“Gee, thanks.”He hands me a clean plate, water droplets catching the kitchen light.“You know, you’re not the only one who worked hard in college.”
“I know that.”I dry the plate carefully.“But it’s different when you have a safety net.”
“A safety net?”His voice carries an edge now.“You think having parents with money automatically makes everything easy?”
“Doesn’t it?”I meet his gaze directly.“You didn’t have to choose between eating and buying textbooks.”
“No, but I was also working on establishing my own business.Taking online certifications, pulling all-nighters just like you.”He scrubs a wine glass frowning.“I was equally busy, Eve.Just because my parents had money doesn’t mean I coasted.”
The defensive edge in his voice makes me glance at him, and I notice the tension in his shoulders.“I know you have that side business you run,” I concede.
“It’s not a side business.”There’s something almost hurt in his tone, like I’ve dismissed something important to him.“I’ve worked with huge names.Major campaigns.I just don’t like showing my ambition the way you do.”
The edge in his voice makes me set down the towel.“What do you mean?”
He’s quiet for a moment, focused on scrubbing a stubborn spot on our takeout container.“You wear your achievements like armor, Lopez.Every promotion, every success story.It’s all right there for everyone to see.”
“And you don’t?”
“I don’t need external validation.”He rinses the container and hands it to me.“Never have.”
The comment stings more than it should.“So what, I’m insecure?Is that what you’re saying?”
“I’m saying we handle things differently.”His voice softens slightly.“There’s nothing wrong with being proud of what you’ve accomplished.But it doesn’t make you better than everyone else who chooses to keep their cards closer to their chest.”
I dry the container in silence, processing his words.He’s right, and I hate that he’s right.I do use my achievements as armor.Every degree, every promotion, every small victory—they’re proof that my mother was wrong, that I didn’t break, that I’m worth something.
“Show me,” I say finally.
“Show you what?”
“Your portfolio.This mysterious business empire you’ve built in secret.”
He gives me a long look, like he’s trying to decide whether I’m mocking him.Finally, he pulls his phone from his pocket and opens an app.
“Here.”He hands it to me, our fingers brushing as I take it.
I scroll through his portfolio, and my mouth literally falls open.Campaign after campaign for brands I recognize—luxury fashion houses, tech companies, high-end restaurants.The work is sophisticated, creative, polished.Professional in a way that makes my chest tight with respect.
Or attraction.God, competence is sexy.
One campaign in particular catches my eye—a marketing strategy for Lumina Luxury Watches that’s absolutely brilliant.The tagline, the imagery, the social media integration.It’s the kind of work that wins awards.
“Holy shit, Caleb.”I look up at him, genuinely impressed.“This is incredible.”
He’s watching my face carefully, like he’s trying to gauge whether I’m being sincere.“You sound surprised.”
“I am surprised.”I hand him back his phone as we head to the living room.“Maybe you weren’t as much of a lazy college bum as I liked to believe.”
“Wow.”His grin is pure mockery.“You’re so good at apologizing, I should take notes.Really, that was beautiful.I’m practically in tears.”
I grab a throw pillow from the nearby chair and hurl it at his head with deadly accuracy.It hits him square in the face, and he staggers backward dramatically.
“Ow!Assault!I’m calling the police!”
“You deserved it.”But I’m laughing despite myself.“That was not an apology.”
“No?”He picks up the pillow and tosses it back at me.I catch it easily.“Then what was it?”
