Page 11 of The Way I Hate Him
Matt was dating Hattie Rowley? How the hell did he manage that? Sorry to say, but she’s way out of his league. And why didn’t I know they were dating?Probably because the tool has never spoken about her or even let on that he had a girlfriend.
Wait . . . was she the one he was talking about? Failed out of college, doesn’t have a job? Is that why she’s back here in Almond Bay? I thought it was because of her sister, but this is a new development. And the fucker lied to me, saying they were still together when clearly, they’re not.
Lying and stealing. Thank God I fired him.
I glance at the box, taking in the contents. “I never owned puzzles.”
“Oh, those are mine.” She snags the boxes and holds them close to her chest. “So anyway, if you want to fire him, I highly suggest it.”
I glance down at the box and then back up at her. Almond Bay was a weird place to grow up. There were always odd things happening around town. Like one day, a naked man rode down Almond Ave on a unicycle, and no one blinked an eye. Or the time The Talkies—our drive-in theater—showed a porn film for precisely one minute and thirteen seconds. Everyone just laughed about it. It wouldn’t be abnormal for someone to drop off a box of stuff and request their boyfriend be fired. I’m just surprised it’s coming from a Rowley, the least eccentric family in town.
Then again, from what I’ve observed, Hattie has always been different.
“Why would I fire him over a few T-shirts?”
Her eyes fall to the box. “Shit, those are mine too.” She picks them up, and what I see underneath makes my teeth clench.
My Grammy.
I knew the fucker stole it.
Keeping it cool, I bring my attention back to her. “How long have you dated Matt?”
“Since high school, and if you’re going to judge me about being with him, he wasn’t an anus back then. He took over that title just recently.”
“I see.” I glance back at the box. “You know, I have video footage of the night my Grammy was stolen.” I bring my gaze back to her and catch the widening of her eyes and the clench of her mouth. Just what I thought. Fucking guilty. “And Matt wasn’t alone.”
“It wasn’t me. Whatever you’re thinking, I had nothing to do with it.” Hell, is she bad at lying.
“Funny, my cameras tell me differently.” They actually don’t, but I love watching her squirm.
Her mouth falls open, appalled, but she quickly closes it. Her eyes study me, gauging her next move. A few seconds go by, silence falling between us, and then in a flash, she turns on her heel and bolts to her car.
She’s not going to get away that easily. Not on my fucking watch.
“Run all you want, but the sheriff will know where to find you.”
That makes her pause and slowly turn back toward me. “You wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t I?” I ask. “You’re a Rowley. Pretty sure we’re supposed to hate each other. What would stop me from calling the police and reporting this? I have cameras all over this goddamn house currently recording this conversation. You’re caught.”
The color drains from her face, and the bravado she had only a few minutes ago has vanished. “Don’t call the sheriff,” she says, looking scared for a moment. “My family has been through a lot lately, and I don’t think my brother could take well, needing to bail me out of anything.”
I don’t think he could, either. Does he even know about her school—if it’s even true? I know Ryland well enough to understand he wouldn’t take failing out of school lightly, especially one of his sisters.
I nod toward the house. “Why don’t you come in, and we can discuss our options?”
“Options?” she asks, her eyebrow raised.
“Yeah, options.” I bend down and pick up the box of stolen items and then open the front door. “I suggest you follow me. I’m not opposed to calling the sheriff. He’s a huge fan.” I smile broadly, which makes her lips flatten in disgust.
Grumbling under her breath, she follows me into my house, puzzles and shirts in hand, and I kick the door shut when she’s fully in. I set the box of contraband on the entryway floor and head toward my kitchen, but when she doesn’t move, I say, “Come in. I won’t bite . . . at least not yet.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” She’s about to approach me when she stops and adds, “If that’s some sexual innuendo, I’m going to tell you right now, I don’t even like to be bit when having sex. I think it’s weird, also . . . if you think I’m going to be some concubine for you, you better think of something else.”
I turn on my coffee machine and say, “You clearly haven’t been bitten by the right person. That much is true when we think about who you just dated.” I choose a coffee pod—donut shop—and I put it in the machine and start it up. I lean against the counter and face her. “And I could do better when it comes to concubines.”
That makes her anger rear up, her mouth twitching with irritation. “You would be so lucky to have me in your bed.”
