Page 22 of Love to Hate You

“You are mistaking my emotion. This is a love-to-hate situation.” Straight out of a rom-com novel and one of her favorite tropes. It went deeper than enemies-to-lovers, so when the couple finally overcame the seemingly unsurmountable obstacles to get past their hate and realize it was love along—what a jolt to the heart. Not thatthatwas what this was. This was definitely all hate. So to clarify, she said, “Meaning I love to hate you.”

“If you say so,” he drawled, sounding almost bored. That is, if one could drawl while sounding like an uptight Brit.

She gripped the latch and reclosed it. “I say so.”

He waited until she was done fiddling with the latch and reattached it. “So where do we stand? Are you the big spoon? I’m a great cuddler.”

“I don’t share.”

“Fine. I’ll take the bottom bunk.” And with that he moved his suitcase to the floor and sprawled out on the bed, even giving it a little test with his hands, before stuffing them behind his head and releasing a sigh. Then the prick actually had the nerve to close his eyes.

“The bottom bunk is mine.”

“I’m bigger, therefore I should get the bottom bunk.” He gave a little bounce. “Not too firm, with plenty of support. This will do.”

“This will do?” Fury rose swiftly to boiling point. Where did he get off, thinking he could come in and demand the bottom bunk?Herbunk! He wasn’t the one on the verge of financial ruin. He wasn’t the one who was terrified that he’d have to start letting employees go as soon as his store opened. And he wasn’t the one who’d been looking forward to this vacation since last year. “Why are you doing this?”

He ran a hand through his thick, dark hair and frowned. “I don’t want to be here either. But my brother asked me to stay and he’s never asked me for anything. We’re not close and I’m trying to fix that.”

She understood that on a core level. A little of her anger sizzled, until it was more of a low rumbling than a rapid boil.

“So you’re really staying?”

“I made a promise and I don’t go back on my word.” He sat and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Why don’t we rock-paper-scissors it? Whoever loses gets the top bunk.”

Knowing close quarters would lead to World War III, not to mention the look that would mar her sister’s pretty face if Summer had to explain that Wes was leaving because Summer couldn’t act like an adult, was too much to take. So she toppled like a stack of dominos.

“To be clear, I am only doing this because of my sister’s happiness, not because I gave into your charms,” she clarified. “But whoever loses gets the couch.”

Resting his elbows on his knees, he held out a fist. “Ready? One.” They threw fists. “Two.” More aggressive fists. “Three.”

Wes presented a rock and Summer presented paper.

“I won!” Oh my god, she’d won. So what if it was just over a stupid bed; she’d taken on Goliath and come out the victor. “I won!” She spun around like she was Julie Andrews standing in the middle of a meadow in the Austrian Alps. “I won! I won!”

“I’m glad you’re handling this so maturely.”

Summer put her foot on his suitcase and shoved it so that his shoes were used as a bumper. “Don’t let the door hit you on the ass—or should it bearse—on your way out.”

“If you need that cuddle, you know where I’m at.”

“Did you forget that I just smothered you to death?”

Wes stopped at the doorway, and with a wicked grin said, “Oh, it’s already filed away for future reference, love.”

Chapter 9

family dynamics

After the MMA-style rock-paper-scissors yesterday it shouldn’t have come as a surprise to Wes that the Russo family took their competitions seriously. But when he emerged onto the back deck and saw the Olympic-themed decor complete with a big banner stretched out over the end of the dock that readVACATION WARS,he blinked slowly to take it all in.

At the base of the shoreline sat four yellow kayaks, each with a cluster of color-specific helium balloons floating at the head of the boat. Blue, yellow, green, and pink teams, it seemed. Inside each of the boats were two matching neon paddles and a little cooler filled with water. They looked like giant floating bananas.

A warm breeze was coming in off the Atlantic, rippling the waters of the Mystic River. Sailboats tied to personal docks bobbed up and down in the lapping waves. The sun sparkled on the water—and in the distance sat a lighthouse that looked as if it had a hundred years of tales to tell.

“Is it around the buoy or touch the buoy?” Uncle Giuseppe asked, scratching his combover while staring at the rusted buoy about a quarter mile out. It bobbed in the gentle swell, its bell giving a muffled clank as if it had given all it had to give.

Wes could appreciate that state. It seemed to sum up the past three months. He’d been giving without receiving anything in return. From the company, to Randy, to his ex, to his employees. No matter how much he gave, at the end of the day there was still more left to do. Only he was slowly crashing, and he would surely burn if things didn’t change. Problem was, he didn’t know what needed changing.

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