“What’s so funny?”
He ignored me. “I don’t get it. Do you always wear black? Is it like a religious thing?”
I shouldn’t let him goad me. But… “It’s Satan’s favorite color.”
He shook his head, his lips twitching as if he had to work hard to make a straight face. “You’re a piece of work, Carmichael. I can’t figure you out.”
“Then stop trying,” I suggested. “I figured you out weeks ago and I was only disappointed.”
His blue eyes flashed with some emotion I’d never seen from him before. I almost regretted my harsh words. Almost.
But not quite.
The cords in his neck tightened and his hands gripped the edges of his desk. “You think you have me figured out?”
“Like it was hard?”
He glared at me and I could tell that I had truly pissed him off. My chest squeezed, but I tried to ignore the painful feeling.
I wasn’t mean by nature. Pissy maybe. Irritable lately. Even before my parents decided to blow up our family, I had never been the sweetest child on the block. But after enduring a hate-fueled scream fest between two people I had assumed loved each other more than anything else all summer, I was just over being nice.
If my parents had been honest instead of being nice to each other for twenty-four years, we would all be looking forward to Thanksgiving.
“Let’s hear it then, Carmichael. What do you think you know about me?” His voice had dropped low and menacing. A shiver skittered down my spine and I tried to convince myself I wasn’t scared of him. He was twice my size with muscles as big as cantaloupes, but he was a baby bunny inside that tough guy exterior.
“You’re a jock—”
“Very intuitive.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “I’m not finished. You’re a jock, born to a family of jocks, in a long line of jocks. Your dad played football somewhere, maybe here, and all he ever wanted for you was to carry on his legacy. You were the star in high school, probably all-American something or other and now you’re going to be the star here. Just as soon as you put in your dues and sit the bench for a good year. Coach wants to keep you humble. And you’re not quite ready to play in the big leagues. You try hard at everything you do, including school, but not just because of your stellar scholarship. Oh no, you try hard because that’s what Camerons do. They always give it their all.” I emphasized my point by winking at him. And then I leaned back in my chair to revel in my victory.
I could do the slow smile thing too.
“Impressive,” he murmured and I gave myself a mental pat on the back. “Except for the part you got wrong.”
Curiosity ate away at me until I couldn’t help but ask, “Which part did I get wrong?”
His lips were tilted in a smile, but it didn’t feel like a smile anymore. It felt dangerous and dark. “Try all of it. Starting with my jock family that doesn’t exist. My dad bailed before I was born. I’ve never even met the son of a bitch. And my mom died when I was three. My aunt raised me and I don’t know how good at throwing a ball she is because I’ve never seen her do it. I was the quarterback in high school, but not because I had some awesome family cheering me on. It was either football or drugs. I chose football. As for not being ready to play in the big leagues? Sorry, Cassandra, apparently you haven’t been to any of the games this year.”
I bit down on my bottom lip. Hard. It was the first time he had called me Cassandra instead of Carmichael and it would have been enough to derail me except that his story had done a hell of a job of messing with my mind.
“Cass,” I said instead.
Lame.
One of his eyebrows lifted. “What?”
“Everyone calls me Cass.”
His lips twitched. “Cass?”
I shrugged, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “It’s a nickname. So what?”
His mouth broke into a full smile and my heart jumped. I took a breath and pretended like that didn’t happen. “I know it’s a nickname,” he laughed. “It just, I don’t know, it suits you.”
I rolled my eyes. “Of course it does. It’s my name.”
He winked at me. “We’ve established that.”
