Page 11 of The Boy I Hate

When he finally turned around, he placed his cell phone in his back pocket. “I thought I was going to have to break the door down.” He lifted his shoulders. “Either that or you changedyourmind.”

He brushed past her, not waiting for an invitation before stepping into her apartment. “I have to piss. Where’s yourbathroom?”

She made a face at his choice of words, but decided quickly against making a comment, and turned swiftly toward the hall. For the next three days, she was stuck with him. Three thousand miles, and she was determined not set off on the wrong foot. “It’s downthehall.”

She wrapped her arms around her belly and walked in the opposite direction toward the window. This was a bad idea, she could feel it in her bones. Renee had said he’d changed, but she thought in a good way. If anything, he was worse! Gruff, callous, entitled. Though maybe a bit rougher. His jeans were a weathered blue, roughed up in the way that was fashionable these days, and his shirt was gray, form fitting, and indicated that he still had the body he was known for in high school. But now he had a scruffy shadow of a beard that matched his messy surfer-boystyle.

Though it wasn’t his looks that made Samantha uncomfortable. It was the way he acted—as though he owned the place. As though it was his world, and she just existedinit.

He walked out of the bathroom some time later, wiping his hands on his back pockets, even though she knew she’d hung up a towel thatmorning.

“Is this your luggage?” he asked, gesturing to her suitcase in the corner oftheroom.

She nodded, but before she could add that it was only the beginning, he lifted the bag up to his shoulder and headed for thefrontdoor.

“Wait!” she shouted, maybe a tad more frantically than she’dintended.

He turned on his heels, his eyes wide open with a “what the hell is wrong with you?”expression.

“The sculpture,” she finally managed to spit out. “I need help getting itdownstairs.”

“The sculpture?” he repeated slowly, as though he didn’t quite understand what she wastellinghim.

She turned on her heels, not bothering to explain, and headed for her studio. “It’sthisway.”

A minute later, they stood in the middle of the room, Tristan’s eyes wide, taking in the three foot tall, two foot wide, bubble-wrapped creation. It was the best she could manage given its shape, but she had to admit, wrapped up like this, it did look rathercrazy.

“And we’re bringing that with us?” he managedtoask.

“Yes.” Shenodded.

He bit his lip, as though trying to make his mind up about something, and shrugged. “Well, okay.” He set her suitcase to the ground, stepped toward and lifted the sculpture a few inches. He quickly set it back down and stepped backward. “Shit. What’s in there?Steel?”

She scrunched up her nose, knowing it was heavy. But seeing that it was too heavy for Tristan made her nervous. How the hell would they get it downstairs? “Here, let’s lean it on its side. I’ll grab one end, you grab theother.”

* * *

Six yearsearlier

“Why on earthwould I trust you, Tristan? I know who you are; I’ve seen whatyoudo!”

His eyes narrowed, but he wouldn’t budge from his spot blocking her on the branch. “For someone who doesn’t know me, you sure knowalot.”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t have to knowyou. I know all the people you’ve hurt, and that’senough.”

“Likewho?”

“Veronica Ward. Jenny Chavez. Sophie Miller. Need Igoon?”

“Do you always believe what people tell you, or only when it involves me? I’mcurious.”

“What’s that supposedtomean?”

“It means, check your sources, sweetheart.” He pushed back off the branch, causing the whole thing to rock backward and cover her inwater.

She held on for dear life, watching him swim away toward the center of the lake, damning herself for coming out here at all. “Are you just going to leave me here?” shescreamed.

“I haven’t decided,” he said, stopping ten feet away. “What did theytellyou?”

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