P.S. I Hate You

by Winter Renshaw

  “That almost makes me happy,” she says. “Not that you’re not speaking to your brother, but that you guys are normal.”

  “If normal means broken and fucked up, then yeah.”

  “Tell me something else,” she says, eyes wider as if we’re playing a game and this excites her. “What’s your biggest secret?”

  “Biggest secret?” I half laugh.

  “I won’t tell a soul,” she says, crossing her heart. And for some reason, I believe her.

  “All right,” I say, clearing my throat. “I don’t care if people like me.”

  Her expression falls. “That’s all you’ve got?”

  Shrugging, I nod.

  “How is that a secret? That’s more like a personality quirk,” she says.

  “It’s a secret because it’s my secret to success,” I say, point blank. “I don’t care if people like me.”

  “Sounds more like a defense mechanism than a secret to success.”

  “Did you just … read me?” I ask, silently accepting that she sort of has a point.

  Rowan laughs. “Yeah. I think I did.”

  “Tell me your biggest secret,” I turn the spotlight on her.

  “I hate being an Aldridge,” she says. “Growing up, I used to daydream that some nice, middle-class family from Omaha, Nebraska would pull up in their Dodge Caravan and haul me away to live a normal life with family dinners and barking dogs and a treehouse and public school.”

  “That’s adorable.”

  “Are you making fun of me?” she asks.

  “I just don’t understand running away from something,” I say. “When I don’t like something, I run toward it. I try and change it, change what I don’t like about it. Prove people wrong.”

  “Is that why you’re suddenly a relationship guy?” She uses air quotes.

  I hesitate. How someone who knows so little about me has me figured out so quickly blows my mind.

  She’s good, this one.

  Smart. Savvy. Doesn’t miss a thing.

  “Aren’t you just proving yourself wrong?” she asks. “Denying who you really are? Denying who you’ve always been?”

  I know she has a point, but I can’t tell her any of this is related to the campaign because her freakishly sharp brain will see through everything.

  “It’s more complicated than that,” I tell her. “Anyway, I’m tired of talking.”

  Leaning toward her, I cup her face and crush her busy lips with a claiming kiss before pulling her over top of me.

  “Keir?” she asks.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m hungry.” Her mouth lifts on one side. “Like for food. Not for …” her fingers circle my chest before trailing down my abs. “… this.”

  “Stay here.” I climb out of bed and head down the hall, grabbing our dinner plates and reheating our meals before carrying them to the bedroom. Eating in bed has never been my thing, nor has allowing a woman to sleep over in said bed, but I’ll make an exception.

  Just this once.

  And just for her.

  Because strangely enough, I kind of actually like being with her.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Rowan

  A sliver of light breaks through the curtains of Keir’s room, sending a shock of pain to my head when I come to. Lifting my hand to my temple, I pull in a deep breath and get my bearings.

  I shouldn’t have had so much wine last night, but we were having a nice time and I wasn’t thinking about how I was going to feel come morning.

  In fact, I wasn’t thinking about anything.

  I was just … enjoying myself. Living in the moment, something I don’t do nearly enough.

  Slipping one foot off the bed, I gather a bedsheet off the floor and attempt to wrap it around my body in the dark. I suppose it seems silly to be so modest after having sex not once but twice last night, but my head is pounding and I need a break from being some objectified little sex toy.

  There’s a time and place for that, and right now I just want to go home, brush my teeth, and take a shower.

  “Where you going?” Keir’s groggy voice fills the dark room, followed by his outstretched arm as he hooks it around my waist and pulls me back against him.

  “Morning,” I say, trying to pry myself out of his hold.

  I don’t understand. I expected him to pretend to sleep as I snuck out. That’s what most guys do after a night like that.

  At least in my experience.

  Date … dinner … sex … see ya.

  For the entire evening, I gave him my undivided attention. I pretended I found him fascinating and magical and enthralling—and I’ll admit he’s more interesting than I gave him credit for—and I hurled invasive question after invasive question at him, trying to take our conversations as deep as he would allow, which would turn most guys off.

