Page 21 of Loathe at First Sight

I get to work, getting all my stuff out of the backseat and trunk and trying to sneak it out the front door without garnering a lot of attention. Finally, I decide to carry as much as I can so that I only have to make one more trip. Any more than that, I’m going to have a ton of eyes on me.

Gathering up every last thing, I load my arms up and walk out the front door. I move as fast as I can even though I’m weighted down by stuff. I didn’t think I had that much left…until I had to move it all.

I get through the front door and exhale a sigh of relief. Thank God I got out of there with minimal embarrassment, and I didn’t have to see Mr. Jackass in the process.

A honking horn gets my attention, and I turn my head at the sound. Not paying attention to where I’m going, I run into something that feels like a tree trunk. I hit it with such force that my stuff goes flying everywhere, and I bounce backward.

“What the hell?” I ask.

When I look up to see what I could have possibly run into, I realize it’s not a what. It’s a who.

Mr. Fucking Jackass.

seven

A Bag Full of Surprises

Jack

Ilook down at the ground where someone just ran into me and then fell on their ass. I guess they weren’t watching where they were going.

Looking down, I see none other than Liz Lawson.

Why am I not surprised?

She seems to have had a lot in her hands because now everything is littered all over the sidewalk. Most of the bags she was carrying popped open, spilling out their contents.

“What the hell?” She exclaims looking up at me. When she realizes who I am, she mumbles, “Of course.”

“Nice to see you too, princess.”

Her eyes narrow in on me, showing just how much she hates the nickname I’ve given her. Well, if the shoe fits, you can wear it, Cinderella. Her actions scream princess.

“You know, my mom told me that I should apologize to you because she thought maybe I was being unreasonable yesterday, but now, I think my actions were completely warranted.” She looks at me again and asks, “Do you own any shirt that’s not flannel?”

“I think the better question is why does my flannel bother you?”

“It doesn’t bother me. It’s just…I can think of a thousand other things that you would look better in.”

“Have you been picturing me wearing other things?”

I’m just giving her shit, but it’s too much fun to stop.

Flustered, she responds, “I wasn’t picturing you in other things! Just maybe there’s more to the fashion world than flannel. You look like a lumberjack.”

The way she says it makes it clear that she thinks it’s an insult.

“You realize that most of the men in this town work at a lumberyard, right? Are you giving all of them this much shit if they wear flannel? Or am I just special?”

She points her finger at me. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

I could just walk inside and let her pick up all of this stuff by herself, but that just wouldn’t sit right with me—no matter how much of a brat she is.

So, I kneel, setting the donuts that I was carrying down on the ground next to me. I start grabbing some of her things and put them in one of the bags.

“You don’t have to help,” she tells me. “I’m sure you need to get to work.”

“They can live a few more minutes without me.”

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