Page 26 of Run for the Money

I pout and burrow deeper into my clothes-nest. “What gives him the right to be so beautiful and so unavailable?”

“That’s the spirit!” Olivia says. “Make him feel the same way—wear the Anna Sui, and for the love of God, tart it up a little. Wear a decent bra, swipe on some lipstick. Fluster that man in front of your parents. It’ll make the awkward small talk a lot more bearable.”

I blow a raspberry at the phone, even though I’m going to take every single scrap of her advice. If I have to look at Nick Korbel in a suit all night, he’s going to get an eyeful of cleavage. It’s only fair.

“While I’ve got you, I have gossip,” Olivia says.

Something cautious in her tone of voice catches my attention. She’s not normally hesitant about sharing other people’s juicy news, so the restraint is unsettling.

“What?”

“It’s about Paul, and it’s pure speculation, but since you’re moving on—”

“Nope, don’t want to hear it,” I interrupt. “Last time I speculated about Paul’s life, I wound up showing his girlfriend my tits. That’s not an experience I need to repeat.”

Olivia chews the side of her cheek. “You know what, you’re right. Better to focus on how to make sure Nick’s too distracted by your hotness to notice your mom silently judging the way he holds his silverware. Call me after—I want all the details.”

I blow her a kiss, then hang up. I find the Anna Sui dress near the top of the tangle of garments on my bed, then hang it on the back of my closet door so I can steam out the wrinkles before tonight. Then I head for the vanity by the window to look through my lipsticks for the right shade. If I throw myself into the task, hopefully it’ll keep me from thinking too much about what Paul is up to that warrants gossiping about, or about what Nick is doing in that suit on his unexpected day off.

Chapter 8

Nick

Paul Walters sets down the sheaf of papers he’s been reading and folds his hands on top of them, a satisfied look on his face.

“This is an impressively thorough case, Mr. Korbel,” he says. “You’ve done your homework—I have everything I need to get started. I’ll attempt to contact your father this week, and we’ll go from there. How recent is this last address for him, the Carmel Canyon apartment?”

I adjust the blue knot at the base of my neck, wondering if I tied it too tightly or if all ties are this uncomfortable. “He was there three years ago, as best I can figure. Haven’t had much contact with him since I was a teenager, though. He could be anywhere, but probably not too far from a racetrack, likely in southern California.”

Paul nods knowingly as he makes a note on the legal pad in front of him with a fountain pen. I’m surprised by how normal everything is in his office. I was expecting sleek leather chairs, a giant imposing desk, tasteless but expensive modern art, and conspicuous awards flaunting the man’s endless good deeds. Aside from impressive views of the mountains through his corner office windows and the fancy pen, the space is functional, simple, and utterly ordinary.

His desk is huge, but that’s to accommodate the numerous, neatly organized file folders next to his computer and telephone. There are legal reference books on a bookcase to the left of the desk, opposite the windows. One shelf is reserved for photographs of his loved ones—a grown-up and unexpectedly blonde Diana, some other siblings I recognize from my Instagram stalking, and the infamous new girlfriend. The only art on the walls is a large landscape watercolor of a mountainside. His sister-in-law painted it—something else I remember from my online creeping.

It’s not just the office that surprises me, though. Paul isn’t the kind of man I imagined. He’s calm, polite, humble, and irritatingly hard to dislike. Within five minutes, he’d agreedto take on my case, free of charge. By the time I finished a cup of coffee—which Paul brewed for me himself, no assistant in sight—he’d told me he was confident he could have the matter wrapped up by the new year. It would feel miraculous if I didn’t feel like I was betraying Melanie just by sitting in this chair.

I realize she’s the reason I’m in the chair to begin with, but I don’t like sitting across from her ex-boyfriend while he proves her right. He’s a good person, so far as I can tell. I can also—begrudgingly—admit he’s as good-looking in person as he is on the internet. No wonder Miss Manners is so busted up about him.

Part of me had been hoping for some obvious flaw in his character, something I could hang onto, so I could feel less guilty about disliking him. Hating him feels a bit like kicking dirt at a bunny rabbit; it’s not a fair fight. But he hurt Melanie, so I hate him on principle.

Paul stops writing and puts down his pen. “If he’s not at that address, I’ll hire a PI. It’ll extend the timeline, but shouldn’t change anything else.”

Great. More shit I’ll owe Paul for, karmically.

“About payment…I know you said you’d do this for free, but that feels like robbing you,” I say. “I doubt I can afford your regular rate, but maybe we can work out a sliding scale or something.”

“That’s not necessary,” he insists. “I know a thing or two about having a disappointing father. Trust me when I say it’s my pleasure to help you. I won’t accept payment.”

Dammit. I can’t even roll my eyes at the sentiment, because he’s right. What little contact I had with Paul and Diana’s late father was miserable. He was always belittling my mother and Diana during competitions. When he wasn’t shouting at my mom about Diana’s scores, he was trying to chat her up, often in front of his wife. The man was a disaster—rich and powerful, but a disaster. Things always went better when he wasn’t around.

“Thanks, then,” I say stiffly. “Didn’t really know what else to do.”

“I was glad to get your call, if you don’t mind me saying so,” he says. “I’ve always worried the accident harmed your family as much as it did mine.”

“We survived,” I say with a shrug. “Mom’s got a nice life for herself now—retired in Aspen. Got remarried a few years back. I’ve got my ranch here, so we’re fine. Is…how is Diana doing?”

Confusion passes over his face. “She’s doing really well—she’s running a horse rescue up in the mountains. Still riding. I didn’t realize you weren’t in touch with her.”

“Not for a while now,” I say, realizing too late he must have assumed she was the person who gave me his number. I don’t want to get into the Melanie of it all, so I scoot my chair back from his desk. “Glad she’s alright. If we’re all set here...”

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