  Now that I think about it, he never pushed back.

  Not once.

  I’m going too easy on him.

  “Trying to sneak out?” he asks, rubbing his eyes as his full mouth pulls into a tight half smirk.

  “Actually, I was going to surprise you with breakfast in bed.” It’s a lousy lie, but I have to think on my feet going off basically no sleep, and I’m trying to scare him off by saying the kinds of things a clingy insta-girlfriend might say.

  “What are you making?” he asks, calling my bluff.

  What …?

  Where’s his excuse? He should be saying he has somewhere to be or he’s meeting someone else for breakfast.

  “Pancakes,” I say. “Eggs. You have those, right?”

  “I have everything,” he says.

  Damn it.

  “Perfect.” I force a smile and try to remember where most of my clothes are. “Care if I borrow a shirt? I don’t want to cook in my dress.”

  “Middle drawer, left side.” He points to a large chest of drawers across the room.

  “Thanks, babe.” My back is to him, so he can’t see me cringing when I call him “babe.”

  “Anytime, sweet cheeks.”

  I almost choke on my spit. Keir Montgomery is absolutely not the kind of man who doles out pet names for the women he screws.

  What is this madness?

  It’s like we’re playing a game of chess and he’s copying every move I make.

  I don’t understand …

  Grabbing a white cotton t-shirt from his drawer, I tug it over my head and pull at the hem. It falls just pass my ass.

  “How do I look?” I prance around his dark room, playing the part of “cute girlfriend.”

  “Adorable.” Keir sits up, runs his fingers through his messy dark hair, then stands.

  God, he’s beautiful.

  A work of art.

  Truly.

  “Okay, I’ll just be in the kitchen …” I point toward the door. “By the way, what did you want to do after breakfast?”

  That ought to scare him. No man wants to spend his entire Saturday with a stage five clinger.

  He drags his palm across his five o’clock shadow, glancing across the room as his brows narrow. “Hadn’t thought about it. What are you up for?”

  No!

  Why isn’t this working?

  “I just want to spend the day with you,” I say, lashes fluttering and all. “I don’t care what we do. You pick.”

  “I have some ideas. How about I surprise you?”

  “Perfect. I’ll just need to run home and grab a change of clothes.”

  “No need.” He grabs his phone off the nightstand, pulling up one of his contacts before handing it over. “Text my concierge your sizes and what you want. She’ll run to Saks. You’ll have everything you need within the hour.”

  I’m stuck.

  There’s no way to get out of this.

  “That’s … really kind of you,” I say, holding his phone. He called my bluff yet again. I have to text this person now. Smiling, I tap out my sizes and requests on his screen, then press ‘send’ and give it back. “Thank
you.”

  Keir wraps his hand around the back of my neck, pulling me close and pressing his mouth against my forehead.

  “Looking forward to breakfast,” he says. “And spending the day with you.”

  He turns, heading to the bathroom, and I stand frozen, dumbfounded.

  What the hell just happened?

  Chapter Twenty

  Keir

  Rowan emerges from my bathroom wrapped in my bathrobe and smelling like my soap. Her hair is wrapped in a towel on top of her head, and her skin is fresh and bright.

  I could eat her alive all over again, but I have to play the part of the doting boyfriend-to-be, which means this can’t be all about sex all the time.

  I need to actually pretend I like her … which is proving to be much easier than I anticipated.

  “Your clothes.” I place three bags from Saks Fifth Avenue on the bed before checking my watch. “We’re leaving in an hour.”

  Leaving my room, I close the door behind me and wait in the living room, which smells like remnants of this morning’s breakfast. I didn’t expect her to cook this morning, in fact I’d planned to order in, but she offered and right now, she’s getting anything she wants.

  I need to keep her happy. String her along.

  I announce my candidacy in exactly thirty days, and I want her by my side, smiling in photos and making me likable, relatable.

