Page 118 of The Way I Hate Him
“I know.” I sigh.
“Is there a reason?”
I shake my head, the alcohol doing funny things to my brain. “You . . . you made my finger feel better.”
Yup, I’m drunk.
His eyes soften.
“Matt never made my finger feel better.” My eyes meet his. “But you made my finger feel better.”
“Hattie,” he practically whispers.
“I know.” I nod. “You’re trouble, but how can someone be trouble when they make your finger better? I don’t understand.” I twist my lips to the side. “I just don’t get it.” And then I head into the bathroom. I shut the door behind me and strip out of my dress, crashing into the cabinet with my knee, unable to keep my balance.
“You okay?” he asks. Of course he wants to know I’m okay because . . . because past the trouble, past the denial, past the fact that he’s my brother’s enemy, he’s . . . he’s amazing and sweet and kind, and cares about me. That’s what he said—he cares about me.
Maybe the only person besides Maggie who cares for me.
“I’m okay,” I say as I right myself.
I spend the next few minutes going to the bathroom and brushing my teeth. Once I change into my shirt, I head out of the bathroom to find Hayes standing in the middle of the room, waiting for me, his hands in his pockets. He looks so handsome, so sexy, his triceps popping.
“Well”—I pull on the hem of my shirt—“I guess I should get to bed.”
“Yes, you probably should,” he says.
Our gazes lock, and this heavy, electric energy passes between us both, this gravitational pull dragging us together, but where he’s doing everything in his power to pull away, I could easily give in.
“I’m tired.”
“I’m sure you are,” he responds.
“You know, lots of drinks and all.”
“Yeah, I could tell.”
I bob my head, unsure of what else to do.
“Here,” he says, reaching out his hand. I take it because I have no self-control, and he moves me to my bed where he pulls back the covers for me. He’s already plugged my phone into its charger, which is extremely thoughtful.
As I settle on my pillow, he takes a seat on the edge, having to duck just because of the angle of the ceiling. He rubs his thumb across my cheek.
I feel myself lean in to his touch as he says, “Why did you drink so much tonight?”
“Do I need a reason?” I ask.
“No, but it doesn’t seem like something you’d normally do. Was it because of what happened today?”
I shake my head. “No, not everything is about you, Hayes.” Although, a little bit of what happened today motivated me, maybe half and half. Definitely after he sang his song, I went full onlet’s get plasteredmode.
“Then what?” he asks.
“Do you really care?”
He nods. “I fucking do, Hattie.” His voice grows soft. “I care far too much about you than I should.”
“Is that why you dedicated your song to me tonight?”
