8. Nick
Chapter 8
Nick
P aul Walters sets down the sheaf of papers he’s been reading and folds his hands on top of them, a satisfied look on his face.
“This is an impressively thorough case, Mr. Korbel,” he says. “You’ve done your homework—I have everything I need to get started. I’ll attempt to contact your father this week, and we’ll go from there. How recent is this last address for him, the Carmel Canyon apartment?”
I adjust the blue knot at the base of my neck, wondering if I tied it too tightly or if all ties are this uncomfortable. “He was there three years ago, as best I can figure. Haven’t had much contact with him since I was a teenager, though. He could be anywhere, but probably not too far from a racetrack, likely in southern California.”
Paul nods knowingly as he makes a note on the legal pad in front of him with a fountain pen. I’m surprised by how normal everything is in his office. I was expecting sleek leather chairs, a giant imposing desk, tasteless but expensive modern art, and conspicuous awards flaunting the man’s endless good deeds. Aside from impressive views of the mountains through his corner office windows and the fancy pen, the space is functional, simple, and utterly ordinary.
His desk is huge, but that’s to accommodate the numerous, neatly organized file folders next to his computer and telephone. There are legal reference books on a bookcase to the left of the desk, opposite the windows. One shelf is reserved for photographs of his loved ones—a grown-up and unexpectedly blonde Diana, some other siblings I recognize from my Instagram stalking, and the infamous new girlfriend. The only art on the walls is a large landscape watercolor of a mountainside. His sister-in-law painted it—something else I remember from my online creeping.
It’s not just the office that surprises me, though. Paul isn’t the kind of man I imagined. He’s calm, polite, humble, and irritatingly hard to dislike. Within five minutes, he’d agreed to take on my case, free of charge. By the time I finished a cup of coffee—which Paul brewed for me himself, no assistant in sight—he’d told me he was confident he could have the matter wrapped up by the new year. It would feel miraculous if I didn’t feel like I was betraying Melanie just by sitting in this chair.
I realize she’s the reason I’m in the chair to begin with, but I don’t like sitting across from her ex-boyfriend while he proves her right. He’s a good person, so far as I can tell. I can also—begrudgingly—admit he’s as good-looking in person as he is on the internet. No wonder Miss Manners is so busted up about him.
Part of me had been hoping for some obvious flaw in his character, something I could hang onto, so I could feel less guilty about disliking him. Hating him feels a bit like kicking dirt at a bunny rabbit; it’s not a fair fight. But he hurt Melanie, so I hate him on principle.
Paul stops writing and puts down his pen. “If he’s not at that address, I’ll hire a PI. It’ll extend the timeline, but shouldn’t change anything else.”
Great. More shit I’ll owe Paul for, karmically.
“About payment…I know you said you’d do this for free, but that feels like robbing you,” I say. “I doubt I can afford your regular rate, but maybe we can work out a sliding scale or something.”
“That’s not necessary,” he insists. “I know a thing or two about having a disappointing father. Trust me when I say it’s my pleasure to help you. I won’t accept payment.”
Dammit. I can’t even roll my eyes at the sentiment, because he’s right. What little contact I had with Paul and Diana’s late father was miserable. He was always belittling my mother and Diana during competitions. When he wasn’t shouting at my mom about Diana’s scores, he was trying to chat her up, often in front of his wife. The man was a disaster—rich and powerful, but a disaster. Things always went better when he wasn’t around.
“Thanks, then,” I say stiffly. “Didn’t really know what else to do.”
“I was glad to get your call, if you don’t mind me saying so,” he says. “I’ve always worried the accident harmed your family as much as it did mine.”
“We survived,” I say with a shrug. “Mom’s got a nice life for herself now—retired in Aspen. Got remarried a few years back. I’ve got my ranch here, so we’re fine. Is…how is Diana doing?”
Confusion passes over his face. “She’s doing really well—she’s running a horse rescue up in the mountains. Still riding. I didn’t realize you weren’t in touch with her. ”
“Not for a while now,” I say, realizing too late he must have assumed she was the person who gave me his number. I don’t want to get into the Melanie of it all, so I scoot my chair back from his desk. “Glad she’s alright. If we’re all set here...”
