Page 6 of Hired By the Enemy
“Nice upgrade from your PT Cruiser,” I say.
“Whatever, pickup boy.” Matthew’s attention is on his phone. Then he raises his gaze to mine. “At least my car didn’t stink like fish.”
My hackles rise. “That was a fucking low blow.”
I’d saved every cent I earned at the local pizza place to buy my first set of wheels. I’d been so proud to give rides to my friends, but a weird smell had started to permeate my pickup,reaching the point where I could only drive with the windows fully wound down.
It had taken me a week to discover the catfish under the front seat.
“I believe it was fair retaliation for your water balloon stunt,” Matthew says coolly.
We glare at each other over the roof of the car.
Fuck. It’s a bit embarrassing how quickly we’ve slipped back into the teenage versions of ourselves.
The same thought seems to have occurred to Matthew because he suddenly looks away, running a hand through his hair. “Shit. This is going to be hard. We’re going to have to put all that stuff from when we were kids behind us for today, agreed?”
“Agreed.”
When he meets my eyes again, the wariness on his face matches the feeling inside me.
Now that my initial shock at seeing him has faded, I take a moment to subtly give him a once-over.
Matthew was always a skinny kid, but he’s not as scrawny now. He’s wearing a neatly pressed polo shirt and khaki shorts that show off his new build, and his baby face from high school has been replaced with sharp cheekbones and jawline. With his messy dark hair and bright-blue eyes, he’s a mix of cute and nerdy-hot.
But looking closely, I can still see traces of the kid I couldn’t stand.
Matthew opens the door and slides into the driver’s seat.
I yank my door open and plonk myself in the front seat.
And off we go.
Matthew turns onto the road, and Hawaii’s like a postcard out the window. I’ve never been to a tropical island before, so Igape at the scenery, taking in the palm trees and the lush tropical growth.
Silence hangs between us. I’m not going to be the first to break it.
“Okay, so it’s a thirty-minute drive to the resort. I thought this would be a great chance to get to know my date.” Matthew’s voice sounds strangulated, like he’s forcing it out past resistance in his throat. “So, uh, what have you been doing for the past seven years? Since high school, I mean.”
I immediately get edgy.
“I know it’s been seven years since high school,” I say. “I can count.”
He quirks an eyebrow, and I can see he’s about to reply, probably to bring up my below-average math grades, before he stops himself.
Crap.
We’ve just promised to put everything behind us, but it’s like asking the Red Sox and the Yankees to share a locker room.
The problem is, it’s been like this from the moment I met Matthew after moving to Bainfield. We’ve always, always brought out the worst in each other.
I take a deep breath.
I’m a professional. I can do this.
Somehow, it’s even more important to show Matthew O’Conner that I can be mature and do my job properly.
“I live in San Francisco and work as a personal trainer,” I say.
