Page 4 of If the Suit Fits
“Do you care if, at the end of the day, they whisper behind your back and say you’re not as polished as they expect?”
“No, but?—”
“Do you wish the groom would toss that other tart aside for you?”
“That tart?”Scandal! Oh god, the horror. “No! But my parents?—”
“Are stupid, and I figured that out in the two minutes I’ve known you. They have reason to hate that other family, consideringthat dude fucked around the day before your wedding. But instead of having your back and kicking them to the gutter where they belong, they continue to do the debutante, social climbing, sailing club shit. Like the other family’s approval is worth more than yours.”
“Myapproval?” She’s flustered. Panicked. Spiraling, she snaps her notebook closed and sets the pen on top. “Why on earth would they wantmyapproval? I’m just…”Stutter. Horror. “I’m?—”
“A whole ass independent woman. A professional.” Though, when her brow slings high in question, I add, “I assume. You look like the office type. You have disposable income, considering the ad in the paper. You’re pretty, and your dress looks fantastic, which means you know how to accentuate the face and body you have, and you have an eye for quality threads. You asked to meet up here, at The Coffee Bean, instead of some ritzy restaurant where you could act aloof and untouchable. And you’re yet to cut me off, despite how rudely and consistently I’ve interrupted what you’re trying to tell me.”
I pause and grin, watching her closely as my words penetrate and her sharp mind snaps back to focus.
“You admit you have friends nothing like those you were raised around. I can only assume you live near here, since this café isn’t somewhere non-locals would think to come. And, you couldeasilyget a date simply by putting on a push-up bra and showing a little ass, and announcing you needed one, but you chose an ad instead, which puts you in the driver’s seat of the life you’ve spent far too long allowing others to control.”
I turn and smile when a coffee is set down by my elbow,and then, picking it up, I bring my focus back to Mel. “How’m I doing so far?”
Her eyes follow my every move. My hand. My coffee. She’s a weaker doe in a forest of lions. And though she knows she can run fast, she’s not willing to turn her back on the predator just yet.
“H-how are you doing?”You’re doing wonderful, Nick! You’re so smart and handsome and someone I’d really, really like to spend time with. But that’s not what she says. “Honestly? I’m concerned we’ve made a mistake.”
“A mistake, how? I doubt my assessment is wrong, so either you hate being called out on it, or you realized I’m not asupper-crustas you’d like. Will you be embarrassed walking into that wedding with me?”
“You swear a lot.” She firms her jaw and settles back to fold her arms. “You talk over me a lot. You’re arrogant, and I know that despite having met you only two minutes ago. You talk about crusts, which implies you’re not from an affluent family. And though that doesn’t bother me, it seems to bother you, even if only on a level you’re not consciously willing to admit.”
“Oh nah, I admit it.” I bring my coffee up and sip to hide my chuckle. “All that generational wealth snobbery is a thorn in my side. Because while rich kids got to fuck around and receive their high school diplomas with C’s and still attend a decent college on Mommy and Daddy’s money, the rest of us were working two jobs to help pay the mortgage, busting our asses in school to get a scholarship, and in the end?—”
“Car accident.”Finally, she interrupts me. But where my rudeness was simply that,rude, hers is a barely there whisper, her eyes softening with pity. So, I add that to my mental list, too. She’s fidgetyandempathetic.
“You lost your scholarship because you shattered your shoulder?”
“I was so close to busting out of my generational poverty.” I smirk. “Could’ve been the next Joe Montana. But instead, I get to?—”
“Build houses. With a sore shoulder?”
I sip my coffee and enjoy the bitter slide along my throat. “Being Tim Taylor ain’t so bad. Life could be worse. And since you need crust, you should know I can act right.”
“Act right?” Her eyes are like pools on a summer day. Crisp, blue. Liquid perfection, and if I were a little more naïve, I could even wonder if they’re all seeing. “W-what do you mean act right?”
“Did you see the financial reports last night, Melanie? The S&P 500 index is up three-hundred percent on stocks and five-hundred percent on total return. Bastion and Welburg is up more than a thousand percent, which is phenomenal, considering they trade in offshore oil and Cuddle-Bear merchandise. I’m not sure we’ve seen such growth in… well…” I set my coffee on the table and meet her eyes. “Ever. You might also be interested to know the Louvre is showing an exceptionally rare painting next month. Archibald Salvador, the artist, died beside his canvas sixty-three years ago, and until now, the painting has been held within the family trust and hidden away from public consumption. The Louvre secured this painting when Salvador’s granddaughter, who was the at-the-time recipient of the estate, passed on. Now her children are firm believers in sharing goodness with the world.”
For every word I speak, Melanie’s jaw lowers.
“The Louvre only has access to the painting until December thirty-first. At which point, it’ll be returned tothe family. So if you wish to see history close enough you could almost touch it, I encourage you to head to Paris before the New Year.”
Her eyes narrow with suspicion. Then her jaw comes up again when she realizes howguppyshe looks. Finally, she clears her throat and repositions herself on her chair. “You Googled all that on the way here?”
“No. I know about the Archibald because my baby sister is an extremely talented—though as yet,undiscovered—artist. I hear about the stock markets every fuckin’ day because my older sister was the no-nonsense sibling who knew she needed areal jobto get ahead in life. And I’d like to point out that I didn’t cuss once throughout that entire example. It seems to me,crustdoesn’t matter nearly as much as your need for control. So tell me, Melanie. Was this a mistake, or are you willing to slum it with me?”
THREE
MELANIE
“One week.” I slide a contract across my dining room table a few days after our meeting at The Coffee Bean, and when Nick pats his pockets for a pen, I set mine on top of the pages for his use. “Our agreement will span seven days and seven nights. I have a massive project deadline Imustmeet, so I’ll be working from home during this week. But I’m confident I can do that while still honoring our agreement.”
“Move in with you?” He wears flannel like it’s going out of style. Jeans, like they were sewn onto his body. His shoulders are broad, which, I suppose, is precisely why he was a talented football player when he was younger. But most disconcerting of all, is the way his eyes flicker with torment right when he’s about to open his mouth and say something he knows will piss me off.He’s so skilled at that already. “You want to live together?” He glances up, then around my dining room. “Here?”
