12. West
CHAPTER 12
WEST
“Everyone’s watching us,” she says beside me. Her smile never wavers.
“Some of these people were at the party the other night. They’re curious.” I hand her a glass of champagne and ignore the onlookers.
She hasn’t been here before, but they certainly know who she is. Daughter of Francois Montclair and Rafe’s sister. Not to mention heiress to the largest luxury conglomerate in the world.
Her eyes return to mine. “Because you never date publicly. Why not, by the way?”
“It’s not like I have a rule about it,” I tell her. I just haven’t been interested in attempting long-term relationships or the way they always turn toxic and manipulative in the end. They hurt and they embarrass, and I have no interest in either of those things.
Her eyes search mine, like she’s trying to make sense of that response. “You date in private?”
“You’re very interested in my dating life.”
“Well. I think it’s only fair, considering what we’re doing.”
I put a hand on her back and guide her over to the VIP area. “I’ll answer your question if you answer one of mine.”
“You’re bargaining again,” she says.
“It’s what I do best.”
“Fine. What do you wanna know?”
I lower my head, closer to her ear. We pass an elderly couple who stare at us as we walk by. “Why did you choose Mark for your date?”
Nora looks up at me. “I’m still annoyed at you about that, by the way.”
“No,” I say. “You’re not.”
Her eyes narrow. “And why do you think I’m not?”
“Because I saw the relief on your face before you hid it,” I say. “Didn’t make sense at the time, but now it does. You didn’t want to be on that date to begin with, and you were glad I ended it.”
She turns her face forward, her narrow chin pointing up. Her full lips are pressed tight together.
I smile, because I’m right, and she hates that I’ve read her correctly.
“If you want me to say thank you…”
“I don’t need thanks,” I tell her. What I need is her honesty.
It’s exhilarating.
She steps through the white picket gate that opens up to the grassy VIP area. Over on the green, the players have already lined up, four horses in each team, ready for the first chukka to start. Polo season has begun.
Nora sits on a chair in the front row. Her green floral-patterned dress hugs her shape perfectly as she looks out at the riders. They’re all in colorful jerseys—green and white for one team, and red and yellow for the other.
“My question,” I remind her. “You still haven’t answered it. Why did you swipe right on him?”
“Because he seemed normal,” she says. “And not intimidatingly attractive. And besides, I need the practice.”
My eyes narrow. “ That’s why?”
“What more could there have been?” She shrugs and glances at me briefly before looking back out at the game. We’re close enough to hear the snort of one of the horses and the shake of its head.
“I don’t know,” I say acidly. “That you liked him? Found him attractive? Wanted to talk more to him? Found him interesting ?”
She looks back at me. “Is that why you date so rarely? Because you never find women interesting?”
“You’re making a lot of assumptions about me, trouble, but you don’t know me. Not really.”
“No. Clearly not.” She takes another drag of her champagne, and her sheet of brown hair hides her face from view. It looks glossy beneath the bright spring sun.
It’s the first game of the season, and the stands are full.
She said yes to him because she needed to practice, and that was it. Nothing else.
“Did you have fun? Before I showed up?” I already suspect the answer.
“No,” she admits. “He wasn’t… it wasn’t fun.”
“You could have left,” I say.
That makes her chuckle. “How? That would have been rude.”
Rude.
She has men fawning over her. She must have. She’s stunning, and kind, and smart. And if she struggles to leave or set boundaries? Well, that’s a problem. And it’s not one I want her to have. She may be sparkly and beautiful and smiling with the world, but she has fangs. I’ve seen her use them with me.
It’s my favorite version of her.
The whistle goes off, and the game starts. The beating of hooves fills the air, rises up to a melody. They gallop past us in pursuit of the ball.
“My turn, Calloway,” she says. “Why don’t you date?”
“Wrong question.” My arm brushes hers, and I lean in closer so my answer will be heard by her and only her. “I’ll tell you why I don’t date publicly. Because once you step into the public eye with someone, it’s not just about the two of you. It becomes a spectacle. Just like you and I are a spectacle today.”
