Page 6 of Ruined Vows

"Considering it's your safety on the line," he continues, "we play by horror movie rules. We never split up. Neither of us goes anywhere alone. And we only tell each other the absolute truth. No bullshit."

"So... radical honesty?" I ask, thinking of the psychological concept I've studied.

"Sure, if you gotta have a fancy name for it."

I can't help smiling a little. "Fine. I'll start now."

He looks at me expectantly. "Oh, this ought to be good."

I take a deep breath. The radically honest truth is, I find him overwhelmingly attractive and it terrifies me. But god knows I’ll never admit that.

"I don't have any choice but to have you around," I say instead. "We're obviously not the kind of people who would hang out with each other in the real world, so I don't see any reason for communicating more than necessary for the job at hand."

His expression darkens. "'Cause I'm just the help, right?"

"Uh, yeah. I'm paying you... to help."

He shakes his head as we reach the gate of my neighborhood. "You people are all the same."

My eyebrow arches. "You people?"

Then I shake my head and lean across him to wave at Bernard, the gate attendant, suddenly realizing I've invaded his personal space. The scent of him—leather and something uniquely male—is overwhelming.

"Sorry," I whisper, pulling back quickly.

"Gated community," Isaak mutters. "Of course."

I curl into myself, clutching my bag again. I want to explain that I'm not what he thinks, that I'm just as trapped in expectations as anyone else, and that I've spent my whole life trying to be perfect because anything less was unacceptable. But the words stick in my throat. Because I’ve gained enough self-awareness the last few years to know Iamthat girl. Rich. Entitled. Anxious and shy in a way that makes me come off as a snob. I’m exactly what he thinks I am. And I hate it.

"You don't like me very much, do you?" I ask softly as he pulls into my driveway.

"Is liking you a requirement of the job?"

"Why did you even take this job?"

He looks at me, really looks at me, and for a moment, I can't breathe.

"Money."

I push my door open, needing air, needing space from the intensity of his presence. I'm careful to close the truck door softly even though I want to slam it. Mrs. Samuelson hates loud noises after nine-thirty.

"Of course, it's for the money."

"Says the girl living in the gated community. This is from Mommy's money, isn't it?"

I want to deny it, but he's not wrong. My parents have always helped with my rent, even though Mrs. Samuelson gives them a discount as an old family friend.

"You don't know anything about me," I say, frustration building as I count the items in my purse to make sure nothing's missing. Keys, wallet, phone, hand sanitizer, tissues, pepper spray. Everything in its place.

"I know you're rich and you've finally run into trouble that all your money can't fix, or else you wouldn't have come to me."

His words hit home, and I hate that he's right. "I guess that's true," I admit reluctantly, then stare at him deadpan. If he’s clocked me as a bitch, I can lean in. "Sometimes you just need a big, dumb brute because no matter how civilized we've gotten, there are still people out there who can only think in terms of violence and intimidation."

He scoffs. "That's most of the world, lady."

I turn the key three times in the lock and then open the door, suddenly exhausted. "Why am I even talking to you? Didn't we decide that you're supposed to, like, stand in a corner and be silent?"

"Is that what the last guy did? Guess that's why he worked out so well."

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