P.S. I Hate You

by Winter Renshaw

  Resting my head on my pillow, I glance down at my outfit. White shorts and a red striped Breton top, a carefully crafted New England-chic outfit intended not to invite curious stares from my mother when no one’s looking.

  I’m somewhere lost in thought when my phone vibrates in my pocket.

  Checking it, I suck in a startled breath when I find Keir’s name flashing across my screen.

  My thumb hovers over the answer button. He was so sweet last night, bringing over ice cream and popcorn and cracking jokes. And he seemed, for a moment, so down to earth.

  I spent most of the night wondering who the real Keir Montgomery was because the one sitting next to me didn’t match the one I’d read dozens of gossip articles about.

  The phone stops buzzing before I’ve had a chance to make my decision.

  It’s for the best, anyway.

  I don’t want to date him.

  I don’t want to date anybody.

  Chapter Ten

  Keir

  “She’s at the Beatrix Cafe on Lexington and Sixty-second,” Connor tells me Monday evening just past six o’clock. His voice plays over my speaker phone as I adjust my tie. I’m meeting him and some potential donor for dinner downtown around seven, and I need to look the part of a serious contender.

  “I’m getting ready for our dinner.”

  “Okay, but it’s not for an hour. Have your driver take you there.”

  “Dressed like this? In a suit and tie? That won’t be obvious.” Rowan didn’t answer when I called last night, and the more I think about it, the more I realize Connor was right: she did put me in the friend zone.

  Fuck.

  “I’m starting to think she’s not worth my time,” I say. “Beating a dead horse has never been my thing. Not when there are a million other options.”

  “But there’s only one Rowan Aldridge.” Connor exhales into the phone. “Just … go. It’s right down the street from you. Grab your security detail and go there. I’m told she’s dressed in navy blue, sitting at a table and reading something on her iPad.”

  My jaw flexes.

  A man can only take so many rejections before his ego begins to bruise … and I don’t even like this girl.

  I mean, sure she’s smart and gorgeous and amazing on paper, but with sex being off the table per Connor’s ridiculous rules, all of this work feels like it’s going to be fruitless.

  “Keir. Go.” Connor ends the call.

  If this makes me late for dinner, he better come up with a damn good excuse that doesn’t make me look like a jackass. This donor—a complete stranger—wants to give us millions to help secure my win. From what I hear, it has nothing to do with me and everything to do with his distaste of the Harringtons and everything they stand for.

  I’m not interested in petty drama, so I don’t think twice about it and I have no intention of asking either.

  Calling my driver and rounding up my security, I head downstairs.

  “Well this is awkward.” Rowan’s voice fills my ear when I walk past her table, pretending as if I didn’t notice her.

  Turning, I gaze around me until my eyes narrow on her and I pretend as though her face doesn’t instantly register.

  “Rowan. Hi.” My mouth pulls into a Prince Charming-worthy half-smile. “What are you doing here? And drinking coffee so late in the day?”

  She lifts her Styrofoam cup. “It’s decaf. And I’m just coming back from an interview. Just wanted to unwind.”

  Our conversation is friendly, which means it isn’t doing my purpose any favors.

  From the corner of my eye, I spot people looking our way, glancing over, lifting phones and whispering to one another, staff included.

  “Judging by the way everyone’s acting, I’m doubting you’re a regular here?” she asks.

  “I usually send my guys in to grab my coffee,” I lie. I don’t even drink coffee.

  She bites her lip to keep from smiling. This woman sees through me like cellophane, and that makes her the first on record.

  “So where’d you interview?” I ask. The longer I linger, the longer our chat, and the more likely we are to keep building this rapport and the less likely she is to ghost me altogether.

  “This nonprofit startup,” she says, acting like it’s not a big deal. “They’re based in DC but they’re looking to expand. I could work anywhere in the country. If they hire me.”

  “You want to leave DC?” It takes everything I have to keep the casual, pleasant expression on my face from falling.

