Page 29 of Hate Mates

Of him.

Leaving with the clothes on my back had been the only option, even though I’d been presented with two—I could stay in Rockchapel, or I could leave. Start over.

Take the money they’d refused to call a settlement and go.

It wasn’t really a choice when the undercurrents of the threat were clear, and the money was contingent on you leaving, was it?

They didn’t want to see the indelible reminder of their son’s actions.

Aunt Poppy needed a break. Leaving was the best way to give her that.

Pulling in a stiff breath, I met her kind grey eyes, counting each extra heartbeat. “Thanks,” I managed, flicking my eyes behind her, catching a familiar face lingering in the threshold of the kitchen entrance, unsure what to do with himself.

He held up a hand in an awkward wave. “You look well, Sutton.”

Was that lie as painful to get out as it sounded, Grant?

Grant Eckhart was my—myAunt Poppy’s next-door neighbor—and, while she’d never admitted it to me, her fuck buddy. Given she was staying here while her house was undergoing renovations, it was safe to assume things had gotten serious between them.

“Did you change your hair?” he asked, edging closer, his blacksmith hands buried in the pockets of his best khakis. Silverhad overtaken the inky black in the last seven years, a fan of deep lines framing his eyes and forehead.

I couldn’t help but feel he was forcing himself to look at me, to maintain eye contact.

Most people did.

“No.” Same shade of ash-brown, shapeless, and well overdue for a cut.

Stepping out of Aunt Poppy’s embrace, I ignored the flash of rejection in her gaze.

“How was the drive?” Had Grant always been this terrible at small talk?

“Fine.” Long. Boring. They’d offered to come pick me up personally, anything to ensure I came, but I’d spared us all from what would have been ten uncomfortable hours trapped together.

“Well, that’s…” Grant rocked back and forth on his heels, his smile trembling at the corners. “That’s-that’s great. I’m glad to hear that.”

Sure, Grant.

Pots clanged in the kitchen, arousing my attention. “We hired a personal chef to come in,” Aunt Poppy supplied. “Just for tonight.”

“What’s the occasion?”

Grant and Aunt Poppy exchanged a look, and I pretended not to notice the ring on her left hand when she folded her arms over her chest.

“You being here. I’m a terrible cook,” Grant rushed out. “And your Aunt Poppy?—”

“Can’t boil water without burning it,” she said around a loud titter.

I indulged them with a nod, scanning the foyer, motes of dust gleaming in the grey light filling the transom windows on either side of the door, settling on the ornate wood surfaces. The Grantfamily had lived in the lopsided redbrick Victorian farmhouse with its steeply pitched roof for well over a hundred years.

A long time ago, I’d thought I’d live here someday, too.

I’d been here hundreds of times, yet this house felt foreign to me as if I’d never been here at all. An awkward silence descended upon us, my ears picking up on a distinct crackle in the adjacent parlor room.

I remembered that sound. It used to be my favorite. Now I associated it with—my tongue swelled in my mouth, bile teasing the back of my throat, the memory threatening to surface.

Toeing out of my shoes, my legs moved of their own volition, stilling in the double-cased arch of the parlor. Embers snapped along lit logs inside the hearth contained behind a decorative screen.

I’d smelled the smoke outside when I’d gotten out of the car. I’d hesitated, the fear temporarily transfixing me. It was the weight of his arrogant stare in the window that motivated me to move.

---