Page 5 of Even Beneath the Stars

"I would know." My voice is firm now. "And I’m not about to compromise my integrity for some rich kid who thinks rules don’t apply to him."

His hazel eyes flash. "What the hell does money have to do with me being pissed that I can't pick my brother up from a summer playgroup?"

"It has to do with you thinking the world revolves around you and—"

"Look," he cuts me off. "Can you get a manager? This is bullshit."

"Are you serious right now?"

"Yes. Can you please call a manager."

I unhook the walkie talkie from my belt.

Crap.

Crap. Crap. Crap.

Xavier's entitled attitude hits me like a punch to the gut. Suddenly, I’m not at the Kid’s Club anymore—I’m back at that stupid art show two years ago, standing beside my dystopian floating city diorama, heart pounding. Months of work, every penny I’d saved poured into supplies—because the prize was a coveted spot in a prestigious summer art program with an artist I idolized.Nothing was going to stop me from getting that scholarship, dammit.

Then:

“What’s that supposed to be?” A girl in a crisp uniform sneered. “Some kind of trailer park?”

Laughter. Designer shoes squeaking on polished floors.

“It’s a post-apocalyptic cityscape,” I muttered, cheeks burning.

“So… trailer trash art,” her boyfriend scoffed.

And later, that same guy, the one who mocked my work—won.With his skilled but totally basic watercolor landscape. His grandparents' names gleamed on the donor wall behind him as he accepted the scholarship.

Now, looking at Xavier’s frustrated face as we wait for the manager I paged, that same anger flares hot in my chest. Just like them, he expects the world to bend to his will. To be able to push people like me aside in order to get his way.And it'll probably work—because I have something to lose, and he doesn't. I need this job. He just needs an attitude transplant.

He leans back against the desk, scrolling through his phone, totally unbothered. Dude’s like a truffle-stuffed olive at a dill pickle convention. Probably smug in his confidence that everything will get smoothed over as soon as a manager shows up and realizes who she's dealing with. It makes me want to ruffle his feathers. I refuse to feel demeaned in front of a guy my own age just because he's got money and an all-you-can-eat-buffet-sized ego.

"I was hoping you'd be wearing lobster-print khakis," I say conversationally, cocking a hip against the windowsill.

Xavier glances up from his phone. "What?"

"I was hoping you'd be wearing pants with little embroidered lobsters on them," I repeat.

"What the—" His forehead furrows."What?"

"New England prep school guys in movies are always wearing lobster pants. And pastel polos with cable-knit sweaters tied around their shoulders," I explain. "I just figured when I moved here, seeing it in person would be one of the perks."

His eyebrows arch up, hovering somewhere between his hairline and the worn wooden rafters. "I can't tell if you're joking right now."

"I would never joke about lobster pants."

It's true. Seeing them in the wild is on my bucket list. Way down the list, but still. And just my luck, the first millionaire I meet—sorry,billionaire—is wearing boring, plain old navy shorts and a frayed Blind Melon T-shirt.

Xavier stares me down for a good three seconds. "Well, my lobster pants are at the dry cleaners right now so… sorry to disappoint."

"Don't feel bad." I shrug. "The entitled temper tantrum was a solid consolation prize."

His jaw tics. "Seriously? What is your problem?"

And… it appears Xavier Rockwell's feathers are ruffled.

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