Hate to Love Read online

"A history?" I ask. "I'm not sure what you mean."

  "It's come to my attention the two of you have known each other for years. I consider that a conflict of interest that I should have been informed of."

  Panic rushes through me, and I feel my face flush. Not too long ago, I walked into this office thinking I was about to be fired because of how I talked to Shane, only to end up with him as my client. Now I'm right back in the same place – scared again. Only this time, it's because he thinks there's something unethical going on between us.

  And I haven't even gone shopping yet.

  "It’s nothing like that," I say. "I assure you."

  "So, the two of you didn't know each other before you met here?" Mr. Slidell asks.

  "Well," I say. "That's not exactly accurate, either."

  "Then what is it?"

  "Julie and I met more than ten years ago," Shane interjects. "We come from the same town in Virginia, and I went to school with her brother."

  I cringe when he says it, but I can't think about that now. We need to convince Mr. Slidell nothing is going on between us, or everything I've worked so hard for could go up in flames.

  "We only met one time," I tell Mr. Slidell, leaning toward him imploringly. "It was extremely brief. I don't even know if we exchanged words back then. I hadn’t seen or heard from him until we met again here. The past doesn't impact our professional relationship whatsoever."

  Mr. Slidell looks at both of us for several long seconds, before finally nodding.

  "Good. I'm relieved to hear that. Frankly, I've been impressed with how things are progressing so far, and very optimistic about the success of the project. And Shane, from what I hear from the coach and the owners, team morale is going up, your playing has improved, and the opinion of fans seems to be starting to shift as well."

  Now he gives us the compliments. The panic had to come first.

  "Thank you," I say. "We have some plans already in place for the next stage, and we're looking forward to seeing the results."

  When the meeting is over, I walk out on legs that feel reminiscent of the time I got four teeth pulled and caps put in when I was fifteen. Now I find myself wishing I had some anesthesia.

  I don't know if my heart can take the rest of the summer.

  One week later…

  The dark, anonymous feeling of the hotel bar always promotes unfortunate decision making. You're one person before you step in, but as soon as you're absorbed in the shadows, hushed whispers, and generic music, you become someone else – someone willing to do things your normal self would be ashamed of.

  I purposely got to the hotel well before I needed to, but now that I have finished my initial sweep, I have nothing to do before meeting up with Shane in half an hour. My only real option, other than lingering awkwardly in the lobby, is to hover awkwardly in the bar. I take a deep breath and head toward a seat at the black wooden bar that curves along one wall. The shape of the bar reminds me of a snake slithering away from the edge of the empty dance floor.

  "Can I get you something?" the bartender asks, placing a napkin in front of me in anticipation of a drink.

  I scan the rows of bottles reflected from the bar behind him.

  "Balvenie, neat," I say.

  The bartender looks me up and down as if evaluating my worthiness. He mindlessly wipes an old-fashioned glass with a white cloth, his movement slowing as he gazes at me.

  "With Diet Coke?" he asked, barely concealing the condescending tone behind the words.

  I narrow my eyes and tilt my head to look directly into his face.

  "Not necessary.”

  What a jerk.

  This style of whisky reminds me of my father. He always had a bottle tucked away on the bookshelf in the corner of the house's one spare bedroom. He called the corner his library, which always made us laugh considering the majority of the room was Mom’s sewing room. That bottle was a prized possession for him. Daddy rarely drank, but a glass of his Balvenie was a special treat when he was sitting in his big green chair reading, or visiting with friends. More often than not, he would pour his glass, hold it up to the light so I could see the color, and remind me that any bartender worth his salt could tell you the difference between whiskey with an 'e' and whisky without an 'e'. I’m sure, buried in there somewhere, was a life lesson he was trying to relay in his own fatherly fashion.

  Finally, the bartender nods once and turns toward the bottles. He selects the 3/4 filled bottle and pours the amber liquid into the glass he holds. Sitting in front of me, he steps back and watches me take my first sip. The rich, creamy liquor feels warm as it rolls across my tongue, sliding languidly down my throat. I relax with the luxurious feeling, appreciating each note in the drink.

