I duck into my car, dig through my purse for a twenty, then march up to him. “Here.”

“What is that?” He scowls down at my hand, like I’ve just offered him a hit of crystal meth.

“Money.” I say it in an obnoxious, overly clear tone, like he’s a child and I’m explaining the concept of currency. Yeah, it’s a dick move, but I don’t have the patience or the capacity to try to be nice if he’s going to operate in maximum prick mode during every encounter we have.

He shifts his scowl to my face. “I don’t want that.”

I try to shove it in his hand, but he yanks away. I try again, and again he darts out of my reach. Any bystanders watching us must think we’re demonstrating some seriously awkward dance moves.

“Look, you wouldn’t accept anything when you helped me with Lemon. Let me at least cover this.”

He doesn’t bother to speak, instead letting the disapproval on his face do the talking.

“Just take it,” I blurt.

We stand facing each other while taking twin deep breaths, our chests heaving. Forcing money into someone’s hands when they don’t want it is tiring work. So is darting away from someone trying to give you money that you don’t want, apparently.

“It’s less than I would have had to pay a mechanic to do it anyway,” I say.

“I don’t want your bloody money, Nikki. Don’t you think you’d be better off keeping that than giving it to me?”

I’m frozen at the disdain in his voice. It’s clear in all of his features, actually. From the pitying way he looks at me, his brows creased, his mouth in a purse. Disappointment radiates from him.

It all comes tumbling back to me, the reminder crashing over me like a rogue wave knocking me underwater. He doesn’t want a damn thing from me because I’m his lowly, pathetic competitor whose food truck is in shambles, whose used car is barely functioning, who can’t afford hired help. He wouldn’t dare take anything from me because he doesn’t need it—unlike me, who needs so much because for so long I’ve been barely scraping by.

This must be his warped idea of charity. When he’s tired of despising me, he can simply pity me. It reads like a whole new form of condescending.

“Fine.” I shove the money in my pocket, hoping my cheeks don’t flush so red that he notices.

I hop in my car and speed out of the parking lot, refusing to turn my head or glance in the rearview mirror. I don’t want to give Callum any indication that he’s on my mind.