Page 27 of Run for the Money

“Oh, of course! Don’t let me keep you from your afternoon,” Paul says. “I appreciate you coming in, and I’ll let you know if I need anything else from you.”

He stands up, hand out for a firm handshake. I stand and shake it, feeling like an imposter. This is the only suit I own, and I haven’t worn it since my mom’s wedding. It’s lucky I haven’t lost the tie. Paul’s office might be simple and understated, but we’re dressed the same. His regular Wednesday clothes are my special occasion duds. He can afford to give me free legal help for kicks, while I’m six months away from financial ruin if that legal help doesn’t get the bank off my ass. He’s the nicest person Melanie knows, and I’m a jackass she tolerates for access to my horse.

It doesn’t matter if Paul treats me like a peer; I know my place.

I’ve got time to kill before dinner with Melanie’s parents, so I head to the nearest florist. According to Edwin, flowers are the kind of thing you’re supposed to bring to a dinner party. He’s more civilized than I am, so I scan the buckets of fresh blooms for something impressive. It’s not until I’m at the checkout counter with an extravagantly large bouquet of geraniums that I realize this isn’t just any florist—it’s the florist where Paul’s brother’s mother-in-law works.

These people are haunting me.

I buy the geraniums anyway, and hurry out of the shop so I’m not late to dinner. As much as I’ve reassured Melanie that it’ll be fine, I’m as nervous as she is that I’m going to fuck it up. I don’t have manners; I’m just good at faking it. If I’m going to get through the night without pissing Melanie off, I need to walk into the house relaxed, not agitated about how much I don’t belong in her world.

Unfortunately, when I pull up to the address Melanie gave me, “house” suddenly feels inadequate to describe the colossal building in front of me. “Country manor” is probably more accurate, given the elegant stonework and artfully trimmed hedges in front of the sprawling brick building. I’m hesitant to use the driveway, in case they’ve got some kind of state-of-the-art paving stones that will recognize my decade-old truck as inferior and launch it back onto the street the moment its tires dare to roll over them. The tie around my neck suddenly feels twice as tight as it did in Paul’s office.

The thick oak front door is more intimidating than the driveway. This shouldn’t bother me so much. I’ve been to dinners at dozens of rich people’s ostentatious, ridiculous homeswithout incident. But those weren’tMelanie’sostentatious, ridiculous homes, so I didn’t really care what kind of impression I made. Tonight, I care a lot more than I should.

I press the doorbell gingerly, afraid to smudge it up with my working-class finger. A middle-aged man with Melanie’s piercing blue eyes opens the door quickly enough for me to know everyone’s waiting on me, even though it’s only 6:57 and there aren’t other cars in the driveway.

“Hello, you must be Nicholas. I’m Mark Archer. Pleasure to meet you. The ladies are waiting for us in the parlor—right this way,” he says, leading me through a doorway to the left and into an opulently decorated living room without so much as a nod, let alone a handshake or an opportunity to tell him not to call me Nicholas.

I’m not calling the room a parlor, either, even in my own head. Sure, the floor is covered in a rug so thick it swallows the sound of my uncomfortable dress shoes, and the walls are covered in honest-to-God oil paintings, but thinking of it as a living room is the one thing helping me stay sane.

A woman who bears a striking resemblance to Melanie—if her hair were steel-gray and her eyebrows were plucked into sharp Vs and frozen in perpetual surprise—is sitting on an ivory-colored couch, her ankles crossed demurely to the side, and a coupe of champagne held elegantly in one hand. Melanie stands from her spot next to her mother to greet me, and I have to clench my teeth together to keep my jaw from dropping.

The problem with this dinner isn’t me or my manners—it’s Melanie in a low-cut black dress and high-heels, her hair curled into soft waves around her face. It’s not immodest; I’ve seen more of her body in her riding clothes. Well, there’s more cleavage than usual, but the skirt flows loosely around her thighs, hiding the powerful muscles I typically get to ogle every day while she trains. But standing in her parents’ living room, afraid to move in case I accidentally break one of the expensive-looking knickknacks or the antique-looking console tables they’re sitting on, I’m not thinking about horses or competition. I feel about sixteen years old, dazzled by the slightest hint of sexuality. She might as well be my homecoming date, not the professional athlete I’m shepherding toward Olympic dreams.

