“Cleaning pools.”
She pressed her lips together and looked up to see if he was joking. “You’re a pool boy?”
He glanced over again, clearly not finding the humor in the question. “Yes.”
“Oh,” she whispered, but she was mentally kicking herself for being an ass. She couldn’t help it! Not really. All she kept thinking about was that movie with David Duchovny as a pizza boy. Where the word “anchovies” indicated an order for sex.
She turned to study his profile, noticing he hadn’t shaved since yesterday. “So you’re a pool boy. What happened to football?” A lump formed in her stomach, but she had to ask the question. It had been bothering her all day. Killing her that she didn’t already know the answer.
The Mustang lurched forward, and she gripped the bottom of her seat.
“I got hurt,” he answered. It was curt and to the point, and so much different from the open demeanor he used when talking about anything else.
She took a quick breath, because the confirmation made her heart hurt a little. “Oh…” she said. She wanted to ask more. To ask how it happened, to ask if his injury still bothered him. Because she knew all too well what it felt like to have a dream yanked from under you like that. But she adjusted in her seat instead, deciding it was much too personal a question to ask. “How did you get into your line of work?”
His shoulders visibly relaxed, as if he’d been anticipating something different. He opened the pack of gum between them and slid a piece from its sleeve before folding it half and popping it into his mouth. “A year ago I was hanging out at a bar.” He cleared his throat, raising his brows an inch as though indicating he knew this wasn’t a surprise to her. “Some lady was complaining about her husband and their disgusting green pool. It all started from there.”
She smiled, the scent of winter-mint gum making her shiver. “Go on.”
“Well, people started joking around. And someone mentioned she should get a pool boy—one who was good looking enough to make her husband jealous. Some guy mentioned my name.” He fanned over his body sarcastically. “One thing led to another, and what started as a joke, quickly became my new career.”
She raised her brows and turned to look out the window. “Oh.”
“What?” he asked, obviously confused by her answer.
She bit her bottom lip, hating the fact that she showed everything on her face.
“You better tell me or I’ll assume the worst,” he muttered.
She squeezed her eyes shut, took a stick of gum and popped it into her mouth. “Fine. I just realized that’s why you’re so tan.”
He laughed. Something she hadn’t heard in a long time. But then he went sober, so much so she turned to see his expression. He wore the barest grin at the corner of his mouth, and he had a sultry look about him that made her heart skip a beat.
“Glad to hear you’ve been paying attention, Samantha.”
She hit his chest, not hard, but in a way that was playful. “Oh stop it.” She laughed. She adjusted in her seat, dragging her feet up to her lap to sit crisscross. “So you’re saying there’s no sex involved?”
His chest began to shake again, and he shot her a “What the hell are you talking about?” expression. “No, there’s no sex. I don’t know what kind of pool boy you have, but I hope you tip him well.”
She immediately blushed, then started laughing too. “Haven’t you seen that movie? About the pizza boy? And anchovies…”
Her words trailed off, and she shook her head feeling embarrassed. But he must have taken pity, because he immediately started talking again. “Actually,” he said, cupping his hand over his face, trying to mask his laughter, “I don’t even clean pools anymore. I have a crew under me, so only when they’re sick do I go out on the field—which is why I’m able to be here with you. The tan is because I like to surf. Most of my job is paperwork, which surprisingly isn’t sexy at all.”
She played with the paper wrapper between her fingers, grinning at the fact he was trying to make her feel better, and glanced down to her lap. “You’d be surprised.”
“By what?” He turned to look at her. “You think paperwork is sexy?”
“I don’t know…” She lifted her shoulders. “A man with brains…it’s not a bad thing.”
He only grinned, as though some unspoken understanding had transpired between them. A small bud of tolerance had blossomed. It was tiny, and would likely blow away with a gentle breeze, but for that moment, she decided he wasn’t as bad as she’d thought. Maybe she could do this. It was only for a few more days, after all.
Six years earlier
Samantha lay on Renee’s bed, her head hanging over the side, causing her long blond hair to cascade to the floor. It was after school on the last day before fall break, and they’d both ditched, intending to find something better to do. But it was almost dinnertime, and they were still here, in Renee’s upstairs room, doing nothing.
Renee stood in front of her closet mirrors, where she’d been practicing her turns for the last hour. She’d been chosen for the part of the Sugar Plum Fairy in the upcoming performance of the Nutcracker, and scouts were coming all the way from New York to watch her. She was nervous, but Samantha had no doubt she’d do great. Renee was the most graceful person Samantha had ever seen in her life. She was strong, athletic, and moved so easily it was as though it took no effort at all. Just like all the rest of the Montgomerys. Physically fit, totally beautiful, and kind… All except Tristan.
“Where’s Steven?” Renee asked, pulling Samantha’s attention back to the mirrors. Renee was standing up on her toes, going up and down in releve so quickly it almost made Samantha sick.
She pulled herself up to sit, then stretched her oversized sweater over her knees. “Palm Springs,” she answered. “He’s playing golf with his grandparents.”
Renee prepped for another turn, then pushed off before answering. “Fun,” she said sarcastically.
Samantha shrugged. “Yeah, well he’s probably having more fun than we are at the moment.” She paused to look in the mirror, pushed herself off the bed and grabbed her phone from the nightstand. She walked across the room googling the number for Vincenzo’s before turning around. “I’m hungry. Do you want to order pizza—” But before she could finish the question, the sound of Mrs. Montgomery’s scream caused the hair on the back of her neck to rise.
“What the heck?” Renee yelled. She flung open her bedroom door and ran down the stairs, Samantha on her heels, running down after her friend. Her stomach felt like cement, her heart hammering in her chest.