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“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 datepublicly.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.”