  “I’m ready.”

  I glance toward the hall to find Rowan standing there, hands shoved into the pockets of a brand-new pair of jeans, a white blouse hanging slightly off her shoulders, a small gold pendant on a dainty chain hanging just below her collarbone.

  Her hair is still slightly damp, growing wavy as it dries, and parted on one side. There’s not an ounce of makeup on her … but she might be the only woman I know who doesn’t need it.

  “I hope this is okay,” she says, spinning in a pair of pointy flats with little studs on them. She’s fresh-faced and looking like a girl-next-door “You didn’t tell me where we’re going so I just had her get me this …”

  “It’s perfect,” I say, rising and texting my driver. Gazing across the room, I study Rowan, losing my train of thought for a second.

  “What?” Her nose wrinkles.

  I refuse to tell her that I’m … kind of … sort of … looking forward to spending the day with her.

  “Nothing. Let’s go.” I take her by the hand and lead her out of my apartment, where my agents are waiting to escort us downstairs. I don’t let her go until she’s in the back of my Cadillac. When I climb beside her, I tell the driver, “Take us to Reagan.”

  “Reagan as in the airport?” she asks, brow lifted. “Are we flying somewhere?”

  “You’ll see when we get there.” I flash a half-smirk and take her hand, giving it a squeeze the way an affectionate boyfriend might.

  My driver heads toward the Washington Memorial Parkway and Rowan sits quietly beside me, checking her phone and turning every so often to tell me how excited she is to spend the day with me.

  It’s strange how quickly she flipped. I expected it to be gradual and to take a lot more work on my end, but maybe the whole “I don’t want to date anyone” things was an act, a defense mechanism of her own. Makes sense, seeing how she was recently scorned.

  Within twenty minutes, we arrive at Gravelly Point.

  “We’re plane spotting?” she asks, sitting up and unbuckling her seatbelt.

  “We are.”

  The driver kills the engine. One of my agents climbs out of the passenger seat in front while the others exit our tail car. When it’s all clear, they wave for us to exit.

  The park is moderately busy today, but my guys will keep the gawkers at bay. By the time we’re lying on the grass, feeling the rumble of the first plane, it’ll feel like it’s just the two of us.

  Slipping my hand around hers, I lead her to a grassy field surrounded by trees, blue sky, and the Washington Monument in the distance. We find a secluded area on a small hill next to a chain link fence, slightly away from the masses, and one of my agents hands me a flannel blanket from the back of his car.

  Spreading it out, I motion for Rowan to take a seat. “Have you ever done this before?”

  “I haven’t, but I’ve always wanted to.” She lowers herself to the ground, wrapping her arms around her knees as she glances up at me with sparkling blue eyes. “What are you waiting for, babe?”

  Babe.

  We’ve had sex a handful of times and now we’re on a nickname basis?

  Not my thing, but whatever.

  I’ll go with it because I have to.

  Taking the spot beside her, I lean back, resting my hands beneath my head and gazing up at a clear sky. The soft rumble of a plane in the distance cuts through the tranquil breeze. Rowan lies down beside me, resting her hand on my chest and her head on my shoulder, lashes fluttering as she gazes up at me.

  It’s a sweet moment, and if we were actual sweethearts, it’d be worthy of one of those ridiculously annoying couple selfies people post on Instagram with a dozen obnoxious hashtags.

  “Ready?” I ask her, pointing toward an orange and blue Southwest jet coming in for a landing. The sky above us begins to rumble, like manmade thunder, and my heart’s pace quickens. “There’s no other feeling like this, Rowan. I promise you that.”

  She situates herself flat on her back, head still resting on my shoulder, and peers up, watching and waiting. The quick snap of the plane’s landing gear precedes the brute force of wind that presses down on us as the sky darkens momentarily.

  My chest rumbles, my body reverberating.

  I feel it.

  I feel it all.

  The roar of the jet passes us, growing distant before it touches down several hundred feet away. Just like that, it’s quiet again.

