Page 64 of My Real Love Affair

“I’m sure you are,” he said. “I’m simply offering a perspective from someone who knows Austin better than you do.”

“You think you know me?” I was on my feet now, anger coursing hot through my veins. “You haven’t known me since I was twenty-two, Dad. Since before I left. You decided who I was back then, and you’ve never bothered to update your opinion.”

“Because you’ve never given me reason to.” His expression didn’t change. Didn’t soften. “Cash tried to help you. You should have let him.”

I waved the comment away. “Cash tried to control me. There’s a huge difference.”

“Cash tried to save you from yourself.” Armand moved toward the door, done with this conversation. “But you’ve always been too stubborn to accept help when it’s offered.” He paused at the doorway, looking back at Melody one last time. “Good night, Ms. Stephens. I do hope you’ll think about what I said.”

Then he was gone.

I stood there, fists clenched, trying to get my breathing under control. My father’s words echoed in my head, each one a familiar wound reopened.

“Austin.” Melody’s voice was soft. She stood, coming over to me. “Are you okay?”

“Peachy. Let’s get out of here.”

We didn’t speak as we walked through the estate to the front door. My car was waiting like an escape vehicle. And I couldn’t wait to speed away.

I pulled my keys from my pocket. Melody’s hand caught my wrist.

“Give them to me,” she said.

“What?”

“Your keys. Give them to me.”

I blinked at her. “Why?”

“Because you’ve had too much to drink, and I’m not letting you drive.” She looked into my eyes seriously.

“I had two glasses of wine and half a glass of that terrible liqueur.” I shuddered. “Like drinking shoe polish.”

“And a cocktail before dinner, and another glass during appetizers.” Her expression was firm. “You’re not driving anywhere. Either I drive or we call a car.”

“Melody, five drinks is basically rich-person sober?—”

“Austin.” She held out her hand. “Keys. Now. Before your dad comes out and finds something else to be a judgmental prick about.”

I chuckled, knowing she was right, and dropped the keys into her palm. “Fine.”

She slid into the driver’s seat and then stared at the gear shift with something close to terror. “Shit, it’s a manual.”

“You can’t drive stick?”

“I can drive stick! I just haven’t in a while.” She adjusted the seat forward. Way forward. Her legs were considerably shorter than mine. “Okay. Clutch, brake, gas. I remember.”

I got in the passenger side, already grinning. “Sounds like you need a drink to relax.”

“That’s not funny. Shut up and help me.” She started the car. That much she managed fine. But when she went to put it in first gear, there was a horrible grinding sound.

“Oh god oh god oh god,” she groaned over and over.

“Clutch all the way down,” I instructed, trying not to laugh. But her face was all scrunched up in a really cute way and I was having trouble looking away. “All the way. There you go.”

She managed it, barely, and we lurched forward about three feet before the car jerked to a stop. She stalled it.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice high-pitched with stress. “Let’s just get an Uber.”