Hate Me or Love Me

by Ella Miles

  She nods and I help her get dressed and then into my car so that I can rush her to the emergency room. As soon as we are both in the car, I step on the gas to get her to the emergency room.

  “Slow down Sean,” she says.

  “No. I need to get you help,” I say speeding up instead of slowing down.

  “Sean. Stop,” she says more firmly and I sigh but slow down a little.

  I look at her to make sure that the bleeding hasn’t gotten worse. I know it’s only a cut on her hand but it’s deep and I don’t know what I would do without her. I don’t think I could survive without her.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “I’ll tell you after we are finished.”

  We make it to the hospital and after waiting twenty minutes in the waiting room, far longer than I was happy with, Olive was finally brought back to a room where they stitched up her hand.

  “So how did this happen?” the doctor asks Olive when he finishes stitching her up.

  She looks at me and blushes but says, “Baking accident.”

  He nods. “Well, you should be all better now. Hopefully we won’t see you back for any more baking accidents,” he says emphasizing the last words and looking at me like he knows what really happened even though he couldn’t know.

  He finally leaves us alone in the room and I kiss Olive’s forehead. “I’m so glad you are okay. I was worried about you.”

  She laughs. “You need to stop freaking out every time something like this happens. I’m a klutz. Stuff like this happens to me all the time. If you are going to be with me you need to be used to going to the emergency room.”

  “I’ll never get used to you being in pain or almost dying.”

  She shakes her head. “You’re over exaggerating. I didn’t almost die.”

  “I know. It was still hard to watch you go through that much pain.”

  “What did you want to tell me earlier in the car?” she asks.

  I look at her in the eye and know that this is the wrong place and the wrong way to do this but I don’t have a choice. I have to tell her how I feel.

  “That I want to marry you,” I say.

  Her eyes widen a little but she doesn’t seem that shocked that I would ask. We’ve been dating for a year. We love each other. It’s the next natural step.

  But she doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t show excitement or say that she wants to marry me too.

  “What do you think? Will you marry me? Or do you want to wait to answer until I do it right? Get a ring and find some romantic place?”

  “Why do you want to marry me?” she asks.

  I frown. “Because I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

  She nods. “I love you and want to spend the rest of my life with you too but it doesn’t mean that we should get married.”

  “Shouldn’t it?” I ask.

  She smiles. “I don’t need to get married to know that you love me and will do anything for me for the rest of your life. One look today from you when my hand was cut was all it took to know that I’m yours forever.”

  “And I’m yours forever.” I study her closely. “Will you marry me?” I ask again.

  Her face lights up. “Yes. I’ll marry you, but only because I want an excuse to go on a long honeymoon where you can fuck me in a dozen countries.”

  I grin. “God, I love you,” I say kissing her.

  Olive is mine. I’m going to make it official by marrying her. And then take her on a year long honeymoon. I know she can find the right bakers to handle her bakeries while we are gone. After all, I was the one that taught her everything I know. She’s going to kill this running a business thing. She already is. She’s everything I never knew I wanted in a woman and more. And she’s all fucking mine. Forever.

  THE END

  * * *

  Thank you so much for reading Not Sorry!

  * * *

  Continue on to read Finding Perfect…

  Finding Perfect

  1

  Mila

  Life sucks.

  Like really, really sucks. Trust me, I know. I’ve dealt with my fair share of tragedies. I’ve had my heart broken, dragged through the mud, and then stomped on. I’ve woken up hungry and slept under a bridge on the streets. I know what abuse feels like. I’ve seen, firsthand, how bad addiction can be. Death is a cold friend, instead of a stranger. Loss is all I’ve ever known.

  That’s why I have a plan for everything. I stick to a schedule for my day and my life. I know what I’m doing every minute of every day. I know what my next steps in life are. And that keeps me in control.

  Chaos is when the worst happens. Tragedy lives in the craziness. I thrive in normal.