  And so is she.

  “What’d you think?” I ask.

  Rowan’s hand is on her chest and she’s breathing fast. For a second, I wonder if she’s having an internal meltdown, but when her pink mouth curves, I’m relieved. I can’t deal with a freak out. I’m not good at comforting people.

  “That. Was. Amazing.” Her face is lit, eyes wide as she searches the sky for the next one. Rowan’s chest rises and falls in quick succession. “My heart is beating so fast right now. Here. Feel it.”

  Grabbing my hand, she places it over her galloping heart.

  “Intense, right?” I ask.

  “Now I know what I’ve been missing out on all these years,” she says. “How did you know about this place?”

  “When I was a kid,” I say, “and I was home for school breaks or holidays or whatever, sometimes my dad would travel to DC for work. He was a senator for many years and later a governor. Anyway, since we didn’t get to spend much time together, he’d let me tag along. And at night, after work, he’d take me here to feel the planes land. And he’d always say, ‘Keir, sometimes it’s okay to feel small. We all need a reminder every now and again that there are things much bigger, much more powerful than we are.’”

  “Wow.”

  “I never knew what he meant, not until I was much older,” I say. “Then one day, I realized what he meant. He was telling me to stay humble.”

  “And did you?” she asks. “Did you stay humble?”

  Sitting up, I bend my legs and prop my elbows on my knees, staring toward the fence, scoffing. “What do you think?”

  Rowan rises, scooting close and nudging me with her shoulder. “I wouldn’t call you humble.”

  She wouldn’t be wrong.

  “As a kid, all I cared about was spending time with my dad,” I say. “So I never really let his words sink in until it was too late.”

  “It’s never too late.”

  “I’m pretty far gone, don’t you think? I mean, I’m about as arrogant as they come.”

  Resting her chin on my arm, she hums. “I don’t know. I think deep down, beneath the expensive suits and the perfectly styled hair and the shiny shoes … there�
�s a man who wants to do good things, who has a good heart.”

  “Good” isn’t a word anyone’s ever used to describe me.

  Not even my own mother.

  “I don’t know about that,” I say.

  “You’ve done kind things for me. Helping my sister, bringing me ice cream,” she says. “You’re a good person. You might be a recovering man whore, but that doesn’t make you a bad person. Bad people hurt others. They’re selfish, and they don’t care how their actions affect anyone else. You’re not like that, Keir.”

  The rumble of a second plane readying to land grows louder, and I lie back down. I don’t want to talk about myself anymore, about my “good” heart.

  “Come on,” I tug on her blouse until she lies back down with me and we wait for the rumble and thunder and gush of wind that presses our bodies to the ground.

  My heart races again the second it passes, the belly of the plane feeling so close, like I could reach out and touch it even though it’s easily a hundred feet above.

  I could watch a million of these jets fly over and it would never get old.

  “How often do you come here?” she asks after the second plane passes.

  “It’s been a while,” I say. “Too long, really.”

  “What made you decide to bring me here?”

  I wasn’t planning to spend the day with her until she said she was making me breakfast. Realizing that I was beginning to have her right where I needed her, like a butterfly seconds from becoming trapped in my net but still just beyond my reach, I needed to keep it going. I didn’t want to lose the momentum.

  Truthfully, I don’t have a lot of “daytime appropriate” hobbies. I knew we wouldn’t be hungry for lunch after the breakfast she made. Not really into movies unless I’m watching them in the comfort of my own home, away from gawkers with cell phone cameras. Drinking in the early afternoon would earn me an insufferable lecture from Connor. My options were extremely limited.

  “You’re special, Rowan,” I say after a beat. “So I wanted to take you somewhere special.”

  My words taste like bullshit and lies.

  I don’t talk like this.

  I never even uttered this kind of sugary nonsense to my ex-fiancée, Serena. But I smile at Rowan. I do everything I can to make sure she believes that I’m this guy … this “good” guy falling hopelessly head over heels.