“Oh, of course! Don’t let me keep you from your afternoon,” Paul says. “I appreciate you coming in, and I’ll let you know if I need anything else from you.”
He stands up, hand out for a firm handshake. I stand and shake it, feeling like an imposter. This is the only suit I own, and I haven’t worn it since my mom’s wedding. It’s lucky I haven’t lost the tie. Paul’s office might be simple and understated, but we’re dressed the same. His regular Wednesday clothes are my special occasion duds. He can afford to give me free legal help for kicks, while I’m six months away from financial ruin if that legal help doesn’t get the bank off my ass. He’s the nicest person Melanie knows, and I’m a jackass she tolerates for access to my horse.
It doesn’t matter if Paul treats me like a peer; I know my place.
I’ve got time to kill before dinner with Melanie’s parents, so I head to the nearest florist. According to Edwin, flowers are the kind of thing you’re supposed to bring to a dinner party. He’s more civilized than I am, so I scan the buckets of fresh blooms for something impressive. It’s not until I’m at the checkout counter with an extravagantly large bouquet of geraniums that I realize this isn’t just any florist—it’s the florist where Paul’s brother’s mother-in-law works.
These people are haunting me.
I buy the geraniums anyway, and hurry out of the shop so I’m not late to dinner. As much as I’ve reassured Melanie that it’ll be fine, I’m as nervous as she is that I’m going to fuck it up. I don’t have manners; I’m just good at faking it. If I’m going to get through the night without pissing Melanie off, I need to walk into the house relaxed, not agitated about how much I don’t belong in her world.
Unfortunately, when I pull up to the address Melanie gave me, “house” suddenly feels inadequate to describe the colossal building in front of me. “Country manor” is probably more accurate, given the elegant stonework and artfully trimmed hedges in front of the sprawling brick building. I’m hesitant to use the driveway, in case they’ve got some kind of state-of-the-art paving stones that will recognize my decade-old truck as inferior and launch it back onto the street the moment its tires dare to roll over them. The tie around my neck suddenly feels twice as tight as it did in Paul’s office.
The thick oak front door is more intimidating than the driveway. This shouldn’t bother me so much. I’ve been to dinners at dozens of rich people’s ostentatious, ridiculous homes without incident. But those weren’t Melanie’s ostentatious, ridiculous homes, so I didn’t really care what kind of impression I made. Tonight, I care a lot more than I should.
I press the doorbell gingerly, afraid to smudge it up with my working-class finger. A middle-aged man with Melanie’s piercing blue eyes opens the door quickly enough for me to know everyone’s waiting on me, even though it’s only 6:57 and there aren’t other cars in the driveway.
“Hello, you must be Nicholas. I’m Mark Archer. Pleasure to meet you. The ladies are waiting for us in the parlor—right this way,” he says, leading me through a doorway to the left and into an opulently decorated living room without so much as a nod, let alone a handshake or an opportunity to tell him not to call me Nicholas.
I’m not calling the room a parlor, either, even in my own head. Sure, the floor is covered in a rug so thick it swallows the sound of my uncomfortable dress shoes, and the walls are covered in honest-to-God oil paintings, but thinking of it as a living room is the one thing helping me stay sane.
A woman who bears a striking resemblance to Melanie—if her hair were steel-gray and her eyebrows were plucked into sharp Vs and frozen in perpetual surprise—is sitting on an ivory-colored couch, her ankles crossed demurely to the side, and a coupe of champagne held elegantly in one hand. Melanie stands from her spot next to her mother to greet me, and I have to clench my teeth together to keep my jaw from dropping.
The problem with this dinner isn’t me or my manners—it’s Melanie in a low-cut black dress and high-heels, her hair curled into soft waves around her face. It’s not immodest; I’ve seen more of her body in her riding clothes. Well, there’s more cleavage than usual, but the skirt flows loosely around her thighs, hiding the powerful muscles I typically get to ogle every day while she trains. But standing in her parents’ living room, afraid to move in case I accidentally break one of the expensive-looking knickknacks or the antique-looking console tables they’re sitting on, I’m not thinking about horses or competition. I feel about sixteen years old, dazzled by the slightest hint of sexuality. She might as well be my homecoming date, not the professional athlete I’m shepherding toward Olympic dreams.
