Apples & Oranges (The This & That Series) by Brooke Moss

could feel electricity popping and crackling between our chests. I couldn’t tell if it was because we wanted each other… or because we wanted to throttle each other. Maybe it was both.
    A line appeared between Demo’s dark eyebrows. “Bipolar? That’s the best you got?”
    “Seriously!” I threw my hands up. “You work on my car at the crack of dawn to be nice, and then you treat me like garbage when I come to pick it up! I came in here in the hopes of making peace with you, but your mood swings are shifting like a hyperactive pendulum!”
    He glared down at me. “You think coming in here dressed to the nines is going to make me give you some sort of discount or something?”
    “I don’t need a damn discount.” Tugging my purse open, I produced my credit card. Again. “Four hundred sixty two dollars. Take it.”
    Demo snatched the card out of my hand. “And seventy-two cents.”
    “ Fastidioso ,” I muttered under my breath.
    He leaned in close. There was that aroma again. Why oh why did it smell so good to me? “For the hundredth time, I know what you’re saying. And I’m not annoying.”
    “Good.” I met his steely gaze with my own. “And yes, you are.”
    For a second, I thought he was going to laugh. I mean, we probably looked pretty ridiculous. Chest to chest, leaning into each other like two dogs ready to fight. If I’d walked in on the scene myself, I would’ve assumed that these two people were seconds away from killing each other… or making out. But from where I stood, making out was nowhere on the horizon.
    I wasn’t sure whether to be happy or sad about that. On one hand, Demo looked beyond delicioso this morning. His dark hair was every bit as messy as it’d been yesterday, but not yet soaked with sweat around the neckline. And his dark eyes positively shone as he razzed me, goading me into yet another argument.
    But on the other hand, Demo was a serious jerk. He was moody and surly, and had a n obsession with knocking the wind out of my sails at every opportunity. Why he hated me as much as he did, I didn’t know. But I no longer wanted to change it. Sure, making Demo Antonopolous want me would’ve been a fun accomplishment—one to put down in my diary, if I had one, I’m sure of it—but it wasn’t worth standing in the filthy garage arguing anymore.
    We stared at each other with a venomous current buzzing between our bodies. Neither one of us willing to look away first. Neither one of us willing to admit we were behaving like idiots. I heard the sound of a car pulling up in the small parking lot outside, but still we stood there, unmoving.
    Finally, at the sound of a car door shutting, Demo blinked. “On your Visa?” he asked mildly.
    “Please.” I replied, my tone icy. Screw this crap. It wasn’t worth it.
    He went into the office, leaving the door open behind him. There were dozens of framed pictures hanging on the wall, and stacks and stacks of paperwork everywhere. Each of the frames was different, each bearing a different family portrait. Some were faded and discolored, and the clothes the people were wearing looked dated and out of style. Others were bright and new, and the clothes in those pictures were trendier and more up to date. The resounding detail in each of the shots was that they all the same dark eyes and wild black hair Demo had. The Antonopulous genes ran strong with this clan, and in each of the pictures, their smiles were wide and joyous.
    I wanted to ask him if those were all pictures of his family? How big was the Antonopulous family tree, anyway? How many generations had worked in Three D’s? Who pissed in his Cheerios that morning, making him grumpier than all the smiling people in those pictures?
    But instead, I just stood there with my arms folded. My stubborn streak was that of legends.
    “Oh, yeah, You’ll have to come back,” Demo called, tearing a receipt off of the credit card machine, and lumbering back towards me.
    “I what?” I