Page 12 of The Way I Hate Him
I give her a smooth once-over, my hand running along my jaw, and reply, “Debatable.”
“Ugh, you’re such an asshole. No wonder no one likes you.”
“Interesting. I have a fan club of over three million people who would challenge you on that statement.”
“They’re fans. They don’t count.”
I take in my home and then say, “I’m pretty sure they do, since they’re the ones who funded this house you’re standing in and helped me earn the Grammy you stole.”
“Matt stole it, not me. I was just . . . there.”
“Is that the story you’re going to tell the cops?”
“I thought you weren’t going to tell the cops,” she says.
“Never promised that. Said we had to talk about options.”
“Well, what are these stupid options you speak of?” she impatiently replies.
“Why don’t you come in farther, set your shirts and puzzles down, and take a seat? Want some coffee?”
“No,” she answers. “You might poison it.”
“With you watching me make it?”
“I don’t know what you have in those coffee pods. They could be pre-poisoned.”
“I see that we’re acting rational. Good to know,” I reply, full of sarcasm. I pick up my coffee and grab some almond creamer from the fridge—yeah, I live in Almond Bay and drink almond creamer. It’s good.
“Never would have seen you as a creamer kind of guy.”
“Oh, I cream a lot,” I say as she takes a seat on an island chair right across from me.
She sets her puzzles and T-shirts down and rolls her eyes. “You’re disgusting.”
“Or honest?”
“Disgusting.” She folds her arms and says, “Now tell me these options so I can get the hell out of here and never return. My skin is starting to feel itchy.”
Can we say dramatic?
But despite that, what are the options? Because right now, I have no idea what I’m doing other than not letting her slip away just yet. Call it the feud with her brother, but having one of Ryland’s sisters in my clutches feels nice...like I have a momentary upper hand over this battle I’ve been unwillingly fighting for over a decade. Not to mention, given my lack of an assistant, I feel like I could use her. I have a room full of boxes and letters from fans that need to be answered. It might work out perfectly.
“You want options?” I ask.
“Yes, Jesus, that’s why I’m sitting here.”
Short-tempered. I like it.
I also like the light freckles that dot around her button nose and naturally blushed cheeks.
“Your options are as follows.” I hold up one finger. “I can call the police and turn you in, press full charges, thanks to your confession . . .”
“Going with the scare tactic first. Great. What’s the second option I’ll clearly have to take?”
I hold up a second finger. “You work for me.”
She snorts loud enough for it to echo through my kitchen. “Work for you? Okay. Yeah, that’s going to happen.” She shakes her head. “What’s option three?”
