Page 33 of Love to Hate You

“Since when does the loser get to set the terms of the spoils?”

“Since they’re my lips.” And since she could already imagine his mouth on hers, assured and demanding. Feel his hands on her waist—and other places—moving with confident intent.

Abort. Abort. That would be the smart thing to do, but she couldn’t resist a dare. Especially one thrown out there by a man who had bested her at every turn. A man who drove her to the brink of insanity. A man who needed to go.

“And when I win, you have to go back to Ridgefield first thing tomorrow,” she said.

That charming smile drooped at the corners in a vulnerable way that had her regretting her words. She’d hit a sore spot, and for the first time this imposing, impenetrable man seemed a little more human. A little softer, and less like he could carry the entirety of Great Britain on his shoulders without breaking a sweat.

“Is that what you really want?”

“Yes.” That was a big fat lie, but for the first time in her life her poker face must have held because he didn’t call her on it.

“Agreed then. I win, I get a kiss to prove that there is something between us. And if you win, I’ll be on my merry way, and you can enjoy the rest of your holiday experiencing life through the pages of one of your love books.”

“They’re called romance novels.”

His charm immediately reappeared. “How do you say it? Tomato-tomoto?”

She rolled her eyes. “We say it, bring it on.”

Chapter 12

the chase

She wanted him gone.

Wes didn’t know why he should be so surprised or hurt, but there it was, that same ache that came with being unwanted. It was a rusty but familiar feeling that stemmed from summers spent at his father’s, where his stepmother had gone out of her way to let him know she was counting down the days until his departure. That was why, when he’d been old enough to make his own decisions, he’d told his mum he didn’t want to go to the States anymore. He’d been twelve. And his father hadn’t tried to convince him otherwise.

Wes had promised himself that he’d never allow someone to make him feel unwanted again. Yet, here he was, sitting around the dinner table with a family who could make Attila the Hun feel welcome—except the woman next to him, who would rather gut herself from throat to belly than be in his company. And, as fate would have it, the only available seat was next to Summer. Even though she was sitting on the edge of the cushion, as far away from him as possible without falling off, he could still smell her airy scent, see the faint hint of freckles on her nose, feel the heat her body was radiating.

“What?” she whispered.

He blinked. “What?”

“You’re staring at me. Did you spit in my serving?”

“No, I’m just waiting for you to take the first bite so that I can see the exact moment you realize that I’ve won.”

“You drenched your pasta water with olive oil. What kind of Italian does that?”

“I merely added a dollop to the boiling water so that the noodles wouldn’t stick and become gummy.”

“Well, if you use the precise amount of flour, it won’t stick or become gummy.”

“Then why did I see you cutting off the ends of two noodles that were stuck together?” he asked, and saw the anger simmering in her expressive eyes. If looks could kill, he’d be six feet under.

“Do you mind? I’m trying to enjoy my meal in peace.” She swatted at him like he was an annoying hornet, although she was the one with the stinger out.

“Enjoy away.”

The rest of the family were already halfway through their meal and Summer hadn’t touched hers. She’d been too busy scrutinizing her relatives as they compared the two dishes, analyzing every nuance and twitch.

Wes’s dish was on the right and he was proud of the plating. It was the perfect helping of pasta, twisted into a volcano-esque mound, sprinkled with fresh-cut Italian parsley and coarse ground pepper. It was sophisticated and could rival any five-star establishment in the city.

Summer had gone for everyday dishware, with her linguini piled high in the pasta bowl, giving it a homestyle feel. It reminded him of dinners spent with his nonna when his mother was working late or pulling a double shift. It was rustic, real, and not pretending to be anything other than what it was—a homecooked family meal. It awoke a yearning inside of him that he’d suppressed ever since his grandmother’s passing.

He watched Summer pick up her fork and twist up a giant helping of his pasta that filled the entire utensil, and his palms began to sweat. He didn’t know why he cared what she thought about his cooking, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone out of his way to impress a woman, but he wanted to impress the hell out of her—and her family.

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