  In ordinary.

  In the expected.

  I plan for every mistake, every tragedy, every misstep. That way I’m always prepared. I can handle anything because I’ve already thought of it first. I know how to bounce back and get my life on track in a second.

  So why is today so hard?

  Why am I not bouncing back?

  Because five years ago today was the worst day of my life. I made the worst mistake, and I’ve been paying for it every day since.

  I’m spiraling. I can feel the anxiety climbing into my chest and tightening until my lungs burn with each breath. My stomach is twisting in knots, and my head is pounding with an unshakable ache.

  I need to plan. I need to find a solution and start implementing it.

  But for once in my life, I don’t want to think about my responsibilities. I want to feel free, if only for a few moments.

  I roll the window down of my Subaru, the classic car all Denverites drive. It’s cheap and gets the job done. I drive through the mountains, hoping the fresh air filled with aspen and pine trees will soothe my soul. The wind whips through the car too fast to have the window down, but I don’t care. I need to feel the wind. It’s the only thing keeping me from going into a full blown panic attack.

  A man on a motorcycle rides my ass on the single lane road. I’m driving fast, but apparently not fast enough for the dipshit behind me.

  The tiny smile I forced onto my lips earlier vanishes. I zoom around a curve faster than I should, and I feel out of control.

  I hate it.

  But Mr. Dangerous isn’t driving fast enough. Driving around curves without guardrails isn’t enough. He’s driving so fast; one mistake could cause his motorcycle and my car to tumble down the side of the mountain. He’s risking actual death.

  I look for a space to pull off so he can go around me, but there are none. We are in the freaking mountains, on curvy road after curvy road. I’m driving ten miles over the speed limit as it is. I’m not going to let him bully me into driving faster.

  I hear the rev of his engine, and the blast of heavy metal music from his motorcycle.

  Can he be any more obnoxious?

  I don’t understand motorcycles. I don’t understand the need to make life any more dangerous than it already is. The asshole isn’t even wearing a helmet.

  I shake my head and try to focus on the road in front of me, instead of the man behind me making me equal parts pissed and anxious. But I drive faster. Too fast. I can’t help it. I barely stay in my lane around the next curve.

  And I see the bicycler too late.

  I slam on the brakes, praying I don’t hit the cyclist. I can’t slow down enough, and another car is coming toward me in the other lane. I have no choice but to pass the cyclist who is hugging the line of my lane.

  I squeeze my eyes closed. Stupid, I know. But I can’t watch my car scrape the man off the road.

  I open my eyes and glance in my rearview mirror. The man is still on the bike as Mr. Dangerous passes him on his motorcycle. I didn’t hit the car driving the opposite direction either.

  I exhale and try to loosen my death grip on the steering wheel. But I won’t be relaxing anytime soon. I see a gravel road leading off the mai
n road, and I take it. I need to get away from the anxiety-inducing motorcycle behind me.

  My heart slows as I drive over the bouncy road. I don’t know where the road goes, nor do I care. I just need away.

  The road winds up a mountain and stops in a parking lot of a trailhead. I pull the car into one of the last remaining stalls and exhale. A loose hair that had fallen onto my face blows up as I exhale.

  And then I hear the motorcycle. I glance in my rearview mirror as the dumbass double parks his motorcycle behind mine.

  I’m not confrontational. Not unless I need to be to survive. But I’m livid.

  I jump out of my car and march over to him.

  “What the hell are you doing? You could have gotten us killed earlier! And you can’t park behind me. That’s illegal.”

  He raises an eyebrow with a wicked grin on his face as he stares at me like I’m a child. He folds his arms over his chest, revealing his rippling biceps covered in tattoos.

  Figures.

  “Sorry, sweetheart. If you don’t know how to handle a car in the mountains, then you should stick to the main highways. They might be more your speed.”

  My cheeks puff out as I hold my breath and anger in. I’m sure my face is bright red by now, and my eyes are popping out of their sockets.