  This is bad.

  This is really fucking bad.

  Then again, if she takes a job and leaves DC, Connor and his team will be forced to find me a replacement, and I imagine anyone else is going to be a thousand times easier to land than Rowan.

  “DC has nothing to offer me anymore,” she says, glancing down at her drink for a contemplative moment. “Or maybe I have nothing to offer it.”

  So not true.

  “Think you’ll get it?” I ask a more important question.

  She lifts one shoulder. “Anyone’s guess. I’ve got three other interviews this week.”

  “I didn’t realize you were looking for a job,” I say, especially given the fact that the write-up I was given on her clearly stated that she worked for her parents’ corporation, doing event planning and managing their schedules and appearances.

  Her head tilts. “It’s not really something I broadcast … I was working for my parents, but I turned my notice in a couple of weeks ago, and now here I am.”

  “That’s bold. Not looking before you leap.”

  Rowan smiles. “I’m ready for a change.”

  “Aren’t we all.” My eyes glide down her curved body when she isn’t looking. Though she’s dressed in a conservative navy pant suit with a white lace camisole underneath, I can’t help but imagine what she looks like under all of that. Her hair is straight, parted deep on one side, and when she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, a simple diamond stud flashes in the dim cafe lighting.

  Pure class.

  “So where are you headed?” she asks another friendly question.

  Ugh.

  “Meeting some people for dinner. What about you? What are you doing after this?”

  “You might be shocked to hear this … but I’m going home afterwards.” She laughs.

  I force myself to laugh and bite my tongue to keep from telling her how fucking lame she is.

  But at least she’s honest.

  Which is more than I’ve ever been able to say.

  “You want a ride home?” I ask. “It’s on my way. I mean, you could always take the metro …”

  Pulling in a long breath, she lifts her mug to her pink lips and finishes the last of her coffee. “Sure, Keir. But only because these heels are killing my feet.”

  Rowan winks. I smirk.

  My guys follow us to the car and I let her in first. We’re less than ten minutes in to our ride when she turns to me, studying my hands.

  “You didn’t get your coffee …” Her pretty face is cocked, brows meeting.

  “Guess I forgot.” I stare straight ahead.

  “You saw me. That’s why you came in,” she says, pointing her finger. She’s half laughing. I assume the other half of her is royally creeped out.

  I can’t blame her.

  “Boundaries, Montgomery, boundaries,” she says as the Escalade stops outside her building a few minutes later. Her tone holds a teasing quality, so at least there’s that.

  I climb out first, checking my watch as she follows and straightens her jacket.

  “Thanks for the ride.” She keeps a good distance from me. A safe distance.

  I might as well be in friend zone quicksand.

  There’s no saving this. I’m sinking hard. Fast.

  There’s nothing to so much as cling to to pull myself out of this.

  “Goodnight, Rowan.” I turn my back on the only woman who’s ever wanted nothing to do with me—wait, I take that bac
k. There was Camille, my brother’s wife, who thought I was him for a brief moment. She wanted nothing to do with me.

  Loading back in, I tell the driver to drive. As long as traffic holds, we should get to the restaurant with five minutes to spare.

  Texting Connor, he tells me he’s there at the table already. Our benefactor, a steel tycoon by the name of John Garrett, has yet to arrive. I tell him to order me a whiskey neat—double—and have it delivered promptly at five ‘til seven.

  Dinner with John and Connor goes as expected. I kiss his ass and Connor assures him our strategy is second to none. A victory is basically presumed at this point, and we haven’t even announced my candidacy yet. It’s a little overkill, if I’m being honest, but I let Connor do his thing. People trust him. He looks smart and educated in his thick glasses and expensive sweaters, and he uses big words mixed in with persuasive language. By the time we’re done, John offers to donate two million dollars.

  John cuts out early, claiming he has to pick his wife up from some wine function, and I’m left with Connor and an obnoxious pile of empty dishes our server has yet to clear.

