Chapter 2
TWO
NICK
Istep out of the pouring rain and into The Coffee Bean, a little café on the corner of a trendy, upscale neighborhood where all the ‘I was born in the eighties’ broke folks moved to, back when properties were cheap, and jobs paid a livable wage.
Neither is true now. But those lucky enough to jump in before prices went nuts are now asset-rich and insanely stupid if they leave. But then again, their loss is my gain, and I’m not gonna stand on a street corner with a sign begging them to hold on to their property.
I drag my hat off and shake it at the door, raindrops hitting the glass pane with a splatter that’ll annoy the poor girl tasked with cleaning it later. Then I peel my jacket off because the humidity today is like sitting in a fuckin’ sauna.
I never liked those things.
With Melanie’s last text fresh in my inbox, and her ‘I’ll be sitting by the far wall. Light brown hair just past my shoulders. Red dress,’ in my mind. I cast my gaze around the room and find her in an instant.
Hell, I found her before I even stepped inside.
But what she doesn’t know, I feel no need to divulge.
Squeezing the brim of my hat and tucking it into the back pocket of my jeans, I catch her wary observation—of course, she’s watching the door every time the bell above jingles—and showing her a friendly smile, I drop my eyes and start in her direction.
She’s pretty, I’ll give her that. With bright blue eyes too large for her face and glistening red lips to match her dress, she’s a spotlight in an otherwise dull room.
She could be the most beautiful woman in the world, but she’s nervous, too. Her fidgeting hands. Her bouncing knee. Her dress, sliding along her thigh, though she doesn’t realize I can see since, to her, it’s covered by the table.
She swallows, the movement of her throat a visible, noticeable thing that softens the edges of my mood as I cross the café and come to a stop beside the chair opposite hers.
Do I speak first?
Introduce myself?
She’s the boss. She’s the one with the money, so maybe I let her take the lead?
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 could distantly be 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 all sailing club types.
” Her long lashes flicker as she brings those baby 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. But society, 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 within these circles. 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 and studies 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 chosen my circle 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—”
“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, considering that 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. ”
“My approval?” She’s flustered. Panicked. Spiraling, she snaps her notebook closed and sets the pen on top. “Why on earth would they want my approval? 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 could easily get 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 as upper-crust as 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 fidgety and empathetic.
“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 na?ve, 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 to the 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 how guppy she 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 a real job to 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, crust doesn’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? ”