Page 6 of Hate You More

“There was a little accident,” I begin smoothly as her eyes dart between us. “Totally my fault. I was a little excited, I guess.”

“Is everything okay?” The woman’s attention dips to where I’m holding Clara’s elbow.

I give my own version of a pageant smile and slide my arm around Clara’s shoulders instead. “We’re old friends, me and Clara.” I give her shoulder a squeeze. “Right?”

“Yes, friends,” she says with a grimace.

“I was so surprised to see Clara, I guess I knocked the tray plumb out of her hand.” Plumb? Jesus Christ.

But Shanti looks torn, like she’s trying to guess what’s going on while also weighing up my importance.

“Where are my manners?” I put in, all forehead-slapping gosh-darn-it. Like the accent isn’t enough. “I’m Troy.” I offer her my hand. “Troy Templeton. Table’s CEO.” C-E . . .

“Oh!” Shanti’s eyes fly open wide. Suddenly, she looks like she’d rather be anyplace else but here.

“Me and Clara, we’ve known each other since we were kids,” I say as I give her hand a firm shake. It’s better than admitting she’s responsible for one of the worst times of my life. “I hope I’m not gonna get her in trouble. I just wanted to steal her away so we could catch up.”

“Of course!” Shanti steps back. “Not a problem. Take all the time you need. We’ll see you back after your break,” she adds, glancing Clara’s way.

Yeah, no offense, Shanti, but there’s no way she’s going back to that room, I think as she hurries by without another word.

“So much for girl code,” Clara mutters. At the elevator, I swipe my security pass when she angles her attention sharply my way. “And you just cost me a catering gig.”

“You wanna go there?” I utter icily, pinning her with a glare. “What’s your angle, Clara? What are you doing here tonight?”

“Working.” Tone flat, her gaze drops to her shoes.

What happened to her freckles?

I shut that shit down. Or I try to, but the vision of her that first time at the pool stirs a memory that’s hard to ignore. It wasn’t exactly the first time I saw her. Every summer for four years and some weekends in between, she’d come back to the house with her folks. But she was a kid—two years younger than me. I might’ve been her housekeeper’s son, but she was beneath me in interest terms. She was just a name I heard from time to time, my mother repeating this snot-nosed kid’s antics.

“Poor Clara got such a scolding for rolling her eyes at her daddy during brunch.”

She was grounded for the week after flunking a school assignment. Grounded in a house with a pool, tennis courts, and a home theater. Boo-fucking-hoo.

“Such a commotion at the house last night after Clara disagreed with her father in front of dinner guests.”

There was the time she added red dye to the swimming pool, then floated in the middle like she was dead. And my mother’s deep frown as she recounted Clara’s dad poking her with the leaf skimmer instead of jumping in.

As the summers passed, the transgressions changed.

“Clara got caught sneaking out of the house late last night.”

Missed curfew.

Wore so much eyeliner, her father said she looked like a raccoon.

Skipped school and went shopping with daddy’s credit card.

Left her car someplace she couldn’t remember.

And the one my mother never reproached me for. Clara got involved with an unsuitable boy one summer.

I went home that year and took a job in the grounds of her father’s house. I didn’t want to be around the family that took up so much of my mother’s time, but money, or lack of it, has a habit of making you do things you don’t want to do.

Hot and sweaty and covered in grass cuttings that day, I took off my ball cap and pulled my T-shirt up to wipe my forehead when a delighted whoop came from the nearby Olympic-size pool. I was being watched by a bunch of girls, five or six of them giggling and whispering, and theatrically fanning their faces.

“Damn, boy, you’re like . . . like a sexy bottle of ketchup!” one of them called out. She was tall and blonde, her hand pressed to her jutted hip, her accent not at all in keeping with the quip.