Page 29 of Run for the Money

“Mom, please drop it. We have company,” Melanie says, eyes downcast and her cheeks pink with mortification.

“I apologize, Nicholas. This isn’t the evening I envisioned,” Sheryl says to me.

Melanie’s fork clatters onto her plate. “His name is Nick. I told you about a thousand times. He asked you to call him Nick. So call him Nick.”

I could kiss her for that. She doesn’t need to defend me while she’s in the middle of a parental offensive.

“Manners, Melanie!” Sheryl hisses.

“I’m not trying to be cruel, sweetheart, but we’ve discussed this,” Mark says loudly, as though that will erase Melanie’s outburst. “You knew when you quit show jumping that it was your responsibility to commit to something else. Our disappointment can’t be a surprise, because you haven’t held up your end of the bargain.”

“We’ve been very patient with you,” Sheryl adds. “You flit from job to job, you refuse every offer to serve on the board of any organization, and you spend all your time volunteering at that farm—” She cuts herself off with a gasp. “You’ve been riding horses at the farm, haven’t you?”

Mark sets down his fork as though the realization that his daughter has been illicitly horseback riding right under his nose for years has ruined his appetite.

“How I spend my time—” Melanie starts.

“How you spend your time, and who you spend it with, reflects on the family,” Mark says.

Melanie’s chair screeches across the floor as she stands up.

“So what if I kept riding? So what if I’m competing again? I really don’t care how it ‘reflects on the family,’” she says, raising her fingers to make air quotes. “I’m not a kid anymore, so it’s not your decision what I do or don’t do, and it’s not your choice who I spend my time with. I’m not a trophy for you to trot out at gallery openings or board luncheons. I’m a person, with her own life! My return to show jumping has nothing to do with you. And for the record? I don’t actually care if it was embarrassing for you when Paul dumped me, or when he showed up at your gallery with some other woman. None of that was about you, but you were so concerned about how it ‘reflected on the family’ that you never stopped to notice that it crushed me.”

“Melanie, sit down,” Mark says.

“You’re making a scene!” Sheryl adds in a hissed whisper.

Melanie sighs and shakes her head. “No, I’m making an exit. Even when I’m screaming, you won’t hear me, so I’m done. Let me know when you’re ready to listen.”

I scramble to my feet to storm out with her, without a backward glance—though I’m sorely tempted to throw a middle finger over my shoulder at them. Melanie held her ownwithout my help; no need to steal her thunder. Even though I’ve got a few things to say to her about warning a man when he’s walking into a battlefield, I’m more than a little turned on by the strength of her backbone.

The moment the front door slams shut behind us, Melanie covers her face with her hands and shudders. An icy breeze sweeps past, and the shudders become shivers. Her shoulders are bare, and I don’t think the tights on her legs are much of a barrier to the weather.

“You bring a jacket?” I ask.

She drops her hands and shoots a wistful glance at the closed door. “Yeah.”

“I can grab it for you—”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll get it another time. I’ve got what I need,” she interrupts, sticking her hands into her skirt. She pulls them out again, her keys and phone in her grasp. “I’ve got pockets.”

I shrug out of my suit jacket and drape it over her shoulders.

“Nick, don’t. I’m fine,” she whispers, trying to duck out of it.

“If you get sick running around in the cold and miss this weekend’s competition, it’s really going to undercut the impact of that storm-out,” I say, holding the jacket in place. “If you’re all set, let’s get the hell out of here. Where’s your car?”

“I took an Uber,” she says. “Figured I’d need a cocktail or two to manage dinner. Turns out I can’t even manage a salad course.”

I push her toward my truck, one palm in the center of her shoulder blades. “Mine it is.”

“I can find my own way home,” she says, resisting slightly.

I open the passenger side door of my truck. “Get in, Miss Manners.”

“Why?”

I sigh. “Guess Edwin’s right. I can’t fuckin’ resist a damsel in distress.”

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