Page 3 of If the Suit Fits
Fuck.
“Nicolas.” Apprehensive, she pushes to her feet, though she bends at the hips too, to work around the table that inhibits her movements. She doesn’t step out and straighten her posture. Instead, she offers a hand.
Shake.
Business.
Bet.
“Melanie Hamilton?” I take her hand, wrapping mine around hers and grinning when my palm practically swallows hers up. Then I lift and shake since she’s still stuck bending and staring. “Nice to meet you. I’m Nick Ramos.”
“You prefer Nick over Nicolas?” She speaks, at least, shedding a sliver of her nerves and releasing my hand. Then she pats her dress and sits, gesturing across the table for me to do the same.
Dating? Can’t do.
Business? It seems she’s a pro.
“Everyone calls me Nick.” I pull the spare seat out, the feet squeaking against the tile floor. Then, I lower and reinforce the fold in the brim of my hat.It’s been done a million times. “You can call me Nicolas if you want. But I’m not sure I’d answer to it right away.”
“Nick.” Blushing, she glances down at the spiral-bound notebook and pen settled in the middle of the table.It has bananas on the cover. “Thanks for meeting with me.”
“Of course.” I sit back and bring my leg up, resting my ankle on the opposite knee. “You have an event coming up that you need a hand with?”
Finally, she exhales a gentle breath that coulddistantlybe related to a laugh. “Something like that. Why don’t you let me tell you about my event and what I need, and then you can tell me about yourself. Then we can decide if this is a good fit or not.”
“Sure.”It’s a good fit, Mel. I know it.But I lower my chin in acknowledgment. “Go for it.”
“Well…” She opens her book and smooths the pages of handwritten notes. “So I have this wedding to go to. Big social thing, where his family and my family and the bride’s family are allsailing clubtypes.” Her long lashes flicker as she brings thosebaby blues up to stare into mine. “You know what I mean, right?”
“The spoiled society kind?” I look to the barista and nod when our eyes meet.Get me some coffee, man. I’m dying. But then I come back to Mel. “The kind who likes to look good no matter the cost and show off for other idiots just like them?”
“Yeah.” An attractive pink warmth fills her cheeks. “Basically. But this one comes with an added layer of pretense since the groom is my former fiancé.”
“Really?” I recline against the back of my chair and fold my arms, the old wood frame groaning as I give the desperately beautiful woman my undivided attention. “Isn’t inviting old flames to the wedding bad luck?”
“I doubt he wants me there any more than I want to go. Butsociety, remember?” She cups her half-consumed coffee between her palms, spinning the mug slowly. She’s a fidgeter. Easily nervous. Unable to relax. All tucked away in my mind for later dissection. “Our relationship ended when I caught him and his current fiancée banging in his parent’s guest bathroom.”
Yikes.
“Which, in most circles, would be cause for throwing stones and casting the jackass out of one’s life. But that wouldn’t be proper withinthesecircles. Drama is embarrassing, and scandal is simply not acceptable.”
“Sounds like your family is overflowing with fuckwits. And your upbringing within that shit led you to being engaged to another fuckwit.”
“Well…” She chokes out a soft snicker. “Yeah. Basically. Though in my circles, one would never say those things out loud. You’re not…” She drags her luscious bottom lip between her teeth andstudies my face. Searching, maybe. For familiarity? Or for sense, perhaps. “You’re freer with your words, Nick. That’s an enviable privilege.”
“You can be free with your words, too. Say whatever the fuck you want. It’s fun.”
She’s too shy for her own good. Too well-bred to be sitting with a guy like me, who speaks the way I do, in public.Which is precisely why she chose the café and not the club. “I speak freely with my friends,” she admits shyly. “I’ve chosenmycircle carefully, where we can exist without pretense and no one worries about what society thinks. But for this wedding, I don’t have the same luxury. I have to be who they think I am. I must present as the debutante I was raised to become.”
“Why?”
Stunned, her eyes pop wide, and her mouth falls open. Jesus Christ on a vegemite cracker, she’s so tightly wound, she hasn’t even considered a life where she just…doesn’t do what they want.
“W-why, what?”
“Why be the princess they want? Does it matter what they think of you?”
“Well, n-no. But it?—”