  “So?” he asks, goofy grin on his face. “That went well, right?”

  I take a sip of my fourth whiskey of the night. My blood runs warm and slow, and maybe I should’ve stopped at two, but I needed to get my mind off Rowan and the unexpected sting of her rejection.

  I loathe stupid, time-wasting questions. “I’m going to go, so…”

  Rising, I slap some hundreds on the table and my guys edge in around us.

  “Wait, wait,” Connor says, rising as well. “Before you go, I forgot to tell you …” There’s a ridiculous grin on his face, like a middle school kid who’s just procured a juicy piece of gossip that I’m positive I won’t give two fucks about. “We found out who Rowan dated before.”

  Rolling my eyes, I ask, “And I’m supposed to care, why?”

  “Because it’s Hunter fucking Harrington,” he says, drawing out his words for lasting effect. His eyes are wild and lit. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

  I need to sit down for a second because the room is beginning to tilt.

  This changes things.

  Before I walked in here tonight, I was ready to be done with her, to demand someone else, or risk going it on my own against Connor’s advice.

  But now … dating my rival’s ex could mess with him a bit, maybe throw him off his game.

  Even if he was the one who dumped her, I know from experience that you still get a bit of a gut punch when you see her looking happy and loving on someone new.

  Rising back up a second later, I brace myself on the back of my chair.

  “Where are you going?” Connor asks, eyeing the tables around us full of watchful gazes. “And are you okay?”

  If he’s asking if I’m going to be stumbling out of here like a drunk idiot, I can assure him the answer is no. I can hold my liquor. I can walk a straight line and keep a straight face.

  “Seriously, Keir, where are you going?” he asks again. I’m sure he thinks I’m trashed and he’s worried I’m going to do something stupid and undo all his work before he’s even had a chance to really get started.

  “I’m going to Rowan’s,” I say.

  Game back on.

  And this time, I’m doing it my way.

  Chapter Eleven

  Rowan

  I’m hunched over the bathroom sink, washing the day off my face, when there’s a knock at my door. It’s half past nine, so I opt to ignore it. Sometimes those pizza places sneak into our building and leave flyers under our doors, and sometimes they knock to get our attention.

  Patting my face on a fluffy towel, I hear it again.

  And again.

  “Ugh.” Drying my hands, I pile my hair into a messy bun on top of my head and make my way to the door. Rising, I peek out to see who it is, not expecting to find Keir Montgomery on the other side. Yanking the door open, I rest a hand on one hip. “You’re trying wayyyy too hard. You know that, right?”

  “Do you want me to fuck you?” he asks. His eyes focus on mine, but he’s hunched over, his hand bracing himself against the frame of my door.

  “What?” I half-laugh.

  “Do you. Want me. To fuck you?” he asks, clear as day.

  My jaw falls. I wasn’t prepared for this. I’m wearing cotton granny panties and a holey t-shirt and this isn’t at all how I pictured it to be. Not to mention he’s clearly three sheets to the wind. I can smell a trace of expensive whiskey as he towers over me.

  “You’re drunk, Keir. Go home,” I say, trying to shut the door.

  He forces his way past me, and I don’t try to fight him. He’s at least six-two with a mountain of muscles that strain the fabric of his impeccable suit coat.

  “Not cool,” I say, holding my spot by the door and keeping it propped open. His agents stand outside in the hall. Always waiting, watching.

  I don’t think I could ever get used to that.

  Never being able to go anywhere alone.

  “Answer the question,” he says, almost slurring. “Do you want me to fuck you or not?”

  My jaw loosens. “I did … but that was last week. And you’re drunk. I highly doubt it would be enjoyable for me—in your current condition—if I’m being honest.”

  There’s a fire in his indigo irises. I’ve clearly offended him.

  Or challenged him.