I know exactly how this dinner would go if sheweremy homecoming date. We’d make polite conversation during the meal while her parents scrutinized me. They wouldn’t find anything concrete to complain about, but they’d still eye me with disapproval because they know full well they’ve never seen my parents at the country club, so there’s not a chance I’m good enough for their little girl. Their “little girl” would know it, too—it would be the reason she picked me in the first place.

Once we were out the door, she’d pounce, and I’d oblige. We’d make out in my truck in the driveway long enough to make sure her parents saw, then tear out of here like bats out of hell. After putting in an appearance at the dance, we’d drive out somewhere remote and fool around until just past her curfew. There’d be dry humping, and she might let me finger her—she’d want to go home smelling like sex and my cheap cologne, but she’d never do anything to risk mingling our DNA, because the whole night would be about toothless teenage rebellion for her, not love or even lust—then I’d drop her off at home, and drive back to my shitty apartment to angrily jerk off in the shower, because despite feeling used and discarded, I’d still be horny as fuck.

But Melanie’s not my homecoming date. She might come from the same world as every girl who ever wounded my teenage pride, but she’s not using me like they did. I’m here because it’s important to her, full stop. If anyone’s using anyone, it’s me using her to save my business—both by persuading her to compete and by going to her ex-boyfriend for free legal assistance. Tonight’s not going to include making out, or clumsy hand stuff in a dim parking lot. Angrily jerking off in the shower is still on the table, but instead of being angry at the world and my circumstances, I’ll be angry at myself for picturing Melanie bent over her parents’ ornate dining table, the ivory tablecloth twisted in her fists and her fancy black dress bunched up around her waist while I fuck her senseless. It’s not going to happen, so the sooner I stop fantasizing about it, the better off we’ll both be.

“Hi, Nick. This is my mom, Sheryl,” Melanie says, snapping me back to reality.

I do my best to smile at Sheryl and ignore my meatball-brain. The meatball doesn’t care that Melanie’s parents are here; it wants me to dig my fingers into Melanie’s hair and kiss her until her dark red lipstick is worn away. I cannot let the meatball be in charge tonight.

“Mom, this is my new show jumping coach, Nick Korbel,” Melanie continues. “He’s Lisa Conway’s son.”

Turns out Sheryl’s brows aren’t totally frozen, because they scoot higher up her forehead at the mention of my mother. She and Mark exchange a glance, and the atmosphere in the room noticeably chills.

“Wonderful to finally meet you, Nicholas,” Sheryl says, extending a hand to me.

Her emphasis on “finally” is subtle, but unmissable. I shake her hand, unsure if she’s more upset about my mom abandoning her daughter years ago, or not meeting me prior to last weekend’s competition. I’m beginning to understand Melanie’s anxiety about this meal.

“Oh, please, call me Nick. Nicholas is my father. You’ve got a lovely home,” I say, doing my best to keep my tone light.

“So, you’re Lisa’s boy. This is serious, then? Last weekend wasn’t an isolated event?” Sheryl asks, skipping past the rest of the pleasantries.

I glance at Melanie, concern mounting. This can’t possibly be the first her parents are hearing about her return to show jumping. We’ve been training for nearly a month, and we’ve booked travel for four more competitions. She wouldn’t hide that much of her life from her parents. Right?

“Very serious,” Melanie says, sounding nervous.

Oh God. She hid this from her parents.

“Nick, let me fix you a drink,” Mark says, clapping me on the shoulder. “Scotch?”

He phrases it like a question, but his grip tells another story. It’s as subtle as Sheryl’sfinally, but he’s pushing me deeper into the living room, away from Melanie and her mother. Sheryl’s champagne is abandoned on a side table, and she’s got ahold of Melanie’s wrist instead.

“You’re a little old to be playing pony. I thought we agreed it was time for you to settle down, start a family. That’s why we invited him,” Sheryl whispers—but not quietly enough.

---