Page 63 of The Way I Hate Him
“Why?”
“Because I want to see if you have one dedicated to me.”
She rolls her eyes. “Conceited much? If you recall, I consider your music absolute swill. What you just heard was a complete coincidence. There is no way I’d dedicate a whole playlist to you.”
“Then let me see them.”
She shrugs. “Fine, have at it.” She hands me her phone, and I open her playlists, scrolling through them.
There’s Heart, Blondie, The Mamas & the Papas, Simon and Garfunkel, slow seventies, rock seventies, seventies covers, but nothing with my name.
Huh . . . shame.
“See, told you. I’d rather stick a fork in my ear than sit and listen to your music.”
“Cute,” I say as I hand her back her phone.
“Are you disappointed?”
“Slightly,” I answer and move away from her. “I thought for a second that maybe you were harboring some secret fangirl status for me.”
“Ha, in your dreams, Farrow.”
“Apparently,” I say and step over one of her piles of letters. I glance around. “I’m assuming you’re leaving these piles like this through the weekend.”
“Obviously. You need to know, if anything, I’m thorough.”
“To a fault,” I say as I walk away. “Half those cookies are mine.”
“Once again, in your dreams, Farrow.”
ChapterNine
HATTIE
“You’re here,” I say as I fling myself at Maggie, her warm hug soothing my very soul in seconds.
“That drive was atrocious,” she says. “Rained the whole way until I got here. What the hell?”
I chuckle. “Old granny couldn’t handle the rain?”
“No, you know how I drive in the rain. White-knuckling it the whole time, even if it’s just sprinkling.”
“Well, you’re here now. Let’s get you upstairs. I have your cookies all ready for you.”
“See, I knew there would be light at the end of the rain-soaked tunnel.”
I take her bag and we go through the back of The Almond Store. Aubree has a lot of customers at the moment from the influx of tourists today, so I don’t want to bother her, and we head up the stairs to my door.
“I had no idea The Almond Store had an apartment above it.”
“Yeah, it’s cozy in here, so prepare yourself,” I say as I open the door and reveal my tiny studio.
Maggie pauses on the stairs, looking inside but not stepping in. “Um, what’s this?” she asks.
“My apartment,” I answer.
She shakes her head, still peeking in but never fully inserting herself. “No, this is not an apartment. This is a closet, Hattie, and a small one at that.” Her eyes dart around the tiny space. “It doesn’t have a kitchen.”
