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“You’re welcome,” I snap. I don’t get him. Possessive one minute, aloof the next. The boy is giving me whiplash.
“I didn’t say thank you.”
“Asshole.”
“Bitch.” He jumps onto his nice clean bed and stretches his arms behind his head.
The hair on the back of my neck rises. The sharp tone of his voice sends a rumbling flutter right to my core. I rub my thighs together, turning away to hide the flush heating my cheeks. A single insult uttered from his lips affects me in ways compliments never have.
How is it that Jace Wilder could be such a prick, yet still makes me feel seen? Every look drips with frustration and hatred, his words drenched in disdain, but his realism gets me. He’s a dick, but he comes by it honestly. No sugarcoating, no lies. Just straight up fuckery as far as the eye can see.
Jace gives it to me straight, and for that, I almost give him a little respect.
Chapter eight
My history textbook rests face up on the coffee table as I curl on the floor in front of my laptop. The ceiling fan whirls at high speed. I’m trying to concentrate on Reaganomics and Gross Domestic Product, but when a yellow swath of color passes in my peripheral vision, record-high taxes are suddenly much less interesting.
I rise from the carpet, craning my neck as I peer through the window. The yellow Porsche makes my stomach do backflips. Did Troy track me down at my house? When is he going to get it through his head that I’m not interested?
I wrench the door open before he has a chance to knock. “Ellie,” he says with a double take.
“What the hell, Troy? You look me up online, you come to my job … I don’t appreciate you showing up at my house uninvited like some psycho stalker.”
Mouth agape for a full minute, he stares as I finish my tirade. “I’m actually here for Cindy.”
My stomach drops. “Oh.”
“I had no idea you lived here.”
The flush deepens my cheeks as I eek out another, “Oh.”
“Is she here?”
“Yeah. One sec.” Heat floods my face and ears. I find Cindy in the kitchen, then sulk away in shame, but this new occurrence is far more intriguing than eighties politics. Why is Troy suddenly showing up at the house asking for Cindy? How do they know each other?
I watch from the window, sure they can’t see me. They chat for a moment before Troy pulls an envelope from the back pocket of his jeans and hands it to Cindy. She takes it, then rises to her tiptoes to pull him in for a hug. When I see her turn back toward the house, I scramble away and pretend I’m back to doing homework.
“Everything okay?” I ask as casually as I can. Meanwhile, the curiosity is clawing from my skin like a cat in heat.
She sits on the couch and hooks her toes over the lip of the coffee table. “Yep. Everything’s right as rain.”
“How do you know Troy?”
She lifts a brow with a surprised grin. “You know Troy?”
“Yeah, we’ve met.”
“Sweet kid. I’ve known him since he was about this high.” She hovers her palm about two feet from the ground. “Jackson—my husband—used to work for his daddy over on the rig.”
The plot thickens. Forget homework. My interest is piqued with this family tale, and I need to know more. “The rig?”
“Mm-hmm,” she says with a nod. “The McNamara family’s in oil. Jackson worked for them since he was a teenager. Long time.” She pauses as if waiting for the memory to envelop her whole. “Well, when he passed a few years ago, Kevin—that’s Troy’s daddy—felt so bad he promised he’d keep up with Jackson’s salary to help me and Jace.”
I jerk my head back. “Wow. That’s really nice.”
“Yeah, they’re a good family. Good people. Kevin even pulled some strings and got Jace into the university. Frankly, I dunno what we’d have done without ’em.”
My gaze travels to the window. I assumed Troy was kind of a pompous ass, but after Cindy’s story, I wonder if I judged him too harshly. Most people would not continue to pay out a dead man’s salary, let alone come all the way down here and hand deliver it. Maybe I was wrong to push back so hard.
