P.S. I Hate You

by Winter Renshaw

  “Are you done yet?”

  “Yes.” He rolls his eyes, sliding a folder across the island toward me. I didn’t even see it there a second ago. “Just dropping off the TV schedule. Take a look and let me know if you want anything changed. There’s also a copy of the press releases and a list of which papers and which dates and all of that.”

  With that, Connor gets out of my hair, and I place the folder aside. I’ll look at it later.

  Exhaling, I know I have to tell Rowan about the campaign. And it has to be today.

  I just hope it doesn’t change anything.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Rowan

  “What are you doing here?” The second I step off my elevator, I find Hunter standing in front of my apartment door, a bouquet of flowers wrapped in brown paper tucked under one arm.

  “I was hoping we could talk for a second?”

  He moves aside and I slip my key into the lock. All I wanted was to come home and throw some clothes in the wash and call Spencer to turn down the job. The last thing I expected was to come home to … this.

  Opening the door, I turn to him. “There’s really nothing for us to talk about.”

  “I tried to be coldhearted,” he says, ignoring me. “I tried to move on, to tell myself my feelings for you meant nothing, that what we had was casual. Every time I was with Mary Kate, all I could think about was how badly I wanted to be with you instead.”

  Placing my hand over my heart, I shake my head in feigned sympathy. “You poor thing. Must have been awful.”

  “Rowan, I’m being serious here.” His dark brows meet.

  “I’m really busy. I can’t do this.” I step inside my apartment, turning to close the door, but he pushes past, letting himself in. “Okay, you can’t do that.”

  “Two minutes,” he says, green eyes dull and weary. He looks like shit, bags under his eyes and the faint stench of alcohol wafting from his breath. Looks like he hasn’t run a comb through his hair in over twenty-four hours.

  “Why should I give you two minutes of my time?” I rest my hands on my hips. “You’re standing here feeling sorry for yourself and quite frankly, I couldn’t care less. You did this. You caused your own pain. You let me go. You walked away from what we had. And because of that, I’ve moved on. I’ve fallen in love with someone new. I’m over you, over us. I don’t even think about you anymore, Hunter. In fact, I’m starting to forget why it was I was so crazy for you in the first place.”

  “You don’t love him,” he says, lips pressed flat as he forces a hard breath through his nose. “Let me guess, he’s been so good to you, everything you could ask for? The perfect boyfriend? Waiting hand and foot and making you think you’re the most incredible woman he’s ever known?”

  Yes …

  “Guess what, Row?” he says, half laughing. “The asshole is using you.”

  “Using me for what?” I laugh. His accusation is preposterous.

  “His senate campaign. What else?”

  Taking a step back, I narrow my gaze and shake my head.

  Keir hasn’t mentioned a single word about a campaign. He would’ve said something. That’s not the kind of thing you casually forget to mention.

  “Why do you think that man whore is suddenly so reformed? So interested in you, Rowan? Your parents were one of the biggest private donors to the Montgomerys’ last two presidential campaigns. An endorsement from them would give him a huge advantage. Not to mention, he needs a pretty little thing by his side to make people forget all about his philandering past.”

  I don’t want to believe Hunter.

  But his allegations make sense …

  “You’re lying,” I say.

  “Here.” Hunter pulls his phone from his back pocket, tapping the screen with quick precision before handing it over. “Read this.”

  The browser lands on a Washington Post article.

  The headline knocks the wind out of me.

  KEIR MONTGOMERY TO RUN FOR SENATE IN MARYLAND’S 29TH DISTRICT

  I don’t need to read the article. The headline tells me everything I need to know … except for the reason he’d keep this from me.

  “I don’t understand …” My voice tapers.

  “What don’t you understand?” Hunter wears a satisfied smirk, yet there’s still a hint of desperation in his tone. “He used you. He lied to you. He doesn’t care about you, Rowan. He’s only pretending to.”

  My eyes burn.

  This morning I was so sure I was making the right decision, so convinced we had something special, meaningful.

  “You need to leave,” I say.

  I need to be alone. I need to wrap my head around all of this, figure out what it means.

  “Rowan—”

  Marching to the door, I yank it open. Hunter hesitates for a moment before finally walking toward the hall.

  “If you need me,” he says. “You have my number. I’m here for you, Row. And I always will be.”

  Slamming the door in his face, I secure the locks before spreading myself across the sofa. Staring at the ceiling, I replay our entire relationship from the moment we met at Goldsmith to this morning, when he wrapped me in his arms and told me how happy he was that I chose him.

  It felt so real.

  And I don’t want to believe Hunter, but what he says makes sense when I think about how quickly everything happened with Keir, how he didn’t budge or flinch no matter how crazy or clingy I got.

  It all makes sense now.

  He pretended it didn’t bother him because he needed to keep it going.

  He was using me all along.

  It was all an act, a ploy.

  Love had nothing to do with it.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Keir

  She’s not answering.

