Page 39 of Love to Hate You

Maybe her auntie was right and she needed to take some risks. Mr. MBA had told her that she lived her life though the characters in her books. Well, she did that because it was safer than putting herself out there. Just look at Dr. Daniel. She’d put herself out there and wound up with dog snot on her leg.

“Screw you, Dr. Daniel. Screw you, Daryl Sanderson. And screw you, Weston Kingston!” This time she said it with more conviction. And damn it felt good.

“Screw you, Daryl Sanderson,” she said, yanking her T-shirt over her head and set her glasses on the dock. “And screw you, Weston Kingston.” She shed her pants, and in nothing ibut her thong she ran off the edge of the dock and cannonballed into the water.

The chilly jetty was like a slap to the face, clearing her head and shocking her into the moment. Bubbles erupted all around her, and she sank deeper and deeper until she was in complete darkness and the white noise of the world was silenced. Her heart rate slowed and suddenly everything became clear.

She was tired of things happeningtoher. Tired of being an emotional doormat for every Tom, Daniel, and Daryl Sanderson who crossed her path. From this moment forward she was going to be the one making the choices on the direction her life would take. She was no longer going to sit back and wait for life to happen—she was going to be the happen in her life.

She waited until her lungs stung from the lack of oxygen and then resurfaced. When she did there was a blurry shadow standing on the edge of the dock. A six-foot-three frame with broad shoulders and blue eyes. Even in the inky night the piercing blue cut through.

Just the thought of him catching her while she was naked made her nipples celebrate by blowing their party poppers. What was wrong with her that she was unable to stop reacting to a man she loathed? A man who, for months, had been insufferable.

She wrapped her arms around her chest like that would hide the fact that she’d just dived practically naked into the river. “How long have you been standing there?”

“I was about to announce my presence when you dropped your trousers.”

“And how were you going to announce yourself? Weston Kingston the Third, hailing from London and bookstore royalty?”

“For your information, the only third in the family is Randy.”

“But you’re the oldest.” By a few years, as she surmised. Randy was her age, twenty-four-ish and Wes was in his early thirties.

“I’m—what do they call it—the bastard of the family. I’m surprised my father even wanted me to carry his last name.”

The rage she was clutching so tightly loosened. How could it not? There was a hint of emotion in his voice as he shared with her what was a horrible part of his childhood. That alone told her just how deeply it affected him.

Like her interaction with Daryl Sanderson, it had probably shaped all his relationships moving forward.

“You father sounds horrible,” she said quietly, while bobbing in the water.

“Who is this Daryl Sanderson chap, and what did he do to deserve the honor of being on a list with me?”

“It’s a love-to-hate kind of list.”

Wes toed off his loafers and socks, then tugged his pant legs up to his knees before taking a seat on the edge of the dock. It was a boyish, casual action that had her heart rolling over a smidge. “Those are some pretty strong emotions for someone you’re desperate to kick out of your house.”

And the rest of that rage morphed into embarrassment.

He lifted a brow, and that’s when she noticed his usually coifed hair looking as if his fingers had run through it dozens of times. His shirt, which he’d changed before dinner, was no longer flour-covered, but was untucked and wrinkled. It tugged at a soft spot deep in her chest.

“I’m sorry about my behavior in the kitchen and then at dinner. You just seem to rile me up, and then with Autumn’s news . . .” She shrugged. “It was a lot to take in, and I took it out on you.”

“Are you saying you want me to stay, love?”

“I’m not sure what I’m saying.”

“Then how about you tell me about Daryl Sanderson while you ponder the pros and cons of me sticking around.”

Lord help me.Daryl was the last person she wanted to talk about, but he’d shared something personal and it was only fair to return the favor. “He was my first meet-ugly.”

He laughed. “Meet-what?”

“You know, the opposite of a meet-cute, where you experience this amazingly romantic encounter with a stranger and you think, this is it, only it’s a one-sided feeling or fate decides to pull the rug out from under you—sometimes literally. You know what I mean?”

“Yes, love, I do.”

“An example would be meeting someone at the dog park and thinking it was a date, when in reality he just wanted you to dog-sit.”

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