  After appraising how I swirled the glass and watching me take another sip, the bartender nods again and turns away. I watch him reach for another glass sitting on a rubber drying mat beside the sink. I don't even know if it's actually wet, but he dries it anyway. Apparently, this bartender bobblehead takes his responsibilities very seriously.

  Moving around in my seat to turn my gaze to the dance floor, I notice another figure sitting on the opposite side of the bar. He's staring down at a pistachio in his hand like he's pondering the mysteries of the universe. I sigh. It's Shane. He's not supposed to be here yet, but there he is, a drink by his side. This doesn't strike me as a great way to start a night intended to further separate him from his partying image. At the same time, though, he's not being loud, and the drink by his side looks almost untouched. It makes me curious about what he's doing.

  I take another slow sip of my drink while watching him. I'm relying on the dark of the bar to conceal my staring, though I realize that if I can see him this clearly, he can likely see me just as well. Nothing seems amiss, and I wonder if he might have actually made a brilliant decision coming here, underscoring that he's living a totally normal life before he even enters the gala. A moment later, however, a woman in a dress that appears to be made of lime green and teal streamers steps in front of Shane, blocking my line of sight as she slams her hand down on the bar, cocking one hip to the side.

  Oh, perfect.

  "Hiya, gorgeous."

  The woman's voice rises above the music thumping around me, and I wonder just how many girly cocktails she slammed back before taking that walk up to Shane.

  "Hello," Shane responds.

  He doesn't sound thrilled about this woman's appearance beside him, but it doesn't appear to dissuade her.

  "What are you doing here all alone?"

  She appears to be at least 15 years older than him, and her peroxide blonde hair clashes with her leathered skin. As she leans in closer to him, Shane leans back. He's obviously cognizant that he is in public with many eyes on him, waiting to see his next move. It seems to have inspired him to not only rebuke the woman but also maneuver himself as far away from the rabid fangirl as possible without launching himself onto the dance floor. I can't help but be a little proud of him, but I’m mostly concerned about his ability to manage the rest of this situation tastefully. I look down into my glass, let the final sip of whisky glide down my throat, and step off my stool. Time to rescue the broken bird again.

  Chapter Nine

  Julie

  Leaving my empty glass behind at my place at the bar, I stride boldly toward the woman's back. As I approach, I can hear Number One Fan make a skin-crawlingly crude, albeit creative, comparison between the pistachios in the small bowl in front of Shane, and her anatomy. I straighten my shoulders, plastering on my best you're-sweet-as-pie-but-you-better-step-off-bitch smile. I'm not even sure I actually have one of those smiles in my repertoire, but I work with what I've got. I sidle up to Shane and glide one hand possessively across his chest. I try really hard to try and ignore how amazing his toned muscles feel against my hand as I attempt to wedge myself between the two of them. A fierce look of disgust contorts the woman's face.

  "I'm sorry, honey, but this one is already spoken for," I pu
rr, using everything I observed in the rich girls back home as inspiration as I keep my voice low and non-confrontational.

  Malibu Rum Barbie seems to be teetering right on the thin ledge between no-hard-feelings-let's-be-besties frat girl drunk and these-nails-were-made-for-clawing-and-that's-just-what-they'll-do drunk. I'm doing my best to keep her from tipping over to the wrong side. With any luck, she'll just teeter on away and pass out in a vibrantly colored ball somewhere safe. For the life of me, I can't understand why an organization would hold a fancy fundraising gala in a hotel with a bar like this. I wouldn't think the glitzy guest list for the gala would enjoy spending their evening in the same place as the people scattered throughout the bar.

  "Where'd you come from, bitch?" the woman finally responds.

