Page 73 of The One I Hate
“Izzy? What are you doing here?”
“What does it look like?” She holds up the drinks she’s carrying. “You’ve met Betsy and Amelia, right?”
I wave at the two women who I’ve met in passing a few times. “Hi. Yes. But you didn’t answer my question. What are you doing here?”
“Um…” They all look at each other, none of them seemingly able to say anything. Which is very, very, suspicious. “We were in the neighborhood.”
“In the neighborhood? On a Friday night? With the exact things I need to paint?”
“Exactly,” Betsy says as she grabs a paint brush. “Now where do you want us?”
They quickly disperse, not making eye contact with me as they find a wall to start painting.
“Hold it!” I yell. They all turn, guilty looks in their eyes. “Everyone sit.”
I see their shoulders slump as they do as I ask.
“I don’t know y’all very well. However, I’m going to go out on a limb and say that I doubt you all had a sudden urge to paint a restaurant tonight.”
“That’s not true,” Betsy says. “I love a good sip and paint.”
“But you’re right,” Amelia says. “Simon suggested we come down.”
I throw my hands in the air. “Of course he did.”
That asshole is playing dirty. Every day over the past week since the wedding he’s been stopping in and asking what he could help with. Each day I’ve told him no. Each day he’s refused to listen.
Mellie thinks it’s hilarious. I think it’s infuriating.
But he hasn’t helped by actually getting his hands dirty. No. That’s not how Simon Banks does things.
One day landscapers showed up asking what I needed help with for the front of the building. The next day a guy from a print shop magically appeared asking me how he could help with my menu and signage needs. And yesterday I was woken up to the sound of an asphalt truck paving the parking lot. Now that one I think was Magnolia Properties, but I could also see Simon doing it.
When he came in earlier today and saw the cans of paint, he tried to convince me to let him hire people. I immediately kicked him out.
“Y’all, I appreciate the sentiment, but you don’t have to do this,” I say. “It’s Friday night, and I’m sure you have much better things to do than help a stranger paint.”
Betsy shakes her head. “We don’t. All the kids are hanging out at Amelia’s house while the guys play poker at mine. I wanted an excuse to leave.”
“Plus, it’s about time we get to know you,” Izzy says. “I mean, besides the fact that you’re a damn good cook and you have our Simonsmitten,it felt like time we got to know the newest Rolling Hills resident.”
“What?” My voice comes out in a weird high-pitched tone I barely recognize. “Simon is not smitten.”
The three of them clearly don’t buy my bullshit. Probably doesn’t help that my attempt at a poker face is being ruined by the thought of the near kiss from the other night.
“Your words say one thing, but your face says another,” Izzy says with a smirk as she grabs a paint brush. “I should know. Been there, done that.”
“It’s not like that,” I protest. “Simon and I…well, it’s complicated.”
Amelia laughs as she stands up. “Most love stories are.”
I shake my head and wave my arms. “Oh, no. That’s where you’re wrong. Simon and I are no love story.”
That’s one emotion I know I’m not confused about. I don’t love Simon. Yes, I might have felt something that wasn’t hate when he pulled Billy away from me. And when he held me in his arms and calmed me down. And when we nearly kissed. But that’s not love. Appreciation. That’s what it was.
You can’t love someone you hate, can you? Because I do hate him. At least, I think I still do. It’s becoming more confusing by the day. Because that’s what Simon does—he burrows his way into your life and makes you forget things like how he hurt you.
But then he flashes that damn smirk, and I have to remind myself to not melt.
