Page 11
Taken aback, I resorted to defense. “Thought you were rid of me forever, huh?”
A humorless smile flashed, and he swiped a hand down his face. “Something like that.”
A pressure akin to disappointment squeezed my ribcage, but what was I expecting? An admission that he’d been pining after me all this time? Our relationship had always been baffling, exasperating, but it had never been what I wanted. Cam Shepherd didn’t pine, yet like an idiot, I still succumbed to this tug, the one that wanted me closer to him. My voice shrank as I answered his original question. “The place I lived… It didn’t feel like home.”
“Home?” His brow creased in disbelief. “But you never came back. Not even for holidays.”
The fact that he knew I never returned warmed something in the vicinity of my belly button. Had he thought about me? “I—I was busy, I suppose.”
The truth? I couldn’t afford it, but that information was mine. Not his.
Curiosity twinkled in his eyes. “Busy? For nine years? You were too busy to see your mother?”
“Am I on trial here?” I asked, spine stiffening.
A faint smirk lit his face. “Isn’t a job interview a kind of trial?”
“Semantics, Shepherd. We’re speaking of two different types of trials.”
“Are we?”
Know-it-all Shay overtook my faculties at once. “Yes. I’m speaking of the process of determining a person’s guilt in a criminal or civil case. You are referring to a test of performance. The two are completely different, and if you would bother to consider your words with that Yale-educated brain of yours before speaking, that would have occurred to you, too.”
His full grin broke out like sunshine. “There’s the Honeycutt I know. I was starting to wonder if Vanderbilt crushed that endless need to be right.”
How did he know I went to Vanderbilt? I crossed my arms, my legs, and sent him my prissiest glare. “I am right.”
He only laughed more, then mocked in a whiny voice, “That’s great.”
“It is great that your parents are well. Do you want me to wish misfortune on your family? I’m not cruel.”
His laughter died. “No. You’re definitely not cruel.”
An incredulous snort burst from me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Exactly what I said,” he replied, silvery eyes glinting in challenge.
“You said it with a tone.” I waved my hand at him—because that definitely encompassed the full range of his transgressions. If he was going to insult me, I at least wanted to know how I was being insulted.
“What tone?”
“A tone that clearly said, ‘You’re not cruel, but you’re something far worse.’”
His skeptical expression had my spine straightening even more. He looked as if he couldn’t be bothered with me anymore. “You’re hearing what you felt, not what I said.”
Was he mansplaining to me? My palms landed on the desk as I leaned forward, and his gaze shot to them. “You haven’t changed at all, have you?”
Slowly, those eyes lifted to mine. “I don’t know. You’re the smart one. Why don’t you tell me?”
My heartbeat pounded in my ears. “You’re still that spoiled, pretty rich boy who thinks he’s better than everyone.”
A tinge of pink bloomed across his cheeks. “Since the moment we met, I think you’ve made it perfectly clear how much better you are than me. And everyone else, for that matter.”
Me? Better? My massive inferiority complex was something I’d worked through with a therapist in college and found…minimal resolution. That complex fueled my perfectionism. My obsession with studying until I’d memorized every detail. My need to over-research and over-prepare so people wouldn’t look at my mistakes and think trailer trash.
I was this town’s “Sweetheart.” Their do-gooder from the wrong side of the tracks. Their success story they trotted out when some other impoverished girl found herself in less fortunate circumstances.
But I wasn’t better than them. From a pretend pedestal, I played the sycophant to the rich folks on the Sugar Throne, all while listening to them whisper about me behind their hands.
