Back then he’d been a tall redhead, growing like a weed. How could he possibly have been invisible to her?
That wasn’t all of the truth, though, was it? There had been that one time when she’d seen him and had been cruel. Intentionally? He didn’t know.
There’d been a gaggle of pretty girls standing in the hallway at their lockers when he had walked by. He had thought of them as worldly fourteen-year-olds to his thirteen-year-old unsophisticated self, aggressive in his opinions because without them he was just...awkward.
Monica—tall, gorgeous and perfect in every way—had been in the center of the whirling vortex of giggling femininity.
One of the girls had pointed to him and whispered something to Monica. She’d glanced his way, coolly, because that’s how she did everything—with calm self-assurance.
His ever-hopeful young self had thought, This is it. Monica Accord is finally going to acknowledge me, and talk to me!
After that one brief glance, she had turned away, dismissing him and leaving him to feel invisible again. And after a word to her friends that had set them off giggling, he became worse than invisible. He was shunned and ignored and left to feel worthless.
He didn’t know what mean or unkind remark she had said about him, but his hatred of her had started that day. Problem was, it was worse than pure hatred. It was love-hate from afar and he was a fool for still falling under her spell, especially when he clearly still meant nothing to her.
He knew he meant less than nothing to her because, since high school, she’d spent the better part of her adult life ignoring him, except for that damned polite little smile the odd time when their paths crossed. And that he could do without.
In the grand scheme of things, this was peanuts. In his work with the poor and needy, especially in New Orleans after Katrina, he had seen true hardship. He had no illusions this wasn’t on the list of the worst things that could happen to a guy, he knew that, but it had happened during those impressionable, early adolescent years, a time fraught with raging new feelings.
As it turned out, it had been a pivotal event that had shaped his life for years to come.
Her behavior on the previous weekend, drinking and driving, cemented what he had always known about her—Monica Accord was still as self-centered and self-indulgent as ever. The town might accept her goody-two-shoes image, but he knew better.
The cast on his arm and his bruised ribs told a more accurate story.
So, no, he had no use for her, but today he required her help. No choice. It put him in the impossible position of needing her, but not wanting her.
Her gaze dropped, and then shot back to his face. “You’re wearing socks...with sandals.”
“So what?”
“It’s so unfashionable.”
“Seriously?” Still an airhead, believing that fashion was more important than anything. What about poverty? Need? What about war? What about—? Ah, hell, none of it mattered to Monica.
“It’s chilly in the mornings.” That he sounded defensive further inflamed his irritation. “My toes freeze if I don’t wear socks.” Crazy woman. What the heck difference did it make? “So? How many hours did they give you for a DWAI?”
“Two hundred for a wet reckless.”
“They dropped the driving with ability impaired?” he asked, incredulous. Once again the rich got favors while the common man was screwed. “Why? Did you get a break because you’re one of the mighty Accords?”
The delicacy of her frown bothered him. Was there anything Monica did that wasn’t attractive? “Not exactly, Noah. In fact, Dad wasn’t happy when Judge Easton took his seat to preside over my sentencing. He said I was lucky he hadn’t made things worse, not better.” She fiddled with the hem of her shirt. She was nervous? Couldn’t be. Not Monica. “I don’t know why it got knocked down. You’d have to ask my lawyer how he reduced the charge. He worked it all out.”
Despite what Monica’s father had told her, he and the judge were cronies. Had to be. What else would it have been? Once again, money talked, and that made him livid. “Your lawyer? Don’t you mean your daddy’s lawyer?” He was being sarcastic and cutting, and he didn’t like that in himself, but God, he was mad. At a time when he needed to be strong in order to get massive amounts of work done, she’d turned him into half a man. Helplessness fueled his outrage.
As an awkward kid trying to come to grips with bones that were growing too quickly for his muscles to keep up, he’d been beat on by a group of nasty boys, repeatedly. Day in and day out, they would hold him down while Kenny Rickard whaled on him.
Helpless to defend himself, he’d grown to hate that feeling.
He wouldn’t complain, though. He’d never once snitched.
Over time, he had grown into his bones and his gangly limbs had filled out. These days, at six-one and two hundred pounds of lean muscle, he could fight anyone who tried to hurt him, but Monica Accord could still bring him to his knees with nothing more than a glance. Plus, she’d handicapped him physically.
Worst thing she could have done to him was to make him feel helpless.
“You broke my arm.” Lame. She already knows that, Cameron.
Her pretty lips thinned. “For God’s sake, not on purpose.” She sounded angry.
Good. Welcome to my world.
He stepped closer. “Let’s get something straight. I’m not happy about you being here, but you caused this—” he pointed to the cast “—so I’m going to work the daylights out of you. Farming is a tough, physical business, so be prepared to work like you’ve never worked before for your mandated two hundred hours.”
A woman like Monica would never have volunteered for such a job.
Disgusted, he growled, “Let’s get started. Follow me.”
He turned away, but she touched his good hand to stop him. Fireworks zinged up his arm.
“Okay, Noah, you want to clear the air? Fine.” He’d never heard her sound so hard. “I’m not any happier about this than you are. I hate that I broke your arm. I don’t like hurting people.”
She took a deep breath, to calm herself he assumed, but what the hell did she have to be angry about? She hadn’t been injured in the accident. “I’ve never driven drunk before—never—but as my lawyer said, it takes only one time for something bad to happen. I’m sorry I hit you. I will pay to replace your bicycle. I’ve already offered more than once.”
“It was vintage. It can’t be replaced.”
“Well, I’m going to try. Give me all the details you can and I’ll track one down.” She tilted her head to one side. “Or can yours be fixed?”
“It’s in bad shape. You really hit me hard. We’re both lucky all I got was a broken arm. You could have killed me.”
He wasn’t sure, but he thought she shivered.
“Maybe you have a conscience, after all,” he conceded. “In my experience, rich people rarely do.”
“Stereotype much, Noah?”
“As I said, I’ve come by it honestly. Through experience.”
One long-fingered hand rubbed her stomach. What was that about? “I am really, truly sorry. I don’t know how many more times I can say it. Let’s move forward from here, okay? Show me what I need to do to help you.”
So, the