I know exactly how this dinner would go if she were my homecoming date. We’d make polite conversation during the meal while her parents scrutinized me. They wouldn’t find anything concrete to complain about, but they’d still eye me with disapproval because they know full well they’ve never seen my parents at the country club, so there’s not a chance I’m good enough for their little girl. Their “little girl” would know it, too—it would be the reason she picked me in the first place .
Once we were out the door, she’d pounce, and I’d oblige. We’d make out in my truck in the driveway long enough to make sure her parents saw, then tear out of here like bats out of hell. After putting in an appearance at the dance, we’d drive out somewhere remote and fool around until just past her curfew. There’d be dry humping, and she might let me finger her—she’d want to go home smelling like sex and my cheap cologne, but she’d never do anything to risk mingling our DNA, because the whole night would be about toothless teenage rebellion for her, not love or even lust—then I’d drop her off at home, and drive back to my shitty apartment to angrily jerk off in the shower, because despite feeling used and discarded, I’d still be horny as fuck.
But Melanie’s not my homecoming date. She might come from the same world as every girl who ever wounded my teenage pride, but she’s not using me like they did. I’m here because it’s important to her, full stop. If anyone’s using anyone, it’s me using her to save my business—both by persuading her to compete and by going to her ex-boyfriend for free legal assistance. Tonight’s not going to include making out, or clumsy hand stuff in a dim parking lot. Angrily jerking off in the shower is still on the table, but instead of being angry at the world and my circumstances, I’ll be angry at myself for picturing Melanie bent over her parents’ ornate dining table, the ivory tablecloth twisted in her fists and her fancy black dress bunched up around her waist while I fuck her senseless. It’s not going to happen, so the sooner I stop fantasizing about it, the better off we’ll both be.
“Hi, Nick. This is my mom, Sheryl,” Melanie says, snapping me back to reality.
I do my best to smile at Sheryl and ignore my meatball-brain. The meatball doesn’t care that Melanie’s parents are here; it wants me to dig my fingers into Melanie’s hair and kiss her until her dark red lipstick is worn away. I cannot let the meatball be in charge tonight.
“Mom, this is my new show jumping coach, Nick Korbel,” Melanie continues. “He’s Lisa Conway’s son.”
Turns out Sheryl’s brows aren’t totally frozen, because they scoot higher up her forehead at the mention of my mother. She and Mark exchange a glance, and the atmosphere in the room noticeably chills.
“Wonderful to finally meet you, Nicholas,” Sheryl says, extending a hand to me.
Her emphasis on “finally” is subtle, but unmissable. I shake her hand, unsure if she’s more upset about my mom abandoning her daughter years ago, or not meeting me prior to last weekend’s competition. I’m beginning to understand Melanie’s anxiety about this meal .
“Oh, please, call me Nick. Nicholas is my father. You’ve got a lovely home,” I say, doing my best to keep my tone light.
“So, you’re Lisa’s boy. This is serious, then? Last weekend wasn’t an isolated event?” Sheryl asks, skipping past the rest of the pleasantries.
I glance at Melanie, concern mounting. This can’t possibly be the first her parents are hearing about her return to show jumping. We’ve been training for nearly a month, and we’ve booked travel for four more competitions. She wouldn’t hide that much of her life from her parents. Right?
“Very serious,” Melanie says, sounding nervous.
Oh God. She hid this from her parents.
“Nick, let me fix you a drink,” Mark says, clapping me on the shoulder. “Scotch?”
He phrases it like a question, but his grip tells another story. It’s as subtle as Sheryl’s finally , but he’s pushing me deeper into the living room, away from Melanie and her mother. Sheryl’s champagne is abandoned on a side table, and she’s got ahold of Melanie’s wrist instead.
“You’re a little old to be playing pony. I thought we agreed it was time for you to settle down, start a family. That’s why we invited him,” Sheryl whispers—but not quietly enough.
“I never agreed to that. Can we talk about this later?” Melanie whispers back.