  Her voice slurs as she puffs her impressive and barely covered chest toward me. It's obvious she's tipped over onto the wrong side of the drunk wall for a brief moment, but her eyes soften again as she looks at Shane. One orange hand digs around in the tiny purse dangling from her wrist and emerges with a room key. She holds it up in front of Shane's face over my shoulder.

  "Room 312. Just in case you change your mind."

  When Shane doesn't take the key, she places it on the bar and slides it toward him with her palm. I snatch the keycard as she turns to walk away.

  "Oh, honey," I say, almost cringing at myself as I say it. The woman turns back to me. "He won't be changing his mind." I tuck the keycard into the woman's cleavage and give it a tap for good measure, causing it to disappear behind the neckline of the dress. "I'll be the only one serving him any… pistachios any time soon."

  I flash another smile and turn back around, striding confidently back to Shane so I can position myself between the woman and him again. What the hell is wrong with me? I'm supposed to keep Shane from doing stupid things, and I just low-key threatened a woman and stuck a hotel keycard down her boobs. It must be the dress. Shane's credit card bought me a truly fabulous dress for tonight, and it seems to be warping my brain. Deciding I might as well run with it, and bring my alter ego out completely, I bring one hand up to slide my fingers along the curve of his strong, chiseled jaw.

  Shane

  I'm staring at Julie's blood red lips and can’t seem to pull myself away. When she first walked up, I barely recognized her. Her glasses are gone, allowing me to see her almond-shaped eyes better. They are the color of melted chocolate, accentuated by slightly more makeup than she usually wears. She's swept her hair up on the back of her head, revealing the graceful slope of her neck. Her gown, though, is what really takes my breath away. The black and silver bodice hugs tight around her waist and dips low over her breasts, putting her curves on full display before releasing into a skirt that pours like liquid silver over her hips and down to the floor. My skin tingles from where her fingertips brushed across my face. Now her hand sits on my shoulder, the other rested on her hip.

  "Is she coming back?" she whispers through her teeth.

  I glance over her shoulder to make sure my admirer has gone back to the shadowy realm from whence she came. I shake my head.

  "No," I say, my voice lower than I intend. "She went back to her friends."

  Julie lets out a breath, and I lift my hand to place it on her hip.

  "Good," she says. Her eyes meet mine, then narrow. "What are you doing here so early? I thought we were going to meet at seven thirty."

  "I know, but I didn't feel like sitting around anymore," I say, my hand falling away from her.

  "So, you came here to sit around? In a bar? Don't you think that's working against us a little considering some of what people have been saying about you?"

  "I'm just sitting here," I say defensively. "I'm not even talking to anyone. Besides, I don't see you having a problem coming in here."

  "I'm not the one who's trying to pull my image up from the depths of the abyss."

  "And you think going into possessive cat mode with a woman who comes up to talk to me is a great move for accomplishing that?"

  Julie is silent for a second.

  "That might have been a bad plan. It's this dress. It’s doing something to me."

  "It's a fucking phenomenal dress."

  Her eyes flicker to mine again.

  "Thank you. But the point is I didn't want to cause a scene with that woman. I haven't heard the best things about your success rate with women at bars."

  "Just for the record," I say, steering the conversation in another direction. "That," I point to the barely-touched glass in front of me. "Is a Roy Rogers."

  "A what?"

  "A Roy Rogers. It's like a Shirley Temple but with cola.”

  As the words come out of my mouth, I realize how absurd it sounds, but there's no way to shove them back in, so I just have to go with it.

  "So, you're telling me you came to a hotel bar to pregame a gala with a virgin rum and Coke?"

  "Yes. I thought since the whole getting drunk thing is a major component of the situation where I currently find myself, avoiding alcohol would be a good choice."

  This is sounding more ridiculous the longer I talk.

  Julie glances over her shoulder, then turns back to me sharply.

  "We need to get out of here. Right now."

  "Because I ordered a stupid drink?"

  "No. Come on, we need to go."

  "We weren't planning on getting to the gala for another twenty minutes."

  "Doesn't matter. We just need to go."

  "What's going on?"

