Page 58 of Mostly Loathing You

Hannah looks taken aback by my request, but she doesn’t reject the idea immediately, just stares at me with a confused expression. “Liam, I—”

“Please, Hannah. Come over tonight.” The earnestness in my voice seems to break through her hard exterior as she nods up at me with a weary expression.

“Okay.” It’s barely a whisper, but I’ll take what I can get.

TWENTY-FOUR

HANNAH

My day passes at snail speed.

I don’t know what came over me when I saw Veronica trying to flirt with Liam, but it awakened something in me that I neither recognize nor trust. Why I would be jealous over someone flirting with—of all people—Liam, I don’t know. However, the events my jealousy set in motion were nothing short of intoxicating.

The taste of his orgasm still lingers on my tongue far into the afternoon, so when Veronica walks by my desk as I’m packing up to leave, I actually manage to feel a level of guilt with which I’m not comfortable.

“Hey,” I say as she passes me, stopping her in her tracks.

“Oh, uh…” Veronica stops, but it’s clear as day that she doesn’t want to. “What’s up?”

“I was rude earlier, I’m really sorry about that.” Liam got inside my head about the way I conduct myself at work, even if I know for certain Veronica’s intentions with him are far from platonic or altruistic.

This seems to relieve her and she exhales before saying, “It’s fine, Hannah. Seriously. We all have bad days.”

God, I hate that she’s so likable. She’s supposed to be a bitch, she’s supposed to be annoying, anything to justify the anger that bubbles up inside of me whenever she’s around.

“Thank you for understanding.” I force a smile as I look across my desk at her. It’s not Veronica’s fault that she clearly likes Liam. Is her infatuation a clear sign of a deteriorated mental capacity? Sure, but it’s not a moral shortcoming.

She gives me a nod as she walks away, allowing me to finish stuffing my water bottle into my tote bag alongside my laptop.

The anxiety that crawls up my spine as I stand in front of Apartment 42 of the Westmoor downtown is nothing compared to the panic that sets in as Liam opens the door. I’ve never been to his apartment in the city, so the idea of losing what little control I have in this situation causes bile to crawl up my throat.

Liam waves me into his space without a word and even I’m shocked that I don’t fight him on it. I’m here, after all, so any plausible deniability has long since gone out the window. I enjoy having sex with him—that doesn’t mean I have to trust him.

Expansive dark hardwood floors meet me at the entryway and travel back to cover the entire apartment. The open concept of the space is awe-inducing, rivaled only by the view of the Atlanta skyline visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows that span the entire right wall of the living room.

The musky scent of a mahogany teakwood candle is onlymasked slightly by the smell coming from his kitchen, the combination of food and masculine cologne oddly pleasant as it grounds me.

“What are you making?” I ask as I walk across the threshold into the kitchen, which is only separated by a large marble island from the rest of the living area. Dark wood cabinets span all the way up to the ceiling. I can only hope I don’t need something from the top shelf while I’m here, because I would undoubtedly need Liam’s assistance.

“Chicken parm.” Liam tosses a kitchen towel over his shoulder before opening the oven, and the delectable aroma of the dish he’s cooking completely overtakes the smell of the candle.

“That smells incredible.” I nearly moan as I take a deep breath, causing Liam’s gaze to linger a few seconds longer. Chicken parmesan has always been my favorite meal, a fact which I doubt Liam would pay enough attention to know.

“Thanks,” he says as he pins me with a puzzled expression, as if my giving him a compliment is such a bizarre concept. He acts like I’m this evil person. Just because we don’t get along doesn’t mean I can’t extend a simple compliment.

Gripping my phone in my hand, I stand awkwardly as I watch him pull the cast iron skillet from the oven, the delectable scent even stronger than before. It’s not until now that I realize he doesn’t have a dining room table. The open-concept floor plan doesn’t lend itself to a huge table, but where the assumed dining area resides there is a desk with three monitors topping it, along with an assortment of Mountain Dew cans stacked up rather than in the trash.

“Ever heard of throwing stuff away?” I laugh as I approach the desk to get a better look at the computer tower. It has sides of mesh through which a bright blue light seeps. I would like topretend I don’t know what the setup is for, but having grown up spending multiple vacations every single year for the past twenty-seven years with Liam, I know it’s for gaming.

“Yeah,” he says with a chuckle as he begins to scoop portions of chicken on top of beds of what looks to be buttered spaghetti noodles on two plates, “it’s been a hectic week. I need to clean up.”

I realize most of his apartment is pristine, cleaner than any space I’ve ever lived in…except for his desk. Almost as if he compartmentalizes his mess, managing to be both a clean freak and a slob all in the same apartment.

“Apparently.” I chuckle as I lean against the island and watch him continue to plate our dinners.

He pulls two forks and two knives out of a drawer in front of him before walking to the living room with plates in hand. I stay behind in an act of defiance.

He comes back from the couch with a puzzled but amused expression. “Plan on joining me for dinner, or…?”

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