  It’s five in the afternoon, and I’ve been texting and calling Rowan for the past several hours. She left around seven this morning with the promise that she’d be back by the afternoon, but I can’t reach her.

  My stomach twists and my finger of Scotch rests untouched on the coaster beside me. The living room is filled with twilight and lamp light and the silence is taunting me.

  She should be here.

  Laughing. Rambling. Making a mess of my kitchen. Strutting around here like she owns the place, naked as the day she came.

  Instead she’s disappeared. None of my texts are showing as ‘read’ and her phone goes to voicemail every time I call.

  If someone saw us together last night at the gala and made her a target? I’d never forgive myself if I put her in harm’s way by making our relationship public so casually. I should’ve hired security for her. I should’ve sent one of my agents home with her. She would’ve protested, she would’ve scoffed, but at least she would’ve been safe.

  Dialing a couple of my agents, I tell them we’re going to her apartment, something I should’ve done hours ago. I send two of the others to search the city, stopping by her usual haunts and canvassing her neighborhood. If she’s not in town or at home, I’ll tell them to head to Potomac, to the Aldridge estate.

  Sinking back in my leather chair, I reach for my drink as I stare ahead at a lifeless fireplace.

  The vibration of my phone slices through the silence a moment later, and I swipe it off the table at warp speed.

  Only it isn’t her.

  It’s one of my agents who forwarded me a link to an article, asking if this might have had something to do with this.

  “The fuck.” I rise, pacing the living room as I read the candidacy announcement press release. It wasn’t supposed to come out for another week.

  And I was going to tell her tonight.

  Dialing Connor, I imagine my hands clenched around his short little neck until his shit brown eyes are bulging out from behind those ridiculous glasses he’s always fucking with.

  “Keir,” he answers on the fourth ring.

  “Why did The Post run my press release today? I thought we weren’t announcing until
next week?” My voice booms into the phone.

  “What are you talking about? I told you weeks ago we might have to move everything up,” he speaks slowly, like this isn’t a big deal. “I dropped the schedule off this morning. Didn’t you look at it?”

  Sinking back into my chair, I massage my temples, my jaw so tight it sends pain radiating down my neck and shoulders.

  “Don’t you think something as big as this deserves, oh, I don’t know … maybe more than a printed piece of paper shoved in a manilla folder left on my fucking counter?” I can’t look at him.

  He’s quiet.

  Drawing in a long breath, I say, “I hadn’t told Rowan yet. Apparently she saw the article this morning, and now she wants nothing to do with me. So congratulations, Connor. You’re officially worth your weight in shit.”

  “You said you were going to tell her today,” he says. “I had no idea they were going to run the story this early in the day.”

  I grit my teeth. Miscommunication is one of my absolute most detested pet peeves. It’s unacceptable and in this case, unforgivable.

  “You’re fired, effective immediately.”

  Connor begins to protest, but I end the call.

  Everything is ruined now.

  Everything.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Rowan

  “Mr. Calloway?” I ask when he answers Sunday evening. “Hi. Rowan Aldridge. Just calling to let you know I’d like to accept the position.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, Rowan.” There’s a smile in his voice. “Made me a little nervous when you said you needed two weeks to decide. Anyway, when can you start?”

  “Immediately.”

  “I’ve got a project starting up in Phoenix next month,” he says. “It’s smaller. It’d be a great way for you to get your feet wet. Of course, you’ll shadow me the first few weeks, but then we’ll ship you out and let you do your thing.”

  “That sounds amazing.” I smile despite the fact that he can’t see me, but inside I’m feeling everything, all at once. My emotions have been through a meat grinder today, everything mixing and combining, being pulled apart and smashed back together until most of them are no longer discernable.

  “Very excited to have you on board,” Mr. Calloway says. “Think you’ll be a great addition to the team.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  “Stop in first thing Monday. Nine AM. We’ll get you started with paperwork.”

  “See you then.” I end the call and lie back on my bed, checking my missed phone calls and voicemails and text messages. My phone’s been off since this morning. Cutting myself off from the world seemed like the best way to keep myself from calling Keir and biting his head off, saying the kinds of things I might someday regret.

  But just like Hunter, Keir isn’t worth it.

  My messages ding, one after another, as my phone updates. Most are from Keir, asking where I am and if I’m okay, telling me he’s worried about me.

  More like he’s worried about his campaign strategy falling apart.

  Checking my voices messages, I find one from Adeline, reminding me she’s in town for a few days and asking if I wanted to get together tonight.

  Shit. She left it hours ago, and I completely forgot she was coming.

  Three messages are from Keir.

  I delete them.

  The last thing I want to hear right now are more lies coming out of his mouth.

  Pulling up my contacts, I start to call Adeline back when my phone begins to ring.

  Him.

  It only takes half a second for me to press the red ‘decline’ button.

  He tries again, and once again, I decline his call.

  A second later a text fills my screen.

  “Rowan, I know you’re home. I’m standing outside your door,” he writes.

  My heart quickens. I’m going to be sick. In less than twelve hours, my life has morphed from a daydream fantasy to a living nightmare.