  "Do you see that woman with the dark hair at the table in the back?" Julie asks, leaning her head slightly to indicate the direction of the table. "From the research I've been doing, I happen to know she's a gossip blogger. A truly nasty and endlessly creative gossip blogger. She might not have noticed you yet, but if she has, I'm positive she's been watching every second of what you've been doing since the moment you walked into the bar. If you don't want your Day-Glo friend over there to be labeled your longtime mistress and potential carrier of your love child by midnight, you need to make a very fast, but dignified exit.

  I look at the older, heavy-set woman, and notice she doesn't seem too interested in me at the moment. One hand, however, hovers close to what can only be a sleek camera sitting on the edge of the table. My stomach twists into a knot. I'm used to facing the reporters and bloggers who fill press conferences and swarm around the entrances to the locker room or the stadium. They can be insufferable enough. I haven't ever put much thought into the type of people who weave the twisted, lie-filled stories that have me on the edge of losing everything. Now, I'm looking directly at one, and I feel like I'm watching a scavenger preparing to pick apart whatever stumbles in front of her.

  "See," Julie says. "Right there. That's the face I don't want to see. That's the angry face I'm sure has come before many of your displays of less-than-desirable behavior."

  "What is she doing here, though? Does she just spend her life going around hoping she finds people to exploit?"

  "That's fairly accurate."

  "Why's she here tonight, though? Did she come for the convention or the gala?"

  "Convention?"

  "Yeah. I heard some of the staff talking about how stupid it was of the manager to allow both the fundraiser and the convention to book for the same weekend. Apparently, the events aren't exactly for the same circle of people."

  "To say the least. At least that solves that mystery. I'm still a little confused about the venue choice, but it's not my gala."

  I look back over at the blogger, and notice she is leaned close to a young man sitting in the booth beside her, whispering and occasionally tapping her fingernails on the wooden surface in front of her. Suddenly the man she's sitting next to lifts his head like a prairie dog who sensed the herd coming. He makes eye contact with me, his mouth opens slightly, and I see him start to pat the woman wildly on the leg.

  "Oh, shit, they saw me."

  "Yep. They definitely didn't know you were here. Come on."<
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  Julie starts through the bar, and I head after her, hearing the screech of tables being pushed out of the way, and my name shouted over the sound of the music in the bar as they come barreling after us.

  "This can't possibly be what you had in mind when you said coming here tonight would make me look like I'm living a normal life," I say as we dip around a corner into an empty hallway.

  "Yeah, that went all to hell. Now we're just trying to minimize what she's going to be able to say about you in her blog tomorrow. At least she didn't get any pictures."

  "What's her name?" I ask.

  "What?"

  "Her name. What's her name?"

  "The blogger?" She asks, leaning around for a quick glance around the corner.

  "Yes."

  "Edna Berry. Why?"

  "Just for future reference."

  "Again, not reassuring, Shane."

  "I'm not going to send a hitman for her, Julie. What exactly do you think of me?"

  "I never know." She looks around the corner again, then nods at me. "Alright. I think we're in the clear. I guess even she's not willing to play a game of hide-and-seek through a hotel to come up with a good story."

  "Let's go, then."

  Julie

  Well, this evening is off to a spectacular start. Taking almost an hour to get my contacts in should have given me a hint. I don't know what happened to me. It seems like as soon as I saw that woman approach Shane, all my logic and self-control vanished. I refuse to let myself think it had anything to do with jealousy.

  I'm hesitant to arrive at the gala so early, but as we approach, I notice a stream of people pouring inside. I withhold a gasp as I step into the sparkling ballroom and look around. I had expected something far more prim and proper than what I am seeing. In my mind, a fundraising gala would feature unobtrusive decor and pleasant, if generic, music providing the backdrop for elegantly-dressed men and women gliding around the room making uncomfortable small talk. Instead, I feel like we've walked into a surrealist painting. Suddenly the gown I thought might even be a touch too much for this type of event feels subdued and demure.