My mouth grew tight. Asshole. “Hey. Screw you,” I hissed. “That’s such a crap thing to say, you know that? And if that’s really what you think, then I don’t need to be sitting here with you either, shooting the shit or whatever the hell this is. I’m gone.”

I set my beer down, stood up, and reached for my bag, but before I could grab it, I was being spun around and directed back onto my stool with a firm hand on my hip.

“Sit,” Jamie ordered.

“No,” I snapped, wiggling and managing to get to my feet again. “Get your hands off me. I’m leaving.”

“You ain’t leavin’. Sit.”

He urged me onto the stool again, and this time, he did it with two hands, one on each hip, making my attempts at fighting back useless considering his strength versus mine. Then he kept his hands there, gripping me tightly as he leaned closer and put his face an inch away.

“You got a reason for what I just said pissin’ you off, and you’re gonna share that reason,” he informed me, his tone nonnegotiable. “Made an assumption and it’s one anyone would make considerin’ what you do for a living, babe, so quit with the tantrum. You know I dig your attitude but only when I’m askin’ for it. Now is not one of those times. And don’t fuckin’ forget why we’re sittin’ here in the first place, shootin’ the shit, as you so put it.”

“You shouldn’t have said that,” I whispered.

“Based on your reaction, I figured as much,” he countered, letting his own voice dip lower, not as soft as mine but still quiet. “Now share.”

I watched Jamie lean away, taking his hands off me and centering himself on his stool again. Only this time he kept his body facing me instead of the bar, propping one arm up on the wooden surface and keeping his other arm resting on his leg, where he went about cracking his knuckles, one finger at a time.

His eyes were unforgiving. Persistent bastard that he was, I knew Jamie wouldn’t let this go.

He never let anything go. Not even me.

Sighing, I shook my head. “What do you want to know?” I asked. “How I got my house? You think I didn’t pay for it? Because I did. And I’m still paying for it. Yes, my parents helped me with the down payment as part of my graduation gift, which is something a lot of parents do, not just well-off ones, but it’s my name on the mortgage and it’s my money keeping me living there. I do not take handouts from my family. All the money I have in my bank account is mine. I earned it. Waitressing and doing other things.”

“What other things?”

“Pageants.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Like, Miss America shit?” he asked.

“I didn’t enter that one. I quit when I was fourteen and you’re not eligible for that one until you’re seventeen,” I informed him.

“How many … what’d you call them?”

“Pageants.”

“Yeah. How many’d you do?”

“A lot.”

“How many’d you win?”

“All of them.”

A look of fascination passed over his face. “No shit,” he murmured, smiling softly and moving his eyes up and down the length of me. “Looks of a fuckin’ beauty queen and you actually got the rep to back it up. Nice.”

I glanced down at what I was wearing, thinking I wasn’t living up to that title much right about now. I wasn’t even wearing pants.

“Thanks,” I grumbled, tugging at the hem of his tee. I met his eyes. “So to answer your question, that’s how I can afford the sick setup I’m living in while working as a waitress. My parents opened an account when I was little and all the prize money I earned winning those pageants went into it. Then when I turned eighteen, I got that money.”

“What about your family?”

“What about them?”

“Said they were well off. What do they do?”

I gave him a look, not understanding why this question was being asked. “Uh, my last name is Rivera,” I reminded him.

He stared at me for several beats, then asked, “That supposed to mean somethin’ to me?”

“Well, yeah, it should be obvious.”

“It ain’t.”

“Really?” I blinked at him. “Have you never been inside a grocery store? My head is all over the frozen food section.”

He squinted in thought. “Say what?”

“Rivera Frozen Foods. Hello.”

Jamie kept staring. He had no idea what I was talking about.

“Do you not eat vegetables?” I asked. “Or fruit? We do frozen fruit, too. And rice. Do you eat rice?”

“What do you mean, your head is all over the frozen food section?” he asked, ignoring my questions.

“My face is on the bags,” I answered.

His eyebrows lifted.

“Well, my face when I was six. Pigtails. Freckles. I’m going like this.” I curled my hands into fists and stuck them under my chin, smiling big. “Ringing any bells yet?”

He stared at me, then his chest moved with a laugh. “Honestly? No. But I typically go for fresh stuff if I’m wantin’ it. Can’t say I’m in that aisle a lot.” He took a swig of his beer, never taking his eyes off me. “No shit, though? Your family owns a frozen food company?”

I nodded. “Yep.”

“And you’re a waitress?”