Page 2 of Fighting

Beside me, Mateo snickers.

As Jim titters with excitement, he glances at the dark corner again.

Interesting. Do we have a surprise guest?

“In the coming weeks, Caleb Reynolds will be in town. He plans to present his development plans for the north side oncehe’s gathered the necessary information. Please be kind and keep your gawking to a minimum while he’s in town.”

“Un-fucking-believable. Is this a Dickens novel?” I grumble. Apparently the ghosts of past mistakes have come to haunt me. This one in the form of my ex.

Is it just me, or is it getting harder to breathe?

“Fuck that guy.” Mateo leans closer. “Not happening.” He leaves tiny puffs of air on my neck. His lips nearly skim my ear, stirring feelings I’m not interested in revisiting.

“What do you have in mind?—”

Before I can finish the question, he jumps to his feet.

“Mr. Santos-Manolo, can we help with something?” Jim asks, his tone stodgy.

Mateo adjusts the leather band of his wristwatch and clears his throat. “Yes, Jim. In fact, you can. As you know, I am a developer myself, and I’m familiar with the work the Reynolds Group does.”

Jim continues to glance at that darker corner.

“They’re from the city. Are we sure they’re really the right group for a town like ours?” He lifts both brows. “I’d appreciate the opportunity to provide my own proposal. As a lifelong resident of this town, I want to ensure we keep the integrity and history of this place intact.”

The room breaks into a round of applause, and on the other side of the room, his parents, Susan and Eddie, nod in approval.

“Call my office and schedule an appointment. We can talk about it then,” Jim hollers over the din of the crowd.

Movement in my periphery catches my attention, and I turn in time to see Caleb step out from the dark corner. With Caleb “Satan’s Bikini Waxer” Reynolds the Third lurking nearby, suddenly being this close to Mateo is a comfort. Not that I’d tell him that.

This is the first time I’ve seen him in years. Standing at six feet tall, with thick blond hair and wearing a navy suit, he looks every bit as devilish as my name for him.

He still looks like the boy I met at the Skull and Cross fraternity party, where he played up his family’s rumored billions and their key place in society.

We dated through graduate school and while I completed a doctoral program in psychology. The longer we were together, the more dysfunctional, selfish, and possessive he proved himself to be. I squirm in my seat; my head drops and my muscles tense at the shameful memory. The old urge to withdraw from confronting the irony returns. I am a fraud. Despite focusing my academics and career on supporting healthy intimate relationships, I lingered in a toxic relationship out of convenience.

Standing in my hometown, Caleb looks equally out of place as I felt with him.

His family regularly made comments about my parents’ background that left me uneasy. They’d toss in what they deemed compliments about my blond hair and tiny nose. The underlying meaning? In their eyes, I don’t look Jewish. And they assumed that because my family is secular, it shouldn’t be a big deal to give up our holidays. Couldn’t I get on board with things like being married in their church, no rabbi needed? Couldn’t I pretend my last name meant that I’m distantly related to a former prime minister? Because a connection like that would elevate my status for their optics.

The worst part was that Caleb didn’t have any issue with any of it at all.

The Reynoldses wanted me to give up my identity and become a trophy on his arm. I had worked too hard to agree to that and slowly distanced myself. Eventually blocking his number and breaking all contact. Not that it stopped him fromgetting a new phone number and trying again. Ignoring him had worked for a bit, but somehow, he’s back like the cold sore he is.

The meeting wraps in a blur and people file out.

I grab my purse from under the seat and glare at my festival co-chair. “Why would you do that?”

He’s co-chairing a town event with me and trying to outbid the most narcissistic group of gentrifiers in the country? What is his goal here?

His wide smile only highlights his beautiful bone structure and makes that damn dimple pop. His brown eyes glimmer, and his thick jet-black hair hangs just long enough to be unruly in a ’90s teen heartthrob kind of way.

I clench my fist to stop myself from brushing it away from his eyes.

Mateo chuckles, the low rumble vibrating through me. “There’s your pal…”

“Satan’s Bikini Waxer,” I bite out.

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