“And you don’t like spectacles,” she repeats. “The famed Calloway heir, who throws giant, glittering parties and balls?”
“I stomach them when they’re on my terms. But I won’t be in a relationship that is on anyone else’s.”
She crosses her arms over her chest. Her champagne glass hangs from two long fingers close to my arm. “Of course. It’s your way or no way.”
“Exactly.”
“Must be lovely for the women you date privately,” she says. “To know that you won’t compromise or bend. To be a secret.”
I think of Mark, and of the smiles she didn’t mean. “I’m up front about what I want, trouble. People are free to take it or leave it. Can you say the same with the men you go on dates with?”
Her eyes track one of the horses as it races past us, the bay coat shining with health. “You don’t know anything about my dating history.”
“No. But I know you stayed on a date you didn’t enjoy. That doesn’t sound like someone who’s up front with their wants.”
“No, it doesn’t,” she says finally, her voice short with annoyance. “But I’m trying to learn. Hopefully there’s a middle ground between being an asshole and being too kind.”
“Asshole, you said?”
“Yes. It’s only fair I get a shot in.”
“Take your shots. I can handle them.” I look back out at the game. Excitement makes the air vibrate. There’s nothing quite like a game of polo. Nothing as big or powerful as the synchronization between eight riders and horses.
The beat of so many hooves sets a steady rhythm, so deep when they gallop past that it resonates in my bones.
She leans forward. “Alex is playing?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. I didn’t know that.”
“He subbed in last minute.” And he’s not staying at my place. He told me he was only passing through. He’s one of the men I consider brothers, together with her own brother and James.
Boarding school friends who decided to become the family none of us had.
“I love Alex,” Nora says. It falls off her tongue so naturally, the endearment. Like he’s one of her favorite people.
I look at her. “You do?”
“He’s fun.” She glances at me. “I thought he was one of your best friends.”
“He is. I’ve wagered on his team to win.”
“Of course you have. You four love to play games.” She turns back to watch Alex race across the field on a chestnut, wearing a 3 on his back. He’s ridden since he could walk. His family operated one of Britain’s finest stud farms. “He’s good.”
“Yes. He is,” I say. We all played, up at Belmont. Even if it’s never been my preferred sport. “You see him a lot?”
“No. Just through my brother every now and then.” She looks at me again. “Just like you.”
Just like me, yeah.
Nora watches the game, and I drape my arm along the back of her chair and watch her. Her list was long. Extensive. It includes everything involved in dating, but beneath it all, I can see the pattern. It’s all about expectations. That’s what she hates, the expectations that rest heavy atop all dating interactions, like a blanket that smothers her.
“Tonight,” I say, without taking my eyes off the gray horse in the lead. Its rider hits the ball toward the goal at a frenzied pace. “We’ll go on a date. Just the two of us and the guards.”
The crowd roars as a player scores. Despite the sound, I hear the small hitch in Nora’s breathing beside me. It takes a few seconds for her to respond. “Good.”
“Lesson one, I think, will be saying no to me.”
Her lip curves. “Oh.”
“I bet you’ll enjoy that.”
“Yes,” she murmurs. “I think so too.”
When the second chukka comes to an end, we all clap. The score is even, and it’s set to be a good game. I stand and hold my hand out to Nora. She hesitates for only the faintest of seconds before putting her hand in mine.
Eyes track us as we walk to the bar, following our movements. I know there will be more talk about this. Talk that will reach investors, business partners, family friends and family enemies alike.
Calloway has a girlfriend.
It’s that Montclair heiress.
Isn’t that sweet?
Not only will it get my mother and her asinine matchmaking attempts off my back, but it will reach others in my family. Like my cousin, who stands to inherit Fairhaven if I’m not married by thirty. He’s been having conversations with investors for months, discussing how he might sell it, gut it, monetize it.
As if I’ll ever let that happen.
We’re stopped to chat three times before we get to the bar. Everyone wants to say how lovely the spring weather is, and to ask how my family is doing, and say thank you for the party last week if they were invited. And then they want to meet Nora.
She’s graciousness personified.
She laughs and smiles, asks about someone’s dog. I didn’t even realize they had spoken about that at the party. Wouldn’t have remembered even if I had.
