Page 28 of Run for the Money

“I never agreed to that. Can we talk about this later?” Melanie whispers back.

Playing pony? Jesus. I’d probably hide shit from my parents, too, if I were in her shoes. Since I’m firmly in my own shoes, I have the urge to grab her hand and tug her out of this house, all the way back to my stables so she can saddle up whichever horse she wants and run.

I take a respectable swallow of the scotch Mark pushes into my hands in a bid to dissolve the image. It’s a step too far over the line. Lust I can handle. Being attracted to Melanie on a purely physical level is something I can deal with quietly and privately. Thinking about running away with her—for her emotional well-being, not so I can tear her out of that pretty little dress and taste every inch of her skin—is feelings territory. I don’t belong in feelings territory any more than I belong in this room.

“Let’s eat,” Mark announces, too loudly. “I’m sure Melanie’s worked up an appetite with her recent athletic endeavors.”

Sheryl aims a tight smile at him, then releases Melanie’s wrist. “Show your guest to the dining room, Melanie,” she says, as though the dining table isn’t in full view through the wide archway behind the couch.

Melanie meets my gaze for the first time in what feels like hours, and the pull to get her out of here strengthens. She looks sad. Defeated. It’s the way she looked when I found her in the hotel bar, and I’ve never regretted yelling at her more than I do now. I cross the room to her so we can walk to the dining room together while her parents linger behind to have a rushed, hissed conversation.

“You gonna make it through this?” I ask Melanie quietly.

Her frown deepens. “Are you? They’re just getting started.”

“Better mind the turns and keep your eyes forward, then,” I say.

She gives me a quizzical look and I shrug.

“All my advice is horse-related.”

That gets a hint of a smile out of her, which is probably the best I can do under the circumstances. We take our seats, directly across from each other and I fiddle with the napkin—a cream-colored, unbelievably soft fabric I can’t imagine using for something as messy as wiping food off my face. Her parents join us, sitting across from each other. In another context, the arrangement might be cozy, but for the four of us tonight, it’s approaching hostile.

Sheryl picks up a small crystal bell from next to her napkin and rings it. A large white door behind her opens and a man in a chef’s coat steps out, pushing a brass cart ahead of him. On top of the cart are four elaborately plated salads. Sheryl doesn’t so much as flinch when he sets hers in front of her, but I catch Melanie mouthing “Thank you,” when he delivers hers, so I do the same when it’s my turn. The room is eerily quiet until the chef disappears back into what I assume is the kitchen.

“So, Nicholas, what is your interpretation of this…situation?” Sheryl asks me.

“Nick,” Melanie mutters.

Sheryl ignores her correction, but I appreciate it all the same. I take my time chewing the mouthful of leaves and berries I shoveled into my gob, because I’m not sure what “situation” Sheryl’s referring to—my presence in her daughter’s life? Melanie jumping again? This cursed dinner party?

“The show jumping, that is,” Sheryl clarifies.

I’ve got to work on my poker face.

“Andrew Carmichael atHorse & Hounddescribed Melanie’s performance as an ‘upset’ and an ‘unlikely event.’ Is that your opinion as well?” Sherylpresses.

I don’t give a fuck what some snooty asshat at a magazine for people with expensive hobbies and too much free time thinks of Melanie’s performance. I get the distinct impression that’s not the answer Sheryl’s looking for, however.

“Melanie earned her spot on the podium,” I say instead. “She’s good. We’ve got our sights on the national team. If things keep going well, an Olympic qualification is in the picture.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Sheryl and Mark exchange yet another exasperated look, and Sheryl’s lips purse so tightly they almost disappear. Mark fixes his attention on Melanie, his brow furrowed. Melanie stares at her salad, and I wish more than anything she’d look up at me.

“Are you being realistic? That little show in Cheyenne is hardly the caliber of competition you’re used to, Melanie,” Mark says. “You can’t expect to swan in after all these years and start scooping up trophies again. You have to work for things, honey. They won’t always be handed to you.”

Little show?There’s nothing little about what Melanie achieved last weekend. I should be quiet. I should let Melanie handle this, show off some manners. But she still isn’t looking at me, so, naturally, I open my mouth.

“With all due respect, sir, Melanie’s working her ass—uh, her behind off. She’s kept her skills up, and these past few weeks, we’ve been refining and focusing on developing her bond with my horse, Grand Theft Equine. She knows what it takes to win,” I say.

Melanie finally looks at me, but it’s with panic, not gratitude. Ass is barely a curse word. I’m doing my best here, and I’d like some credit for that.

“Kept her skills up?” Sheryl asks. “She hasn’t been in shouting distance of a horse for a decade. Right, Melanie?”

What the fuck has Melanie dragged me into?

“I’ve…done a few trail rides over the years,” she lies.

Sheryl shakes her head. “I really am surprised at you. I thought this was a hobby you were sharing with a new friend, not some vain attempt to rewrite history. We want what’s best for you, and I know it’s not what you want to hear, but this isn’t what’s best, Melanie.”

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