Page 6 of Hate You Later
“Let’s get out of here,” she says. My heart is still pounding and, if anything, I’m overheated. But I humor her and slip into the coat.
“You stupid bitch. Don’t you know who I am?” Bryce says again. With a sullen huff, he plonks himself down at the bar in the space we’ve vacated, ice pressed to his jaw.
“Oh, I knowexactlywho you are.” I sneer, picking up the remains of my drink, ready to pour it on him if the opportunity arises. The bruise will heal, but there’s no way he’ll be able to get a michelada stain out of his pressed pants.
“Isn’t he that loser who barfed all over himself at homecoming?” Kenna speaks loudly enough for half the bar to be reminded of one of Bryce’s less proud moments. She takes the cup out of my hand and nudges me toward the door. “C’mon, G,” she pleads, “it’s not worth it.”
“But the animals,” I say. “What about his tweets about the shelter pets!” I’m this close to throwing the drink in his face.
It’s at this point I realize that all around us, people are holding up their cell phones, filming us.
“You’re not going to be able to help any animals from a prison cell.” Kenna speaks low and calm into my ear and places my bag on my shoulder.
“Fine,” I say begrudgingly. I pause to glare one last time at Bryce. He’s using one hand to hold the cup to his jaw and is furiously texting someone with the other.
“I have witnesses,” I warn. “You’ve clearly never heard of personal space.”
Kenna grabs a fistful of fur and drags me to the door. It reminds me of the way a mother cat moves her kittens.
“Time to go, G!” She firmly shoves me through the exit.
I’m expecting a rush of cold night air as she pushes me. A sharp contrast to the heat radiating from me and the close atmosphere inside. But instead, my breath is knocked out of me as I run smack into a wall—a solid wall of a man sheathed in a dark-gray sweater.
The sweater is soft, at least, I note as my cheek slides across his chest. Cashmere. Has to be cashmere.
Oof.
“Hey! Watch where you’re going!” he says. Only when he notices I’m not breathing does he ask, “You okay?”
I gasp. His large, warm hands come to my shoulders to steady me, but they don’t linger there long enough to give me any excuses to swing. I shove him back instead. My head is swimming. I’m feeling a little disoriented, which I chalk up to having the air knocked out of me, plus the michelada and too much adrenaline in my system.
“She’s fine,” Kenna says, squeezing out the door behind me. “We were just leaving.”
“Or trying to,” I croak.
The man and I do that thing where we both step in the same direction in an attempt to get around each other and end up colliding again. What the hell?
He looks annoyed. Does he think I’m doing this on purpose? Is he?
“Maybe pick a side?” he suggests haughtily.
Because he’s backlit by the blinding neon sign just outside the door, I’m seeing more silhouette than details. I can’t quite make out his face beyond the impression of chiseled features. He’s slim, but solid. Slicked-back, medium-length hair. Clean. He smells great, actually. Shampoo, woodsmoke, and a hint of wet wool. He’s so tall. I’m not so sure I could take him. But I’d really like to try, I suddenly think.
Woah! Where did that even come from? Must be all the adrenaline. This is a totally different of thinking. The of thinking that has me wrestling with this stranger and not minding if he ends up on top. Inappropriate thoughts that I have no space for.
My heart is still pounding wildly. I have to get out of here.
I duck past him and race-walk toward the parking lot. But I swear I can still feel his eyes on me, all the way to the car. And somewhat perversely, it’s not a problem. I actually like the feeling of him watching me, laser-focused, like a cat hunkering down and following its prey. I shouldn’t like it so much, should I?
Kenna and I sit in the car and catch our breath in the quiet for a moment. She shakes her head and turns to look at me. I rub my sore knuckles and stare at my hands. They’re shaking.
“You sure you’re okay, Georgia?” Kenna asks. I shove my hands into my pockets.
“Yeah, I’m fine, totally fine.” I bluff. “You know me. I’ve always hated the Holms.”
“Yeah, I know.” Kenna puts the car in gear and spares me her knowing gaze. “Plus, that hottie in the doorway really blew your big, dramatic exit, didn’t he?”
hudson
