Page 97 of Mostly Loathing You

“Thank you,” I respond, barely audible, but I know he hears me by the way he clutches me closer as we sway.

“Jeez, guys, just fuck already.” Wes’s voice carries from my left, causing Liam to freeze at his words. His clutch loosens as I feel him step backward, leaving so much space between us you would think we were at a seventh-grade dance.

“Yeah right, man,” Liam chuckles, the sardonic nature of it leaving a slimy, uncomfortable feeling coating my skin. “You’ve got to be delusional if you think that’s ever going to happen.”

My every last joy of the moment is squashed as the denying, borderline hurtful words spill from Liam’s lips. I release my hold on him, pushing him away from me in the process.

“Yeah.” I laugh, but it doesn’t meet my eyes. “I’d have to hate myself to get involved with an asshole like Liam Park.”

Liam’s hands drop from my sides as I step back from him entirely, the song thankfully coming to an end at the perfect moment.

And while the words roll off my tongue like a joke to the room, Liam’s eyes lock on mine, a pained expression washing over him, all the shame he should have felt about denying me crashing into him at my harsh words, and I hate the way I feel vindicated by it.

FORTY-TWO

LIAM

Stepping into the Newmont building doesn’t cause the same pep in my step as it normally does. The past few months I’ve found myself looking forward to going into work. Not because I’m doing something insanely rewarding—those aren’t the words I would choose to describe helping yet another multimillionaire out of taking accountability for yet another white-collar crime—but because Hannah has slowly become the best part of my day.

At the end of the wedding Saturday night, I expected to go back to her room and stay there, so when the door was dead bolted and Hannah wasn’t answering her phone, I assumed she just fell asleep. However, I tried to reach her all day Sunday and she’s yet to return any of my calls, and I hate that I know why.

I was an idiot when Wes made that joke at the wedding. I don’t know why I said it and the memory causes bile to crawl up my throat. Hannah and I haven’t gone public with our relationship and I can’t pinpoint why the idea causes me so much discomfort. I’m not embarrassed by being with Hannah—hell, she’s the hottest girl in pretty much every room we walk into—but the scrutiny I know we would face is enough to hold me back.

I like how things have been. The privacy of our relationship has been the only thing keeping me from losing my mind these days and I don’t want to let it go just yet. There aren’t these grandiose expectations of me when I’m alone with Hannah. Hell, if anything, she expects less of me, which means the bar is quite literally on the floor.

However, the look on her face when I brushed Wes off the other day has all but secured that she doesn’t feel the same way about maintaining our privacy. What does she expect to happen, though? She doesn’t just work for my dad’s law firm, she works under me; Hannah reports to me directly. Well, and her brother, but let’s be real, he never feels comfortable asking much of Hannah.

Which is precisely my point.

The moment people know that we’re together, my entire job and all my business practices will be called into question regarding whether I did everything ethically or if I have been willingly letting her cut corners because we’re sleeping together.

I refuse to have my professional career tarnished before it’s barely begun.

So why is it that when Hannah walks right past me, latte in hand, without so much as a good morning or a hello, I instantly want to push her into the supply closet and force her to talk to me?

I can’t do that, though, because this is a place of business and if she gets mad, I know everyone is going to hear us hashing it out.

“Hey,” I say, reaching out and grabbing her arm as shepasses by me, nearly causing her Starbucks cup to spill in the process.

“Hey.” Her voice is quiet and clipped, and given the fact that I nearly just caused vanilla, milk, and espresso to coat the side of her dress, I expect far more of a reaction. At the very least, I anticipate a snide remark. However, she gives me nothing more.

“Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Her eyes meet mine with zero warmth. She’s pissed; I’ve seen it enough times to know the tells. I’ve also seen it enough times to know that she’s going to pretend she’s not mad until she quite possibly explodes, fragments of shrapnel flying at everyone in the wake.

“Hannah, I can tell you’re mad.”

“Well, I’m not. I’m working, so please let me do that.” Something in her words causes me to release my hold on her arm. I’ve spent so much time thinking about the way our relationship being exposed could impact my career, the realization that Hannah is just as aware of prying eyes gives me pause instantly.

Hannah’s phone starts to vibrate in her hand, pulling her eyes from my own. She’s distracted and I hate that she won’t talk to me about why. I thought we were past this dynamic of not telling each other what is going on—apparently, we’re not.

“I have to take this.” Her energy instantly shifts from that of anger to that of anticipation and I desperately want to know why. I try to get a peek at her phone, but it’s out of sight within seconds. It must be something important…something important that she clearly doesn’t want to tell me.

“Hannah, I—”

“Liam, I have to go.” She backs up, stepping out of my space, and I have no time to argue further. She pulls the phoneto her ear and offers her peppiest greeting, a stark contrast to her clipped tone only moments ago.

I’m prepared to go after her, ask her what’s going on, but Jackson chooses the absolute worst moment to walk out of our office.

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