Page 24 of Run for the Money

“It’s a formal dinner,” I say carefully, not sure how best to voice my worries.

“So? I’ve got fuckin’ table manners.”

I sweep my hand in front of me with a flourish, as though presenting Nick on a platter to Ophelia Jane, who’s been following the whole exchange with great interest.

“That. That is the big deal. The cursing, the shouting…my parents are a bit….” I hunt for the right word, twisting my fingers together. “Proper?”

He leans the manure fork against the side of the tack room with a sigh and walks toward me. Way too close. One more step, and he’s going to spot the blush.

“I can behave, Miss Manners.”

“You’re not really easing my fears yet,” I say, taking a shaky step backward. “The way you addressed Edwin a minute ago is a great example of why I’m nervous.”

Also the way my heart beats faster than usual when Nick looks at me, the way my parents will talk to him, and the inevitable moment when the conversation will turn to show jumping and all of my raw, tender feelings on the matter will be ripped open and laid out for the room to feast on. But those are private fears.

“I promise I’ll be a perfect fuckin’ gentleman,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest and frowning at me, dark eyes boring into mine.

Thank God he can’t see the ripple of goosebumps along my spine. I’m not sure what exactly that says about me, but I don’t have time to dwell on it while I’m trying to convey the gravity of the situation we’re in.

“You’ll have to wear a suit. With a jacket,” I say. “And a tie.”

“I figured. What’re you really getting at? Do you want me to say no, and refuse to go? You need an excuse from your coach to blow off your parents?” he asks. “Explain what’s going on, and maybe I can help you. Otherwise, you need to do all this floundering on the back of a horse. We leave Thursday for the next competition, and I liked winning. Think you might have, too, so we ought to focus on that, instead of how I’m going to embarrass you in front of your folks by eating strawberries with a shrimp fork instead of a strawberry fork, or whatever unforgivable crime against etiquette you think I’m gonna commit.”

“There’s no way Mom would serve strawberries or shrimp this close to Thanksgiving. Those are summer foods,” I mumble, because I’ve done a splendid job of embarrassing myself without anyone’s help.

He shoves his hands in his back pockets, then pulls them out and crosses his arms again, looking every bit as uncomfortable as I feel. I wish I could rewind the morning and start over. Given another shot at it, I wouldn’t immediately set fire to all the goodwill Nick and I established over the weekend.

“About how I spoke to Edwin…it’s stupid,” Nick says. “He was hassling me all morning about a…tricky subject…and he knows he pushed my buttons. We’ll be fine. He can give as good as he gets. I promise I’ll be on my best behavior with your parents, and I promise my best behavior is decent.”

“You’ve got a lot of tricky subjects, don’t you?” I ask, too curious to resist prodding at the aforementioned buttons.

Nick scrubs a hand over his face, which does nothing to hide the rush of color to his cheeks.

“He was bugging me about a woman, okay? Makin’ fun of me for having feelings and not acting on them, like I didn’t listen to him mooning over his wife for a thousand fuckin’ years before he got up the nerve to tell her,” he says, not meeting my eyes. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

I nod, ignoring the stinging sensation in my chest. “Right. None of my business. So, cocktails are at seven on Wednesday, dinner afterward. Don’t be late. I’ll text you the address.”

I hurry toward GT’s stable without waiting for his response. He doesn’t need to see how much I care about that revelation, because I shouldn’t care at all. Nick’s got a whole life that doesn’t involve me; I shouldn’t be surprised that life involves women, or that his feelings for one of them are “nothing I need to worry about.”

For the next two days, I throw myself into training with an intensity I’ve never exhibited before. I’m in the stable getting GT ready before Nick finishes his morning chores, and I don’t stop riding until Nick orders me off the horse so I don’t injure GT. I don’t stop there, though. After riding, I head to my gym for cross-conditioning for my own stamina. By Wednesday morning, I’m exhausted and my legs feel like stretched taffy someone lit on fire, but I’ve gone nearly forty-eight hours without imagining Nick naked.

He texts at six, just after sunrise, to cancel training:

Stay home this morning. You’re running my horse ragged, and don’t think I haven’t noticed how sore you are, too. Go back to sleep.

I type and delete, “Make me,” “Yes sir,” “Or what?” and, “Do I get a prize if I do?” before admitting he might have a point. I wouldn’t text a single one of those things to him if I were well-rested. If he were standing in front of me, I definitely wouldn’t have the gall to say them out loud. In the end, I settle on something I hope feels closer to how I normally speak to him:

Fine. Don’t forget to wear a tie tonight.

His answer comes in quickly, accompanied by a picture of a sad clown in an enormous purple necktie:

Don’t worry, Miss Manners. I’ve already picked out my outfit.

This is not the least bit reassuring.

Okay—how’s this one?

My phone slips out of my hands when I see the picture attached to his latest message. I scramble to unearth it from the depths of my duvet so I can make sure my eyes aren’t deceiving me. My second glance proves the first was accurate: it’s him, in a tailored slate gray suit, complete with a dusty blue silk tie. It fits him infinitely better than the crappy rental tux he had on the night we met, and suddenly I’m picturing my fingers loosening the tie and sliding it free of his collar. There goes my forty-eight hour No-Naked-Nick-Fantasies streak.

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