Page 57 of The Way I Hate Him
“That’s all you want? My kitchen?”
She nods. “Yes.”
“You don’t have to ask to use it. Whatever is in this house, you can use it. Free range.”
“Besides the studio,” she says.
“Just because I can’t be distracted, but if you wanted to go in there, you could.”
“Well”—she heaves a sigh of relief—“I should have asked for something bigger if it was going to be so easy. Like letting Maggie stay in your house so we don’t have to try to fit on the small bed in my studio. Next time I’ll be sure to make the big asks.”
“She can stay here,” I say.
Hattie scoffs. “Okay, yeah, that’s not going to happen.”
“Why are you laughing?” I ask.
“Because that’s ridiculous. I’m not going to bring my friend toyourhouse. We’ll make it work in my studio. We tried making a reservation at the inn, but they’re booked. We’ll just cuddle in tight.”
“Scared?” I ask her.
“Huh?”
“Too scared to stay here? Afraid your brother might find out?”
“No.” She scrunches her nose up. “I’m not going to impose on you like that. Plus, I don’t want to owe you anything.”
“You wouldn’t owe me,” I say. “You’re my employee. Matt would have been afforded the same courtesy.”
“Would he?” she questions.
“Within reason,” I answer with a cringe. “Probably not after I found out he was pickpocketing anything of mine he could get his hands on.”
“That’s what I thought. And no, the kitchen is good enough. Which if you don’t mind, I’d like to make the cookies now so they have time to cool.”
“If you’re looking for ingredients, I have none.”
“Don’t worry, I brought everything required to make them. I mainly need your oven.” She heads toward the front door, and I follow her. She opens the passenger side of my car and pulls out a cooler as well as a bag full of baking utensils and sheet pans.
“Let me help you,” I say as I reach for her bags at the same time she grabs them.
Our eyes connect, and I watch her wet her lips as she’s a short distance away from me. “I . . . I got them,” she stutters.
“Let go, Hattie.”
From the command in my voice, she lets go and then takes a step back, her eyes unblinking as she watches me.
After a few seconds, she says, “Stop doing nice things for me.”
I ignore her as I bring her baking bags into the kitchen and set them on the counter.
“Did you hear me?” she says as I unpack the bags, lining up her ingredients nicely for her. “I said stop doing nice things for me.”
“I heard you,” I say.
“Then why are you unpacking my bags?”
“It’s called procrastination.” I glance up at her. “Those in the creative field are experts at it. So, no, I’m not being nice to you. I’m just trying to find things to do to make sure I’m not doing the one thing I’m actually supposed to be doing.”
