Page 35 of Run for the Money

Nick

Fuck.

Chapter 11

Melanie

It is the longest night of my life. After we claim our beds—mine by the window, Nick’s by the door—I hide out in the hotel’s restaurant until I’m reasonably sure he’ll be in bed. He must have had the same idea, because the room is empty when I get back.

I change into pajamas at the speed of light, wishing I’d packed something cute instead of the threadbare Girl Scout camp t-shirt and flannel pants combo I stuffed in my suitcase. I do not touch the silky bathrobe I brought, which has now been rendered useless because there’s not a chance in hell I’d risk Nick seeing me in such a nipple-forward garment. Instead, I pull the covers up to my chin and will myself to sleep quietly—no snoring or weird sleep farts or drooling. Unsurprisingly, this doesn’t help me fall asleep.

When Nick comes back to the room around midnight, I’m still wide awake. After taking the longest shower any human being has ever taken, he moves quietly around the room, staying on his side of the privacy screen while he gets ready for bed. And then we both lay there, close enough that if the flimsy wood-and-paper screen weren’t there I could look him in the eye. The room smells like him, the steam from the shower spreading the warm, cedar-y scent that usually clings to his clothes through the air. Sleep is impossible in these conditions, so I don’t.

Nick doesn’t much sleep either, unless he turns like a rotisserie chicken on the spit during REM cycles. He gets out of bed before my alarm goes off in the morning, his silhouette moving around on the other side of the screen, and then disappears into the hall, the door snicking shut behind him. I take my first deep breath in hours.

I count to ten, to make sure he doesn’t double back for anything, then race to the shower. Wherever he’s gone, I hope he stays there long enough for me to be dressed and out to the arena before he gets back. I’m itching to get in the warm-up ring today. My body is stiff from all the hours in the truck, not to mention the restless, nervous energyI’ve been holding in since I walked into the hotel room. I need to syphon some of that energy off before the competition or I’m going to blow it.

The universe pays me back for the agony of the previous day. I get a (regular length) hot shower without interruption. I rush to get dressed so there’s no possibility of Nick walking into the room while I’m naked—even behind the security of the closed bathroom door—and manage to get all the pieces of my riding gear gathered up and ready to go in total solitude. Not willing to push my luck, I head down to the dining room where the hotel breakfast is served without even a nanosecond of dawdling.

Nick isn’t at breakfast, either, which bumps my spirits even higher. I eat blissfully alone, and even the fact that there’s no almond milk doesn’t bum me out too much. Without milk, the hotel coffee is undrinkable garbage, but I’ll have to get by without it. The food is decent, and that’s more important for competition anyway.

My Nick-free morning ends when I leave breakfast to prep GT. Nick is in the lobby, armed with two coffee cups. He scans the people gathered by the elevator banks, and then squints at the doorway where I’m standing. Recognition catches in his face and he makes a beeline for me. Even though my brain screams,Run!my feet don’t move.

Nick stops in front of me and clears his throat a few times, like he’s forgotten how to speak. His under-eye bags are worse than yesterday. Guilt trickles into my stomach at the memory of how much glee I derived from his suffering yesterday. I might not understand what happened between us on Wednesday, but I doubt he’d be so miserable if he hurt me on purpose.

“How’d you sleep?” I ask.

“Fine,” he lies. “You?”

“Like a baby,” I lie right back.

It’s nice we can both be so mature about this.

“I brought you a peace offering,” he says, holding out one of the coffees. “The hotel doesn’t have almond milk. I asked.”

I take the coffee with a massive pout. “It’s hard to be mad at you when you’re bringing me caffeine.” Especially if that caffeine includes the right milk, and—apparently—a quest to find said milk.

His mouth twitches. “That’s the idea, Miss Manners. Some people might even go so far as to say, ‘thank you.’”

“Don’t push it, Nick.”

Relief sweeps over his face as I take the first sip of my coffee without further fuss. I feel it, too. This is almost normal. Other than the constant low-frequency hum of yearning that kicks up a notch every time I look at his mouth, I’m feeling great. Okay, fine, his shoulders, chest, thighs, and hands have a similar effect. Any part of him that was recently pressed against me while we stood on my porch frantically kissing, really. I strenuously avoid looking at the front of his jeans.

“Can I apologize for Wednesday without you interrupting?” he asks.

I shrug. “Depends on whether or not you say something dumb. You hurt my feelings, which sounds so…juvenile, but it’s true.”

“It’s not juvenile. If anything’s juvenile, it’s the way I behaved,” he says. “I handled things poorly from the moment I walked through your parents’ front door. It’s not an excuse, but I was going through some personal stuff and it got the best of me. I’m sorry, Melanie. I won’t let it happen again.”

“Won’t hurt my feelings, or won’t kiss me?” I ask, aiming for and just missing a light, teasing tone.

“Either,” Nick says firmly. “It’s strictly coaching from here on out, I promise.”

Disappointment thrums in my chest like a plucked harp string. His eyes flick down to my lips and linger a moment too long. There’s an unfamiliar expression on his face. On anyone else, I’d call it regret. But on Nick, whose Resting Irritation Face colors all of his emoting, it might be discomfort at having a vulnerable conversation with another human being without using any curse words. Noticing he hasn’t cursed at me today unlocks a little more guilt.

Nick is trying really hard to be nice. He tried on Wednesday, too. He showed up for me, and it’s not his fault everything went sideways at my parents’ house. Or mine. Yes, he kissed me. But I hugged him first and I was an extremely enthusiastic participant in the inappropriate kissing. We’ve both been pushing at the boundaries of our partnership, so he shouldn’t have to shoulder all the responsibility for the fall out after things went wrong.

“I should probably apologize, too,” I say to my feet. “I’ve obviously got some stuff going on with my parents. It wasn’t my finest hour.”

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