Page 41 of The Way I Hate Him
It’s all trash.
It’s never been this goddamn hard for me. I can usually come up with something, but it’s almost as if my life has been at a standstill for the past year, and nothing significant has happened to warrant a song.
Maybe I’ll write about how I feel like a goddamn empty sack of skin.
Nothing sounds more poetic in a song than sack of skin.
Fucking hell . . .
I lift from the couch and toss my pen on the coffee table in front of me. This is pointless.
Leaving my studio, I head out to the main living space only to find piles of letters surrounding Hattie as she listens to Blondie.
Another solid choice.
Instead of making my presence known right away, I pause for a moment, watching her.
She’s tied her hair up into a high ponytail and bobs her head around with the music, totally immersed in her sorting. Instead of wearing her crewneck sweatshirt, she’s now wearing a sports bra and her spandex shorts in a matching set of bright red. It’s hard to miss her today . . . or any day for that matter. She owns her presence and makes herself known despite her smaller stature. If I were interested in pursuing her, it wouldn’t be hard, not when she shows her true colors so unconsciously, something I really like. Being in the spotlight, I’m surrounded by people who aren’t always real and will do anything to appease me, so having Hattie around is refreshing. And her music choices, hell, that’s hot as well.
She stands from where she’s sitting and stares down at her piles, counting them with her finger. That’s when I take in her long, toned legs. For her height, it’s surprising to see long legs, but they extend a good portion of her body, leading up to a pair of grippable hips made for finger indents. Her narrow waist is accentuated by her hips and perky ass, and when my eyes work their way up to her tits, I notice just how small they are. Barely a palm full. Her athletic build means she has a great fucking body, but it’s those eyes—the ones staring at me right now—that I could see myself getting lost in.
“Can I help you?” A knowing smirk plays on her lips because she just caught me staring like I caught her staring at me this morning. Unlike her, I’ll own it. “Get a good look?” she mimics.
“Good is a stretch. Decent, sure.”
Her expression falls, hands now on her hips from the insult. “Did you come out here to snub me or is there a purpose for disrupting my peace?”
“You realize this is my house, and I can do what I want, right? I don’t need to tiptoe around you.”
“I’m aware.” She raises her arms above her head and stretches from side to side. My eyes fall to her stomach again, and I wonder if she’s ever pierced her belly button because there’s a small scar above it, but rather than ask—or get caught again for staring—I turn away and head into the kitchen.
I know I told her I have no interest in taking her clothes off, but hell, that doesn’t negate the fact that she’s hot. Under different circumstances, I could easily see myself making a move on her. I probably wouldn’t let her leave my sight without doing so, but I’ll never cross that line for many reasons.
One being she’s Ryland Rowley’s little sister.
Also, she’s far too innocent for someone like me. Hell, Matt had a hard time finding her clit. I’d not only locate it in a second, but I’d destroy it.
And last, she seems like the type who clings, who enjoys a relationship, and I’m not that guy. Not even close. I’m a loner, and I do my own thing.
Not to mention, I’m a complete and utter asshole, something drilled into me from a young age. She deserves more than someone who will take what he wants and leave her with nothing but the dust of him driving away.
I grab a glass from the cabinet and fill it with water before pulling out my drink drawer and grabbing an electrolyte tablet.
“What are those?” she asks from my side, startling me.
Jesus fuck. So lost in my thoughts, I didn’t even notice her step up.
“Electrolyte tablets,” I answer.
“Oh, I thought you were popping an Alka-Seltzer or something. Didn’t know if it was something you had to do because of your old age.”
I look her in the eyes. “Cute.”
She smiles. “I’m here to charm.” She moves over to the fridge and pulls out a jar of pickles. She pops the top off, leans against the counter, and picks a pickle, only to chomp down on it with a snapping crunch. She holds the jar out to me. “Want one?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m good.”
“Not a pickle fan?”
