4. Candice

CHAPTER 4

CANDICE

A iden slides into the seat next to me in the canteen, startling me out of my daydreams.

It's loud in here, almost like being at school again, except without the teenage hormones. The cliques and mind games are much the same. I didn't hate school, but I could have lived without the gossiping — I never had the patience to care about who was kissing who, or who had been caught cheating on that test, or who had the best grades, and isn't it so unfair because so-and-so is a shoo-in for prom queen? I wasn't exactly a loner, but I've always been good at doing my own thing.

"Hey, you mind?" he asks, even though he's already sat down.

I shake my head. "Go for it."

Had it been anyone else, I would have refused, but the others wouldn't have even bothered coming over. They all eat alone, afraid of making friends or seeming weak. To them, bonding would mean losing the lead they think they're gaining. None of them act like human beings at all, except Aiden. He's got this gorgeously kind expression, the kind of smile that you believe in, and the kind of body you only get from being a gym regular.

Not that I've been looking. It's not illegal to notice if someone looks good. It doesn't have to mean anything.

He settles into a more comfortable position and beams at me. "Whatcha got?" he asks as he pops the lid off of his lunchbox. I don't know why, but it surprises me that he has a lunchbox.

I shrug, suddenly embarrassed by his scrutiny. "I ran out to the deli — nothing special."

"Oh, salad?"

"Yeah. I know it's stupid to go to a health-fitness salad place—"

"It's not," he interrupts, without malice. In fact, he almost looks concerned, like he wants to tell me not to dismiss myself or something. He's like a cat — he seems laid-back and disinterested, but he's actually paying attention. I have to be careful what I say to him, because he'll remember.

Would it be so bad to open up a little?

"They make great subs," he continues, taking his own sandwiches out. He lays them carefully out on the lid, arranging them into a perfect square.

"Exactly," I agree. He's still looking at me in the kind of way that makes me want to lose myself in his eyes, so I try to change the subject back to him. "What're you eating?"

He finishes his mouthful and wipes his mouth with a napkin before replying, and I can't help wondering if he ever had etiquette lessons. Despite the nonchalance with which he treats the world, he is probably the politest person I've ever met. There are so many things about him that don't make sense. It makes me want to dig. "It's a little bit away, but there's a café on seventeenth, Broken Cauldrons. Do you know it?"

"I've only been in Olympus City for a couple weeks. Plus, I don't really do cafés that much — guess I've always been too busy grinding to find time to go."

"Not a café-working kind of girl, huh?"

So maybe he's not exactly the son of parents worth billions, but I still don't want to admit that the real reason I can't stand the bustle of cafés is the three years I spent working as a barista during college to make rent money. I think Aiden would get it more than the others, but he's still wearing a tailored suit and expensive aftershave. And even though it smells really good, I don't think this guy could understand working yourself to the bone to stay afloat.

"No," is all I say, trying not to frown too hard. "I like my own space."

"Can not relate," Aiden scoffs, though his disdain is directed inwards more than at me. "I'd have to pull my own teeth out if I tried to work at home."

"How come?" I ask, allowing myself to be a little nosy. He knows enough about me. Time to learn a little about him.

He takes another bite of his lunch, as if to draw the time out. "You've got parents, right?"

"Yeah?" I string out the syllables of my confusion. Where the hell is he going with this?

"There you go, then. You know how it is."

That absolutely did not answer my question. We eat in silence for a while, staring out at all the other workers coming and going. Many of them have bought hot food from the restaurant and are sitting down with friends and colleagues over fries and pizza and some fancy Italian pasta dish I've never heard of before. I've never seen an office with this much luxury food for lunch, but I guess Michael Fletcher is renowned for treating his workforce well.

It's also damn expensive, and that's why I'm here with a salad from the budget deli next door.

Finally, I find the nerve to dig deeper. "So, like, you don't get on with your parents, then?"

He barks a sad laugh, as if in disbelief that I'd say something like that. "You get on with yours?"

This habit of answering a question with a question is going to get annoying pretty fast. "Yeah, for the most part. They try hard for me, and I want to give some of that back."

"Huh," is all he says as if he has to truly sit and contemplate my words. "That must be nice for you."

"It is."

What must his home life be like? I can't imagine getting this far without my parents' support. It reminds me I have to call them, to tell them how cool it is here, to see how they are. I guess Aiden mustn't be close to his parents at all. Everything he says makes his life more of a mystery, and the more I talk to him, the more I want to untangle it.

But before I can ask anything else, he changes the subject. "How's the reading going of the documentation for the talk app? You're on that team, right?"

Much as I want to interrogate him more, it's probably best not to rile him up too much. I might never get anything out of him if I push too hard. "Yeah, I am. It's good. Interesting. Dense, though."

"I bet!" he chuckles. "My— This company always writes stuff in way too much detail."

"More detail's better than too little," I argue, letting myself smile at his stutter. He does that quite a lot, stumbles over words and cuts himself off halfway. It's kind of endearing. He's way smarter than he's letting on, and the others are definitely overlooking him as competition. They're mistaken to do that.

Aiden is incredibly sharp. That's why I'm trying my best not to get involved. But it's hard when he wears shirts that fit him so well that I can see every inch of his outline in perfect detail. It's hard when he's so genuinely kind to me as well as so manifestly handsome.

"True," he says. "But don't you find that sometimes you get too bogged down in fine detail to move forward?"

"Details make up the whole picture."

He smiles in a way I'd almost call adoration if I didn't know better. He is my rival. I cannot get involved in this. Even if he has gorgeous wide eyes. "You're going to go far, Candice."

What am I meant to say to that? We're competition and yet he treats me like any other person, like one of us isn't going to come out the loser and be disappointed. We're in a race, but it's like he's slowing down on purpose to let me overtake.

How am I meant to not fall head over heels for him?