  Marching to the door, I peer out the peephole. Sure enough, he’s standing there, hands on his hips and brows furrowed.

  If he’s here to explain himself, to apologize, I’ll allow it. But I’m going to rip his head off when he’s done and send his sorry ass on his way.

  It’s only fair.

  Unlatching the chain, I yank the door open.

  His expression falls when he sees me, and I’m sure I look like a crazy person, my eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot, my hair all over the place, a scowl permanently etched on my face.

  “Rowan.” He shows himself inside, and I close the door, arms crossed tight across my chest.

  “If you’re just going to stand here and try to justify what you did, do me a favor and don’t waste your breath,” I say. “You have thirty seconds to apologize and then this … this bullshit, fake whatever the hell it was … it’s done.”

  He steps toward me, but I place my hand up.

  “Don’t,” I say. “Just … stay there.”

  His jaw flexes, and for a second he looks genuinely sorry, but for all I know it could be just another act.

  I don’t know what to believe with him anymore.

  Everything felt so real when all along it was nothing but fake.

  “Before I say anything,” he says. “There’s something I need to tell you. Something I was going to tell you today.”

  Lifting a brow, I wait.

  “I love you,” he says.

  I laugh. His words mean nothing to me.

  “You don’t have to believe me,” he says. “I don’t expect you to. But I wanted to say it while I still had the chance because you deserve to hear it. You deserve to know how I feel about you. And you deserve to hear the truth.”

  “How do you expect me to believe anything you say?”

  “I don’t,” he says. “Look, when I first heard about you, you were just a photograph, a one page write-up on a piece of paper that some college intern put together for my campaign strategist. I had every intention of using you to leverage my campaign.”

  His words sting, harder this time than before.

  My eyes fill with hot tears, but I blink them away, focusing on the floor because I can’t stand to look at him.

  “But somewhere in the middle of everything that was going on, I started to have feelings for you,” he continues. “I started to fall for you. I started to realize that if I were the settling-down type, you’d be the one I’d want to settle down with. You just … got me in a way no one else ever has.”

  “But when were you going to tell me about the campaign, Keir?”

  He’s quiet for a moment. “When I was certain you’d fallen just as hard for me as I’d fallen for you.”

  “So let me just get this straight. You wanted to make me fall in love with you, then spring the campaign on me knowing I wouldn’t be able to walk away from you by that point, and then make your little scheme seem like fate?”

  “Yes,” he says without pause.

  Our eyes meet.

  Hours earlier, his eyes brought me elation and comfort, hope and little cheap thrills.

  Now all they bring me is pain, confusion. Emptiness.

  “I was going to tell you today,” he says. “I had no idea my strategist had moved up the announcement. I hate that you found out before I had a chance to tell you myself. Can’t imagine how you must’ve felt, Rowan. I’m so sorry. Truly. Forgive me?”

  Shaking my head, I say, “I don’t do second chances, Keir. I never have. I’ve never seen the point in them. In my experience, people don’t change—even when they do everything in their power to make you believe they have.”

  Drawing in a breath of stale apartment air, I compose myself, remembering my mother’s old adage, “Just smile through it, darling.”

  “You should go,” I say, eyes averted.

  Keir says nothing.

  And within seconds, he’s gone from my life, a zero to sixty ending just like our zero to sixty beginning.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight<
br />
  Keir

  It isn’t over.

  As soon as Rowan calms down, she’ll be more receptive.

  She has to know what we had was real. How can she deny the intensity of what was going on between us? I felt it. I felt it all.

  And I feel it still.

  I love her.

  Striding through the lobby of Rowan’s apartment building, Bob the doorman flags me down.

  “Sir, I believe you dropped this earlier,” he says, holding up a Burberry scarf.

  “That isn’t mine.” I keep walking.

  “Oh.” He seems confused. “But you were here this morning, weren’t you? To see Ms. Aldridge?”

  I stop, turning toward him. “No.”

  His mouth presses flat. “My mistake then.”

  It only hits me a minute later when we’re driving through downtown DC—Hunter.

  Of course he would show up at Rowan’s door the morning after Mary Kate dumped him, and I’m sure he wasted no time showing her the article announcing my candidacy. Not to mention Hunter’s been wearing Burberry scarves since college. It all adds up.

  I’m going to kill him.

  Leaning forward, I tell my driver to head to Baltimore, and I grab my phone. If I can’t find his address myself, I can find someone to do it for me.

  “May I ask where we’re going, sir?” My driver grips the wheel of the Cadillac as he glances into the rearview.

  “I need to have a word with Hunter Harrington,” I tell him.

  “Forgive me for prying,” he says.

  I place my phone aside. My driver rarely speaks up, and I tend to forget he’s sitting there like a silent sponge, soaking up all my secrets and reserving judgement like the professional he is.

  “If by having a word, you mean … doing something that’s going to get you into trouble,” he says, “is there any chance I might be able to talk you out of it?”