Love, Utley (Love Letters #1)

Maddox picks up a fry from his plate, and I realize his fancy ham and cheese sandwich is already gone.

That first time we had food together, I teased him about how fast he ate.

I let my eyes lift to his, and he shrugs a shoulder, like he’s acknowledging what I’m thinking.

It’s another reminder of our past, but this one doesn’t spear me in the heart like his food order did. This detail just feels… familiar.

As I finish my lunch, Brandon spends the next thirty minutes interrupting our coworkers to show off his own knowledge.

I’m embarrassed on Brandon’s behalf, but the interrogation gives me a chance to put everything that happened earlier out of my brain.

Maddox’s expression after he placed his order and I started coughing for my life didn’t look fake. I don’t think he meant to send me into a spiral. He just doesn’t understand. He doesn’t get it.

I’m trying to do us both a favor by pretending there’s no history between us. I can’t think of a single reason why he wouldn’t do the same.

“Did you know the first solar panel was invented in 1883?”

Maddox gives Brandon the slowest blink I’ve ever seen before he replies in the driest voice. “You don’t say.”

A small laugh tries to break free, but I clear my throat to cover it.

Maddox narrows his eyes at me, but I pretend not to notice.

It’s clear these two dislike each other, even if I don’t understand why. But Maddox is doing a better job of not looking like a moron.

SEVENTEEN

MADDOX

As a group, we walk out of the restaurant and to the parking lot next door while the melted Gruyère and smoked ham sit like a rock in my stomach.

I want to tell Hannah to ride back to the office with me. Want to demand it, really. But singling her out now would put a spotlight on her. And even if I’m still a little bitter about her disappearing on me, I’m not looking to out our history in front of our colleagues. This issue between us is only between us.

I lift my hand in a wave as some of the guys call out their goodbyes.

I was planning to go back to the office. But maybe I won’t.

“It’s the BMW,” Brandon says as he points to what must be his car.

It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes when he looks my way.

First, I would bet my left lung he made sure everyone knew he drove a BMW on the trip over here. No way this fucking tool didn’t mention it a minimum of six times.

Second, is he seriously trying to show off to me? Money doesn’t mean shit. Not as far as someone’s character is concerned. But I played pro ball. For a dozen years. A simple search online will tell you how much I made each year.

Hint: it was a lot. Like a fucking lot. And I was smart with it. Invested, saved, didn’t buy multiple houses or blow money on boats or other dumb shit. So now, I have even more.

I nod to Brandon. “They make good cars.”

I don’t buy new cars every year. But I did buy one this year.

Stopping next to my vehicle, I try really hard not to smirk. Because I drive a BMW too. Or at least I drove mine today; this is hardly the only vehicle I own.

Brandon’s car is more practical, with four doors versus my two. But costing approximately four times more than his, mine is more fun.

He does a double take, and I swear his lower lip thins.

I’d never shame someone for what they drive, but Brandon deserves a little humiliation.