  Not quite sure yet.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” he asks, striding toward me like a man on a mission. His hand cups my jaw, the pad of this thumb grazing my lower lip. My arms fall, releasing the door, and it slams shut. “I can promise you, even if I were fucking comatose, I could still fuck you better than anyone else.”

  His words send an electric charge to my heart.

  This … this was what I came for that night at Goldsmith.

  This is who I wanted.

  The man whore, give-no-fucks Keir Montgomery. Someone who could make me feel it all, make me forget the outside world for just one uninhibited night.

  Before I met Hunter and when I was living overseas, I secretly enjoyed one-night stands. I was always safe and I always did my research on the men before agreeing to spend the night with them, but all that fun came to an end when my work brought me back to the States.

  I couldn’t get away with that kind of behavior, not in DC. For a big city, it certainly feels like a small town where everyone knows everyone and everyone talks about everyone. The last thing I needed was for the oldest Aldridge girl to be known as some promiscuous floozy.

  Imagining the wrath of Deborah and Douglas Aldridge was enough to persuade me to keep my dealings under wraps the second my feet were back on US soil. If they were ever to find out I wasn’t as “perfect” as they wanted the world to believe, they’d make my life a living hell, make me publicly apologize, and then, when it was all over, they’d write a book about me.

  I wish I were kidding.

  Anyway, it was a calculated risk going to Goldsmith that night, my body wrapped in a tight black dress, my cleavage up to my neck. One that almost paid off.

  I was so close to hitting the jackpot with Keir.

  So damn close.

  “Rowan,” Keir breathes my name. “You have no idea all the things I could do to you, all the ways I could make you feel.”

  My mouth runs dry and my heart sprints in my chest. He speaks clearer now, like the alcohol is wearing off by the second, flooded from his veins by sheer determination.

  His gaze falls to my mouth, and I find myself unable to move, utterly transfixed as I try and wrap my mind around what’s going on.

  “Give yourself to me,” he says. “One night, just like you wanted. And after this, I’ll never bother you again.”

  “You promise?” I ask the only question that matters, hoping the answer is the only one I want.

  Keir’s lips draw into a victorious half-smile. “I promise.”

  I barely breathe the word �
�okay” before I find my back against the wall, his body pressing against mine.

  Just like that, Keir’s hands are in my hair, his mouth claiming my mouth, his tongue flicking my tongue. His taste is whiskey and mint, his scent exotic and luxurious.

  My heart races and my thoughts disappear completely.

  He runs a hand down my side, stopping when he reaches the hem of my shirt. When he tears it over my head, I take a second to catch my breath before his mouth owns mine all over again.

  “Forgive the bra.” I smirk between kisses. “Wasn’t expecting company tonight.”

  The curve of Keir’s lips against my lips tells me not to worry about it.

  “It doesn’t fucking matter.” His thumb slips between the waistband of my cotton panties as he yanks them down my hips with a determined pull, exposing my aching sex. “Not like you’ll be wearing any of this much longer.”

  He lowers himself to his knees as he slides them down my bare thighs and tosses them to the side. A moment later, the wet slick of his tongue dragging across my seam nearly makes me lose my footing.

  Wasn’t expecting that.

  “Wider,” he says, kissing my pussy and the inside of my left leg before spreading my knees further apart. “I need to see all of you, Rowan.” Keir presses a finger inside me, his tongue returning to circle my clit. “Good fucking God, you taste incredible.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I tease.

  Keir stops, rising and cupping my jaw. His finger drags along my bottom lip before he slides it into my mouth.

  “You should know how good you taste,” he says.

  My tongue swirls around his finger, sampling the sweet musk of my own arousal.

  Our eyes hold for a single endless second before he kisses me. I taste myself again, this time on his tongue, and he releases a small groan before his hand cups my breast.

  “You’re so fucking hot,” he says. “You have no idea how hard it’s been for me to restrain myself every time I’m around you.”

  “I knew it was an act,” I breathe. “The whole reformed, good guy thing.”