  “I’m not your sweetheart.”

  His head cocks lazily to one side as his smile brightens. “You are definitely somebody’s sweetheart.”

  “I’m nobody’s anything.”

  He nods. “Good.”

  He removes his shirt, and I stare speechlessly at his long legs in running shorts. Damn, his body looks better than any superhero’s I’ve ever seen. He could play Thor easily. His muscles are bigger, his tattoos darker, and his hair is long, like a Greek god.

  He smirks and walks closer to me like he knows exactly the effect he has on me.

  I can’t fucking speak. That never happens. I always have the words for every situation. I can be a smartass when I want. My voice is my best quality.

  It’s sexy and raspy, and everything men want.

  His eyes rake over my body. I’m wearing my scrubs. I just got off my shift, and the loose scrubs do nothing to attract a man. I look like a box instead of a voluptuous woman. Although, even the tightest dress in the universe wouldn’t help my cause much. I just don’t eat enough to have curves. My scrubs make me look like a dark green blob. Not sexy. The blood stains and mashed potatoes from a patient last night aren’t helping either.

  He winks at me though, and I think he sees something he likes.

  No. He’s probably just the type of man who flirts with every woman. He’s not interested in me.

  He turns a second later and starts jogging toward the trailhead.

  “Wait!” I shout, getting my voice back, although the raspiness of my voice makes it sound like my voice just cracked.

  The stranger doesn’t pause. He keeps jogging but turns his head in my direction flashing me another panty-melting smile. He’s too damn good-looking. Some men are handsome in a safe way. The kind who don’t threaten everything you’ve worked for. The kind who smile at you and appreciate you for how beautiful you are.

  This man is the kind who glances your way, and you are already signing away your heart, your bank account, and your self-worth for a chance with him.

  I usually stay far, far away from men like him. And in about two seconds, I will drive full speed in the opposite direction and never think about him again. But for one moment, I let myself drink him up.

  “Your motorcycle is blocking my car!” I shout.

  He shrugs. “So? I’m running; you’re hiking. I’ll be back to move my motorcycle long before you get done with your hike.” His eyes tell me he’s challenging me. He doesn’t think I came up here to hike based on how I’m dressed, but he’s daring me to say differently.

  I don’t.

  I don’t say anything.

  And the sexy stranger disappears onto the trail at full speed.

  I stare at the trail and then down at my scrubs and white tennis shoes. I’m not prepared to go for a hike. These shoes have no grip and will turn brown in about five minutes from the dirt on the trail. I didn’t even bring a bottle of water with me.

  Hiking is not what I need right now. But I don’t really have a choice. Unless I want to back over his motorcycle…

  I grin, liking that idea far too much.

  I sigh. I don’t have the balls or insurance to destroy his bike like that. I’ll hike for an hour, and if Mr. Wrong-for-me-in-all-the-ways isn’t back by then, I’ll reconsider my running over his motorcycle plan.

  This is exactly what I don’t need, and exactly what I do need.

  I’m not a hiker. I don’t have time to take out of my day to drive into the mountains and spend hours hiking. Most of the exercise I get is pulling patients in and out of a hospital bed. Occasionally, I’ll make time to head down to the gym after classes finish, but that’s rare.

  The fresh air and wildflowers covering each side of the trail make the hike worth it. I’ve never seen such bright shades of purple, yellow, and pink. I’ve never filled my lungs with the scent of pine. Never had my muscles burn as I climb my way up the mountain.

  For the most part, I focus on nothing. Just putting one foot in front of the other.

  Despite the pretty scenery, my thoughts always go back to planning my life. I’m going to get a job offer from the current hospital I’m doing clinicals at. I’ve done a great job so far. I only have a semester left of school before I graduate. I’ve been putting in my time. I’ll get the emergency room job I applied for. I just have to make what little money I have left from my savings last for a couple more months.