We walk over to the fence. I lift an arm to wave at Alex, and he comes trotting over. There’s a huge smile on his face beneath the helmet.
“Calloway!” he says. “And little Montclair!”
I roll my eyes and reach over to grip his hand across the fence. The horse he’s on is fresh and prances with energy. “You’re in the lead.”
“Of course I am.” His voice has only a hint of Scottish left in it, softening the edges, lengthening some of the vowels. If he wants to, he can make it disappear entirely, become more English than Scot. “Hey, Nora.”
She shades her eyes and looks up at him. “Are you coming by West’s place for dinner?”
“I wish I could. I have to fly out of here in a few hours.” He looks between us and tugs gently at the reins for the horse to stay still, energy or not. “So you two are to be congratulated, then.”
“Alex,” I warn.
“Cheers to the lovely new couple! I’d drink if I had anything on me.” He’s broad-shouldered and puts a hand against his hip. “How is it, pretending to love West?”
The words tumble out of him like a joke.
“I haven’t had much practice at it,” Nora says. She’s still smiling, and it looks real. She does like Alex. “You’ve been his best friend for over a decade. Do you have any tips?”
Alex looks over at me. “I don’t know. Have we ever been lovers?”
“No,” I say placidly. “Don’t listen to anything Alex might say.”
“I know him pretty well, to be fair.” His horse tosses his head beneath him, and Alex leans forward to pat the sleek neck. “He loves it when you eat off his plate. You should do that all the time.”
“I think you’re giving me terrible advice,” Nora teases.
“He is.”
“I am not,” Alex protests. “Do me a favor and spend a lot of his money, okay? And make sure to take him to something he finds boring. Go to the ballet. Often.”
“Are you really my friend?” I ask Alex. “Because right now I’m starting to wonder.”
He grins, a deep smile in his auburn stubble. “A real friend wants you to suffer a little.”
A whistle sounds out, and we all look at where the game is about to begin. I nod. “You should go change ponies.”
“I know. You bet on me?”
“Of course.”
He grins again and tips his helmeted head to Nora. “My lady. I shall win in your honor.”
She laughs a little. “I’ll have a rose ready for you.”
“It will be my honor.” He winks at her and then turns his horse, setting off in a canter across the field. Flirting with her is easy for him, I’m sure, because he’s not actually considering crossing that boundary. It’s harmless fun.
He’s never thought about what her lips might taste like or how her body felt when he lifted her down off the ledge.
Not like me.
We make it a few steps back on the grass when Nora stumbles beside me. Her left leg folds, and I reach out on instinct. Catch her with an arm around her waist.
“ Merde ,” she breathes. “My heel just snapped.”
I look down at where the bottom of her dress kisses her ankles. Sure enough, one of the thin heels on her strappy shoe has broken off. It dangles, half loose, from the sole of her shoe.
She’s balancing on one foot, her hand gripping my arm.
“This is so embarrassing,” she mutters. “Good thing I got them for free after a shoot.”
“Can you walk?”
She puts her foot down gently, balancing on the balls of her feet. “Yes. But it will look like I’ve had way too much champagne. I’ll take them off and go barefoot, I guess.”
I glance around, noticing the not-so-subtle looksfrom people around us. We’ve been here long enough. We’ve been seen and we have seen in return.
“We can call it a day,” I tell her. “I’ll carry you to the car.”
“Carry me?” Her voice comes out thin. “West, you don’t have to do that.”
“I know.” Without waiting for her response, I sweep her up into my arms. One locked beneath her knees and the other behind her back. “Hold on to me.”
She gasps and grabs a hold of my shoulder. “West,” she protests, but her hand is tight around the back of my neck. Her feet dangle to one side, the broken heel clearly visible. She’s warm, and soft, and a comfortable weight in my arms.
I start walking toward the exit.
She glances over my shoulder. “Everyone’s staring.”
“Good,” I tell her.
“For someone who hates spectacles, you definitely turned this into one.”
My lips curve. “Yes. But I told you, trouble. I’m fine if it’s on my terms.”