Playing pony ? Jesus. I’d probably hide shit from my parents, too, if I were in her shoes. Since I’m firmly in my own shoes, I have the urge to grab her hand and tug her out of this house, all the way back to my stables so she can saddle up whichever horse she wants and run.
I take a respectable swallow of the scotch Mark pushes into my hands in a bid to dissolve the image. It’s a step too far over the line. Lust I can handle. Being attracted to Melanie on a purely physical level is something I can deal with quietly and privately. Thinking about running away with her—for her emotional well-being, not so I can tear her out of that pretty little dress and taste every inch of her skin—is feelings territory. I don’t belong in feelings territory any more than I belong in this room.
“Let’s eat,” Mark announces, too loudly. “I’m sure Melanie’s worked up an appetite with her recent athletic endeavors.”
Sheryl aims a tight smile at him, then releases Melanie’s wrist. “Show your guest to the dining room, Melanie,” she says, as though the dining table isn’t in full view through the wide archway behind the couch .
Melanie meets my gaze for the first time in what feels like hours, and the pull to get her out of here strengthens. She looks sad. Defeated. It’s the way she looked when I found her in the hotel bar, and I’ve never regretted yelling at her more than I do now. I cross the room to her so we can walk to the dining room together while her parents linger behind to have a rushed, hissed conversation.
“You gonna make it through this?” I ask Melanie quietly.
Her frown deepens. “Are you? They’re just getting started.”
“Better mind the turns and keep your eyes forward, then,” I say.
She gives me a quizzical look and I shrug.
“All my advice is horse-related.”
That gets a hint of a smile out of her, which is probably the best I can do under the circumstances. We take our seats, directly across from each other and I fiddle with the napkin—a cream-colored, unbelievably soft fabric I can’t imagine using for something as messy as wiping food off my face. Her parents join us, sitting across from each other. In another context, the arrangement might be cozy, but for the four of us tonight, it’s approaching hostile.
Sheryl picks up a small crystal bell from next to her napkin and rings it. A large white door behind her opens and a man in a chef’s coat steps out, pushing a brass cart ahead of him. On top of the cart are four elaborately plated salads. Sheryl doesn’t so much as flinch when he sets hers in front of her, but I catch Melanie mouthing “Thank you,” when he delivers hers, so I do the same when it’s my turn. The room is eerily quiet until the chef disappears back into what I assume is the kitchen.
“So, Nicholas, what is your interpretation of this…situation?” Sheryl asks me.
“Nick,” Melanie mutters.
Sheryl ignores her correction, but I appreciate it all the same. I take my time chewing the mouthful of leaves and berries I shoveled into my gob, because I’m not sure what “situation” Sheryl’s referring to—my presence in her daughter’s life? Melanie jumping again? This cursed dinner party?
“The show jumping, that is,” Sheryl clarifies.
I’ve got to work on my poker face.
“Andrew Carmichael at Horse 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.”
To my surprise, she laughs. “I’m a damsel, I’m in distress, I can handle this. Have a nice day.”
She punctuates the pronouncement with a two-finger salute that leaves me as confused as her words.
“Huh?”
“You don’t recognize Hercules? Disney? You must’ve had a bleak childhood, Nick.”
You’re one to talk , I think. I know better than to say it out loud, though.
I hold my hand out to her. “In the truck, please. ”
“Please? I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you say that word,” she says, but she takes my hand anyway.
She climbs easily into the truck, despite the high heels. I ghost my hand over her lower back anyway, in case she loses her balance. But I don’t want to put her in my truck; I want to tuck her into my arms until the tension falls away from her shoulders.
“Oh, uh, where should I put these?” Melanie asks, holding up the geraniums I agonized over, then forgot to take inside.
“They were going to be a gift for your mom to help me make a good impression, but something tells me they wouldn’t have changed much,” I say. “You can keep ‘em.”
“Aw, thanks, that’s so sweet of you,” she says sarcastically. “Pity flowers.”
I shut the door with an eye roll, but as I cross in front of the truck to get to the driver’s side, I notice her ducking her head down to smell the bouquet. A bead of sweat rolls down my spine, even though the temperature’s dropped close to freezing. Having her in my passenger seat, holding flowers, and wearing my jacket has reignited my meatball-brain date fantasies. It’s going to be a long drive.