  I will survive. I always do. I just need to tweak my plan a little.

  This year was supposed to be about finding a man. A husband, even. I’m graduating from college. I’m ready to be in a serious relationship. But I might have to postpone that for another year or two. I don’t have any time to date. Not when I’m working all the time.

  A husband might be a lot of help. Especially if he’s rich. Even if he wasn’t, two incomes are better than one. My siblings don’t offer much support. A wealthy hubby would be perfect right about now.

  No, it’s not in the plan.

  My lungs burn as the oxygen up here is thin. My legs ache and throb. I glance up, and the top doesn’t look much further. I can make it. I’ve made it this far. Just a little further.

  Lies.

  I climb over the ridge, but it’s a false summit. I’ve heard about these. My life has given me plenty of experience. Just when I think I’ve gained some traction, everything I’ve gained gets wiped out, and I have to start all over again.

  I’m determined now, though. I won’t stop until I’ve reached the top of this mountain. I don’t know how long the trail is, or how high it goes. But nothing will stop me now.

  Forcing my legs to keep climbing holds my entire attention now. I can’t think about my family problems. I can’t think about the jackass who almost ran me over. All I think about is putting one foot in front of the other. Over and over. Until finally, I reach the top.

  Breathtakingly, beautiful.

  I’ve never seen anything like it. Gone are the wildflowers, replaced with expansive views. I see the top of dozens of mountains around me. And a small lake sits on top of the mountain. The water’s turquoise color is shimmering against the backdrop of the slope in front of me. A small snow patch scatters against the flawless grey rocks.

  I smile, really smile, at what I just did. I don’t have a clue how high I’m up. 10,000 feet? 12,000? Did I just climb a ”14er”? I don’t know. But I feel like I’m on top of the world. This was my Everest. And I beat it.

  I sit down on a rock on the edge of the water, wishing I had a water bottle and snack to enjoy along with the view. Several other hikers are relaxing around the lake, enjoying the fruits of their efforts. But I don’t see the man who caused me to be hiking in the first plac
e.

  Good, I might get to run over his bike after all.

  After resting my legs for a while, I decide it’s time to head back down. Should be much easier and faster than my way up.

  I’m so wrong. The rocks that were so enjoyable to hike up are now death traps. My shoes have no traction as I climb down their slick surfaces. The streams of water I walked over before now race with enough water to soak my feet as I step through them, drenching my shoes and socks. And the slick dirt causes my feet to slide with each step, making each movement exhausting.

  My thighs tremble. I used too much energy climbing, and have almost nothing left to climb down. I consider just rolling down the mountain, but with my luck, I’d probably roll off the path and plunge to my death.

  And don’t even get me started on my knees. I’ve never been in so much pain in my life. Each step stabs into my knees, making me grit my teeth with each step.

  I thought I understood the beauty of why people spend their free time hiking. Now I think it’s just because they like torturing themselves with pain and fear.

  I try to make my legs move faster. The faster I run, the faster I will be off this treacherous cliff.

  Faster is good. My momentum is carrying me down. I can do this.

  One more step and then another and then…

  “Fuck.”

  I’m not one to curse. I’ve probably sworn less than a dozen times in the last year. But the sharp pain I feel in my ankle, knee, and hip as I hit the ground is enough to warrant it. My ankle is hurt the worst; my hands grip it as I writhe in pain.

  “You should be careful. The rocks are slippery,” a boy, who looks to be about seven, says as he jumps over me wearing flip-flops.

  I frown. I’m sure his parents are with him, but right now I want to throw the kid off the cliff for his snide remarks.

  He disappears, and I do in fact see his father chase after him a second later. He doesn’t stop to see if I need help. This trail isn’t heavily trafficked, so apparently, I’m on my own at the top of Everest. I’ll probably die up here. Does it snow up here in the summertime? Will frostbite get me? Will a bear or mountain lion be my end? Or will I die slowly from starvation?