See you on Monday,” as I left the ranch on Saturday night. All the hugging and smiling after I won was about winning. One unexpectedly raw conversation in a hotel bar and a few twirls in each other’s arms doesn’t mean things are different now. We’re not even friends. I’m here because he needs a win, and that’s exactly what I gave him last weekend.

Nick turns around with his manure fork full of dirty hay and catches sight of Edwin and me watching him. He’s madder than I’ve ever seen him, which is such a contrast to the unprecedented—if restrained—joy of our drive home from Cheyenne that I take a step backward.

“Hey! What are you doing here?” he barks.

I open my mouth to give him a furious, wounded piece of my mind because I’m supposed to be here today for training, but he keeps shouting.

“Those trails aren’t going to clear themselves, Soteres. I told you to get it done before noon. Move it!”

His anger isn’t directed at me, I realize, but Edwin.

“What did you do?” I hiss.

Edwin grins at me, then winks. “Nothing I wouldn’t do again. Learn from my mistakes, though, Melanie. He’s a wild mustang—has to be broken before you can ride him safely.”

Now I’m definitely blushing. I’m not sure what Edwin means, but I can think of all sorts of ways to ride Nick safely, and none of those images are helpful at the moment. My goal is to act normal around Nick, not giggle and fall apart like tween with her first crush.

Once Edwin has sauntered off to take care of the trails, Nick turns to me and offers his signature mouth twitch before slinging the shovelful of hay into the manure pile. His expression is a lot milder than the rage he turned on Edwin, but all of the weekend’s happiness is gone and we’re right back where we started.

“Sorry about that. I wasn’t yelling at you,” he says.

I shrug. “Felt pretty normal, actually. It’s nice to see your anger management problems are back in full force.”

His eyes roll skyward and his jaw tenses. “Yeah, yeah, I’m a dick. Get GT ready, and let’s get moving.”

I don’t budge. If I don’t tell him about dinner before we start training, I’ll chicken out. If I show up to dinner on Wednesday without him, there will be more dinner invitations until Idoshow up with him. Better to take care of it now, so we can all move on.

“I actually need to talk to you about something first,” I say.

Nervousness flickers over Nick’s face. It’s not enough. He should be breaking out in a cold sweat and running for the hills—he just doesn’t know it yet.

“Okay, go ahead,” he says.

“My parents have invited you over for dinner on Wednesday.”

The change in him is immediate—shoulders dropped, forehead smooth, fists unclenched around the handle of the manure fork.

“Oh, okay. What time?” he asks.

“Did you hear what I said? Dinner with myparents,” I repeat. He must not have heard the parents part, or he wouldn’t be so calm.

“What’s the big deal? You’re looking at me like you just invited me to my own execution, not dinner,” he says.

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