She gives me her address, and I take off. It’s not quite bats-out-of-hell, but I don’t dawdle. The first few minutes go by in silence—externally. Internally, the meatball and I are having a lively debate.
Put your hand on her thigh while you drive. She’s probably cold, the meatball says.
I keep my hands tight on the wheel, because if Melanie is cold, she knows how to work the heat in my truck.
She’s pretty sad. Just yelled at her parents. Probably needs a hug.
Melanie has hugged me exactly twice. A third hug out of nowhere wouldn’t be an expected part of this partnership. Plus, I’m driving.
She’s pretty, too, not just pretty sad. Pull over and tell her how pretty—with your tongue, in her mouth.
I’m not pulling over. I’m driving her directly to her home, then leaving her there. Untouched.
Her home…where her bed is.
Melanie is going to sleep there alone tonight, because I. Am. Not. A. Meatball.
“Didn’t think to give me the heads up that you’ve been living a double life before sending me in to face the firing squad?” I ask in an effort to distract myself.
“I didn’t realize they’d be that upset,” she says. “When I quit, they said they wanted me to be really sure about the decision to throw away all those years of work, so they made me swear that if I quit, it was for good. I…I couldn’t stomach getting back on a horse after Diana’s accident, so it seemed like an easy thing to promise. It wasn’t until college that I missed it so much I started riding again. I was waiting for the right time to broach the subject…I guess I never thought I’d have to, until you came along.”
And that right there is why I can’t keep hugging her and holding her hand and listening to the stupid meatball between my ears. I’m a disruption in Melanie’s life, not part of it.
“Sorry about that,” I say.
She shrugs. “Not your fault. I wasn’t a fan of their reaction, but I’m glad it’s all out in the open now.”
I glance at her. It’s hard to gauge her expression in the flicker of passing streetlights, but she’s more withdrawn than usual.
“Are you okay? Seriously—that’s not small talk. Are you going to be alright?” I ask.
She snorts. “Totally. They make a big deal about me living off my trust, but it’s not even their money. It’s their parents’ money.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
She’s quiet for a while. We’re on her street, nearly at her house when she finally answers with a whispered, “I know.”
I pull into her driveway—paved in regular concrete, leading to a perfectly normal house—and put the truck in park. I don’t shut off the engine, though. It’s cold, and I get the sense she’s not quite ready to be alone.
“They’re not bad people,” she says. “We’ve just never had the same priorities. I spent my whole childhood living out their priorities. Sometimes I wish they’d at least bother to find out what mine are.”
“Priorities like kicking ass at this weekend’s competition?” I ask, almost certain of her answer but nervous to hear it anyway.
She nods. “Something like that.”
I unclip her seatbelt and shut the truck off. “Then I’d better walk you to your door so you can get some sleep. We leave early tomorrow.”
“I still have to pack,” she says with a grimace. “You should see the state of my room. Total disaster.”
Contrary to what the meatball believes, I absolutely should not see her room, so I get out of the truck before I say something stupid. The cold air braces me, and by the time I open Melanie’s door to help her climb down, I’ve tamped down the urge to tell her something intense and forward, like she’s my priority now, to hell with everything else .
She takes my offered hand, and doesn’t let it go, even when she’s safely on the ground. I walk her up to the front door, and pause, reluctant to leave.
“You weren’t kidding—there are some manners buried in there,” she says, tapping her free hand against my chest.
I shrug. “Told ya so. I wasn’t going to let you down. Seemed like tonight was important to you.”
She smiles at me, then before I know how to react she crashes into my chest. I give the meatball this tiny win, and wrap my arms around her. She slots into my embrace perfectly, her head resting on my shoulder. Her hair is soft under my cheek, and with her cocooned in my jacket like this, I’m afraid it’s going to take a crowbar to peel me off of her.
“Why can’t you always be this nice to me?” she whispers.
It’s so quiet, I’m not sure she meant for me to hear. I ease my hold on her and take a step back. She meets my gaze, and the answer to her question slips out before I can catch it.
“Maybe I like it when you bite back, Miss Manners,” I whisper just as softly.
