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I’d figured as much last night while I was reading article after article on polo rules and etiquette while simultaneously watching highlight reels of the “Ten Most Amazing Feats in Polo History”—which, by the way, was a massive oversell since as far as I could tell, they all involved men playing croquet on horseback.
My suspicion had only deepened when we’d pulled up to this polo club with its huge green fields that looked plusher than my mom’s living room carpet and made me shudder at the memory of muggy weekend mornings as a teenager pushing a mower around my parents’ front yard.
And now, as the mediocre tipper from one of the accounting firms where I delivered serenaded me with the Burrito Bandito song loud enough to draw a crowd, I could one hundred percent confirm that I hated, hated,hatedpolo, and I absolutely should not have come here no matter how badly I wanted to meet Justin or how tempting it was to spend an afternoon with my gorgeous “assistant.” My stomach clenched, and the microwave oatmeal I’d eaten for breakfast threatened to make a reappearance.
My accuser’s face fell. “You were supposed to say ‘olé,’” he said, aggrieved that I wasn’t playing along.
“Uh. P-pardon me?” I stammered, cool as a cucumber trapped in boiling oil. “I don’t understand this ritual, I’m afraid.”
Polo was worse than the gala. Infinitely worse. Lying about being a mysterious rich guy no one knew had nearly killed me—literally, since I’d almost dived face-first into a potted plant. Lying about belonging at a polo club whileBash, the personal assistant sent to tempt me to sexy, sexy hell, stood by choking on laughter was bound to finish the job.
I fixed my face in a grimace of disapproval and hoped it was far enough from my usual friendly smile that my accuser would second-guess himself. But, just my luck, the man was drunk enough to stick to his guns… and get belligerent about it.
“You’re the burrito guy! I work at 201 East Sixty-Fifth Street, remember? Dos burrito Mexicanos, extra red sauce? That’s me. I didn’t know you guys delivered this far out of the city.”
My cheeks burned.Extra red sauce, indeed.
Bash stopped laughing when he noticed my distress and took a protective step forward. I made a mental note to give him a fake raise as long as I was acting as his fake boss.
“I’m…” I swallowed. “I’m quite confident I don’t know what you mean, friend. Sterling Chase does not eat burritos.” I kicked my grimace up a notch, and the man cocked his head like a confused puppy.
“Nahhhh. Dude, I know you. Come on. Do the little toe kick.” He leaned around me and grabbed my arm before Bash could intervene.
Bash instantly bristled with anger, growing taller and broader right in front of me. His eyes narrowed like he was shooting laser beams at my accuser’s hand, and the anger coming off him made the air tremble.
Under other circumstances, it might have felt nice to have someone—especially a funny, kind, Bash-like someone—sticking up for me in this crowd of rich folks. But in that moment, I envisioned Bash throwing a punch to defend his “boss” and getting kicked out, or arrested, or even injured if this dude managed to land a blow before Bash destroyed him. I couldn’t let any of that happen.
Of all the mortifying ways I’d envisioned this charade ending, I’d never imagined it would be with a command performance of the Burrito Bandito song on a polo field to avert a fistfight. Massive oversight on my part.
“Bernard Hennicker,” an imperious, feminine voice said. “For heaven’s sake, stop accosting Sterling Chase! Remove your hand from his person this instant.”
All heads in the vicinity, including mine, turned to watch the blonde tornado bearing down on us, dressed in a drop-waisted floral-print dress with enormous shoulder pads.
“Constance! M-Ms. Baxter-Hicks! You’re looking… fabulous,” I managed to choke out when she paused beside me.
“Thank you, dear.” She leaned in and added more quietly, “I thought quite a lot about what you said last night, about how style should reflect what makes you feel most confident, and this morning I decided to it was time for this little number to make a reappearance.” She tweaked the skirt of her dress, making it flow around her shins.
Constance Baxter-Hicks felt most confident in late-eighties Laura Ashley. Good to know.
“Ma’am, this man is not Sterling… whoever,” my accuser—Bernard—insisted. “He’s the man who delivers my lunch.”
Constance turned toward him and raised a single eyebrow. Apparently, Bash wasn’t the only one who knew how to wield those like swords.
“Thisman?” Constance flung a hand toward me. “This gentleman wearing a vintage tweed St. Laurent blazer and last-season Ferragamo loafers delivers your lunch?Really?”
Beside me, Bash leaned back to scan me up and down, like he was appreciating my outfit for the first time. If he knew how many visits to Second Chance Savers it had taken for me to find these loafers for astealor how many hours I’d spent polishing them, he might have appreciated them even more.
Before Bernard could utter another word, Constance spoke again. “Which is more likely, Bernard: that I don’t know Sterling Chase, the billionaire founder ofSterling Chase, when I see him? Or,” she said in a withering tone, “that this is a repeat of that unfortunate incident at Olivia’s birthday party, where you tried to force Lord Piers Bishop to sing ‘Rocket Man’?”
Bernard’s mouth opened, then shut again. Several onlookers tittered. Bernard looked at me, frowned, and shrugged. His shoulders slumped.
Constance made atsking noise. “Honestly, dear, you smell like a brewery. Your poor father will beincensed. Apologize to Mr. Chase for grabbing him without permission.”
“Sorry,” Bernard mumbled like a petulant child.
I stared at Constance in shock. I’d have bet money last night that she’d seen right through me. Instead, she’d come to my defense…magnificently. So fuck Joey and his “big brass balls” talk. From now on, when I needed confidence, I’d be channeling Constance Baxter-Hicks.
“Hon. Est. Ly,” she said, watching Bernard walk away. She visibly shook herself, as though clearing away her negative emotions, then turned to me with a brilliant smile. “Now, Mr. Chase, youmustcome to the clubhouse with me.” She pointed toward the low white building nearby. “I have some people who’d absolutely love to meet you. And Miranda, of course—”
