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“Yes. I know him well. He’s a nice guy. Great at research. Huge animal lover. He studied veterinary medicine in college.”
“Oh, that’s great.” He exhaled in relief. “Looking forward to meeting him.”
Some mischievous impulse made me add, “I’ve also heard him described assupercute, and I happen to know he’s gay. Maybe the two of you…” For some reason, I couldn’t even finish the suggestion. The thought of Rowe hooking up with my friend made my stomach twist in an ugly way.
“Uh,no,” Rowe said dismissively. “Not interested in hooking up with some rich prick who plays po—uh…” He broke off with a blush and darted a guilty glance in my direction. “I mean, I’m not interested in a romantic connection at this time. Thank you anyway.”
I poked the inside of my cheek with my tongue, feeling my temper rise. It shouldn’t have stung as badly as it did to hear his opinion of people who had money. After all, his impression of a billionaire was so absurd it was almost insulting, and I highly doubted it was drawn from real life since people with ten-figure net worths weren’t thick on the ground in Nowheresville, Indiana. But it was pretty fucking ironic that he was slamming all rich guys as pricks while seeking out a meeting with Justin Hardy, the prickiest prick of all.
Besides, some of us couldn’t help being rich. Some of us were born this way.
“Strange that you should have a chip on your shoulder about people with money, Mr. Chase,” I bit out, “when you yourself are worth over 2.5 billion dollars.”
“I am?” His eyes flared wide. “That is, I… I so rarely count it all up.”
I barked out a laugh. “Such a jokester. I didn’t get that from your emails. You’re very different in person.”
“That’s me,” Rowe said with a weak smile. “A joke a minute.”
“Why don’t you tell me about this side project that you’re hoping to discuss with Mr. Hardy,” I suggested. “I can make notes for you, if you’d like.”
“Well…” He paled, then took a deep breath and opened his mouth to speak. I sat poised on the edge of my seat, wondering which side of his nature was about to emerge, adorably conniving liar or the passionate, truth-telling angel.
Then the car made a very distinct left turn into the driveway that led to the polo field, and Rowe shut his mouth again.
I clenched my teeth in frustration. “Later, then.” I forced a smile.
When Morris opened the door, Rowe peeked outside anxiously, like an alien who’d crash-landed his ship on a distant planet and wasn’t quite sure the landscape was hospitable.
I looked out also… and saw nothing but the usual low white buildings of the clubhouse and stables, wide swaths of grass, several horses, and a few clusters of players and spectators casually chatting. Some of them looked pretty boisterous, like they’d already begun celebrating, but none of them looked intimidating or even particularly interesting.
“Out you go, Rowe,” I said softly, ushering him ahead of me. As he stood beside the car, I couldn’t help adding, “Everything is going to be fine.”
I quickly shepherded him toward the stables, hoping not to run into anyone I knew so I could avoid awkward introductions. But we hadn’t taken more than a step in that direction when one of the spectators chatting in front of the entrance broke away from his friends and jogged over, pointing a finger at Rowe.
“It’syou!” He grinned, wide and boozy. “Oh my god. This is amazing.”
“M-me?” Rowe stammered. “No.”
“Yes! I told my friends I recognized you, and they didn’t believe me. They said it was like that time I swore I saw Elton John at my cousin’s sweet sixteen. But now that I’m up close, I’m a hundred percent sure.” He folded his arms across his pink polo, which was slightly damp in patches, either with sweat or beer. “Sing the song, man.”
The panicked look in Rowe’s eyes suggested that he was attempting to melt into the lush grass of the polo field. “Song? I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”
The man began strumming a tiny, invisible guitar and launched into song. “My name is Burrito Bandito… and I’ve come here today to say…” He made a rolling motion with his hand like he expected Rowe to continue.
“No way,” Rowe said flatly, unintentionally continuing the rhyme of the song.
He darted a glance at me, horror-struck.
Color bloomed on his cheeks, spreading an answering warmth through my belly.
And before I knew it, I’d burst out laughing once again.
FIVE
ROWE
I freaking hated polo.