Her cheeks go pink again, and I know I’ve got to leave before I pull her back into my arms, drag her inside, and unzip her dress with my teeth. I should say goodnight, then walk away. There aren’t that many hours until I’m supposed to be back here to pick her up. If my brain were in charge, I’d get back in my truck and go.
There’s a strand of hair stuck to her lipstick. The hug gave the meatball too much power, so I can’t help it. I tuck the hair behind her ear, letting my fingertips skim over her cheek. Her breath stutters, and I think I might die if I don’t kiss her. So I do.
It’s beyond fireworks. It’s like I’ve lived my whole life under water and this kiss has flung me into a bonfire. She tastes like raspberries and heat. Every reason why I shouldn’t be kissing her turns to smoke and I decide that it’s my new life’s mission to never stop kissing her. What starts as a soft, slow press of her lips against mine burns into something hungrier with every passing second. I’m not sure why I ever thought this was a bad idea.
Melanie seems just as eager. Her hands clutch at the back of my shirt and I sink my fingers into her hair, mussing up her curls. The sigh that slips out of her when I tug her bottom lip between my teeth is the most erotic sound I’ve ever heard. She arches against me while her tongue finds mine. My cock is hard against her stomach, and everything between us feels inevitable.
She breathes out my name, the air fluttering against my lips. I kiss her again, and back her against the front door. She melts against me, and I slide my leg between hers so I can get closer. So close, in fact, that she gasps when my phone buzzes in my pocket, right against her inner thigh.
“Sorry—hang on,” I say, digging out the phone with every intention of stashing it in a different pocket before throwing her over my shoulder and carrying her inside to continue devouring her. But before I can do any of that, I see what made the phone buzz—a text from Edwin.
How’d the meeting with Paul go?
Paul’s name is cold water dumped on my head. I step back from Melanie, disentangling myself from her completely.
What the fuck am I doing?
Nothing is different than it was this morning. Melanie might have fought with her parents, but that didn’t magically make me good enough for her. It didn’t wipe away the last traces of her heartbreak—a crushing heartbreak, according to her parting shot at her parents. It certainly didn’t change the fact that I’m her coach.
Melanie’s sad and vulnerable and—critically—I’m still using her for my own gain. If she weren’t quite so sad, she’d probably remember that. She wouldn’t let me smudge up her lipstick or worm my way between her thighs under normal circumstances. We have a nearly nine-hour drive tomorrow, followed by a massive competition that she’s just told me is a priority for her. I can’t be swooping in and distracting her. She hasn’t packed. She needs to sleep! I’ve got no business bursting into her house and keeping her up and naked all night.
“Everything okay?” she asks. “You look a little sick.”
She sounds nervous again. Fuck. I look from her to the phone and back. Bringing Paul up isn’t going to make her feel better.
“Uh, yeah. I just…” I stammer, hunting for a decent explanation for why we’re not still making out. “It’s just Edwin. Nothing you—”
She scoffs. “Nothing I need to worry about. Got it.”
That settles it. The anger in her voice is enough to make things crystal clear for me. I’ve done enough damage for one night, and it’s time for me to go.
“I’m sorry, Melanie. It’s been a long day, and I’m not thinking clearly. This was a mistake,” I say.
All of the warmth between us is gone, blown away on the wind that’s picked up since we got out of the truck. Her anger has wiped out the last of her vulnerability, too. It’s more familiar, somehow. Safer. It’s easier between us when those are the sparks I fan into flame.
“That’s it? That’s all you’ve got to say?” she asks.
“I should go. You’ve got to pack.”
She stares at me, eyebrows raised, like she’s waiting for me to say something else.
“I’ll pick you up tomorrow. We’ve got to hit the road early,” I say. “Get some sleep.”
“Sure. See you in the morning, Nicholas,” she spits, then she shoves her way through her front door and slams it closed. A split second later it opens and my suit coat comes flying out before the she slams it again.
I scoop the jacket off her porch and walk back to my truck. The cab smells floral and unfamiliar. I toss my jacket over the slightly battered geraniums sitting in the passenger seat, but it doesn’t dim their smell, or my anger. I couldn’t have fucked this night up harder if I tried.