Page 37 of The One I Hate
Whitley’s words take me by surprise as we walk down the sidewalk of Rolling Hills. Probably because I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going and almost ran into a mailbox. And not a small one on a post. A big-ass blue one. That’s what happens when you’re looking over your shoulder with every step to make sure you don’t see the man that makes you want to punch a wall.
I hate that he makes me feel like this. Even without the incident, I think I’d still be reacting this way when it comes to Simon. Fifteen years later and I’m still that emotional girl running from his house on the campus of the University of Tennessee with tears streaming down my face and a broken heart.
I don’t want to be her. I want to get over it. It was one kiss, and one subsequent heartbreak, over a decade ago. And an ill-fated drunken sexual encounter. I’m sure that if I could afford therapy, I’d be told to make amends and get over it.
I wish I could. But I can’t. He brings out something in me that makes me want to scream. Or run. Or cry. Or kiss him.
Usually all of the above.
“Yeah. I’m fine.” I lie.
Why am I even here? If just the thought of seeing Simon makes my body stand on high alert, then I definitely can’t run a restaurant, or live, here. I don’t think they make stress medication strong enough for that.
This was a bad idea. I should have held my ground and told Whitley no. I should have stayed in Nashville and enjoyed my day off. But no, here I am, bright and early in the morning looking at a restaurant that I’m determined to find inadequate.
Yet, as we get closer to the diner, only one word is popping into my head.
Perfect.
Because of course it is.
A cute brick exterior in the center of a seemingly small town. Windows that let you see inside, but it somehow doesn’t feel like it’s intrusive. A neighboring parking lot which allows for plenty of patrons. And a sign proudly displayed from the top of the entry that says “Mona’s.”
Fuck.
I love it.
And that name…the universe couldn’t give me a clearer sign. My tears start to well, but I force them back.
Because this is very inconvenient for me. I’m supposed to be finding everything wrong with this place, not falling in love with it.
“This is so exciting!” Whitley squeals as she takes my hand and pulls me toward the door. As we enter, my heart swells.
It’s even more perfect. I slowly start walking through the tables set up around the center of the restaurant, booths next to me lining the walls. It’s slightly dated, and every single surface is the same buttery yellow, but at the same time that gives it some charm. I’d probably replace the seating fixtures that have seen better days and maybe give the walls a fresh coat of paint thatisn’t the color of the sun, but otherwise, it works perfectly. It’s the size I always imagined having. There’s a breakfast counter beside a glass case where Mellie can display her desserts. It’s next to a cash register that I’m pretty sure was made in the seventies.
It’s annoyingly perfect. Like so perfect that I’m trying to figure out how to design the sign at the front of the building that says “Welcome all. Except for Simon Banks. You know what you did.”
“Hello, ladies.” My eyes find a giant of a man walking out of the kitchen. “I’m Emmett, the property manager. You must be Whitley and Charlie.”
I was expecting to see a restaurant today. I was expecting to have to tell the realtor that I couldn’t take it. I wasn’t expecting to have to say that to a six-foot-five hunk of a man with perfectly fitting Wranglers and a white T-shirt.
Is this what men in Rolling Hills look like? Because if so, Simon Banks be damned, I’m about to have a new zip code.
“Nice to meet you, Emmett,” I say as we shake hands. I know I’ve never met this man, but for some reason I feel like I’ve seen him before. “I’m Charlie. Are you the tour guide?”
He shakes his head with a pleasant smile. “I can be if you want. But you seem like a very capable person, so look around all you’d like. Once you’ve taken the tour, I’ll be out here waiting, and we can go over specifics and any questions you have.”
“Thanks,” I say as Whitley and I go into the kitchen. As soon as the door swings shut, I grab Whitley and turn her to me. “Holy shit! Why didn’t you tell me Rolling Hills men were hot?”
Whitley shakes her head. “They are, but he’s not one of them.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. He must work for whoever bought this place. I know everyone in Rolling Hills. And that guy definitely doesn’t live here.”
Weird. “So did someone from outside of Rolling Hills buy this place?”
“I honestly don’t know,” she says as she pulls open the door to the walk-in cooler. “Mona was tight-lipped about the buyer and asked me to keep quiet that she was selling. People don’t even know this place is for sale. She gave me Emmett’s number and we set up the showing. This has all been weird if you ask me. Usually something like Mona’s selling would be all over the Rolling Hills gossip train. But no one knows anything.”
