Page 149 of The Way I Hate Him
Jesus Christ, what is wrong with me?
Oh, I know.
I care about Hattie.She’s probably the first girl I’ve cared about in a long time, and I’m on the fence with her brother, whose approval I now need to win. And I thought it would be a good idea to win his approval by bringing him flowers like a goddamn nimrod.
Yup, fucking flowers.
It was funny at first, but now, now I’m concerned it might come on too strong.
I put my car into park as I stare up at the farmhouse. Small and quaint, it’s seen better days under the sun with the chipping paint on the exterior and a cracked floorboard on the porch. I can’t imagine the kind of pressure Cassidy was under while living here. The farm, the store, taking care of a child . . . while being sick at the same time. She truly was Superwoman.
I grab my flowers and step out of my SUV and walk up the front steps of the porch where I knock on the screen door. It immediately opens, and a little girl with bouncy brown curls stares up at me.
MacKenzie Rowley.
Hell, she’s adorable.
“You’re here for Aunt Hattie, aren’t you?”
I squat down in front of her, and I nod. “Yup.” I hold my hand out to her. “I’m Hayes.”
She stares me down, one eye deeply examining me while her hands prop up on her hips. “I know who you are. We aren’t supposed to like you.”
Looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me.
I hold one bundle of flowers in front of her and say, “What if I gave you these? Would that help?”
She looks down at the flowers and then back up at me before snagging them. “Chewy Charles loves flowers.” And then she takes off, leaving me in the entryway.
Who the hell is Chewy Charles?
I stand up and step farther into the house, the open floor plan offering a view of the tight living room with one couch and a TV. It’s decorated modestly with mainly pictures of family and the farm. To the left is the dining room attached to the kitchen, where cabinets all line one wall and a wheelable butcher’s block is in the middle. Decorated with blue gingham curtains and stone pottery, I can see how this could easily feel like home.
“Hey,” Ryland says as he comes down the stairs.
“Hey.” I wave awkwardly because seeing him not curl his nose whenever we’re in the same room is still uncomfortable. “Uh, here.” I extend the flowers toward him, and he pauses mid-stride and looks at them. When he gives me a confused expression, I clear my throat. “I got you, uh, flowers.”
“Me?” He points at his chest.
“Yup. Thought it would be nice.” God, kill me now.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t reach for them, doesn’t take another step forward, and I know it’s because I look like an absolute moron.
Here you go, Ryland, I got you flowers—what a fucking idiot!
“They’re daisies. I thought you liked daisies.”Stop talking, Hayes, you’re not doing yourself any favors. You have no fucking clue if he likes daisies or not.
“What makes you think I like daisies?” he asks as a tiny trickle of sweat forms on the back of my neck.See, that’s why you should have stopped talking.
“Uh . . .” I swallow. “Your eyes.”
“My eyes?” he asks.
Yeah, Hayes, how exactly do his eyes remind you of daisies? They’re neither shaped like them or white or yellow for that matter.
“I mean, your complexion.”
“My complexion?” He raises his brow.
