Page 8 of The Do-Over Girl

KALI

“You’re so… arrogant. I’m so over you that I sure as hell never wanted to have to see your insufferable face ever again.” I swear I mean it. Anger boils my blood so hot I could spit flames—or I wish I could.

“There you go again, making declarations about never. Didn’t I warn you about never being a very long time, Lol—”

Smack. The sound of my hand slapping the skin of his face startles me, and my hand stings like a bitch—almost as much as my guilty conscience. But before a shameful blush can show on my face, I leave my boxes and flee inside the house.

Charline is in the entry hall, and I pass by her, not meeting her eyes, heading blindly up the stairs. I can’t believe I humiliated myself again. Closing the door behind me, I’m careful not to slam it, trying to impose self-control as I sit on the bed in my new room that will be home for the rest of the school year. My breathing comes too rapidly, and I slow down, wondering why the hell my heart should be beating so fast as if Nash means something to me.

I’m over him and have been for a long time. Right?

If that were true, Lollipop, then I wouldn’t have slapped him, wouldn’t have gotten so angry at him using my old pet name, now would I?

Shit. Seeing him is stirring up all kinds of unresolved anger—not feelings. If we clear the air, all will be settled; I just know it.

There’s a solid rap on the door, and I bounce from my bed, crossing the spacious room to pull the door open.

Nash stands there with my boxes. The jerk has a big stupid smirk on his face like something’s funny—something like me losing my cool. Of course, he’s the kind of asshole who would be the opposite of gracious about it.

“Drop the boxes anywhere and leave,” I say. Then I remember I really did lose my cool. “I’m sorry I slapped you.”

“No, you’re not. But don’t worry about it. Your slap is the most action I’ve gotten in a while, since I officially retired from hockey.” He stacks the boxes on the floor along one wall and straightens while I watch the outline of his bunched muscles as they work under the confines of his skintight shirt.

A small smile tugs at my mouth, and I remember I’m a professional thirty-four-year-old woman and ought to act like one. “I’m sure you have no problem getting all the action you want.” I pause a beat, and he stands, not moving from my room. “How about if we go downstairs and talk? Charline said dinner is at six.”

There’s no time like the present to clear the air and get my anger out of the way so we can work together civilly—especially since it appears he’s staying at the inn, too.

“What a coincidence that we’re both staying here,” he says as he follows me back downstairs.

I snort.

Yeah, I’ll definitely have to put up with him and behave civilly, but that doesn’t mean I’ll change my opinion of him because he’s still a jerk. Luckily, I’ve worked with jerks before. When we reach the bottom of the stairs, I gesture toward the charming parlor filled with furniture that looks like he might crush it if he sits in it, but he follows along, and we sit facing each other on opposite couches separated by a fragile coffee table.

“What are you doing back in Andrews Point, Nash? And don’t tell me it’s to save the school—"

“I’m here because playing hockey is over for me, whether I’m ready or not. I need somewhere to be while I figure out what I’m going to do with the rest of my life, and Archie, well, he’s a true friend. He gave me a lifeline.”

“I’m in the same boat,” I say without thinking, automatically responding to the pain underneath his casual tone.

“You recently blew out your shoulder and were forced to retire from playing hockey?”

I snort a laugh and then immediately cover my mouth with my hand as if I’ve done something wrong, violated some rule that says I can’t laugh at someone when I’m angry with them and think they’re a vile human being with no chance for redemption.

Or maybe I’m not supposed to laugh at someone’s misfortune because that’s what it is. But I’m supposed to be venting my anger, and it’s still in there. “I’m sorry your misfortune forced you back to Andrews Point to slum with the rest of us—”

“Me? You’re the one who’s never come back here, Miss New York City. I came back for the reunion.”

Was I mistaken, or was there a bite of hurt in his accusation? Wouldn’t that be rich?

“You mean I didn’t come back for the triumphant dedication of the arena to the great Nash Lewis?” I want to scoff and say more because I need to vent my anger, get it all out of me in the open air and be rid of it so we can move on, but Charline comes around the corner with a big smile and a plate of cookies to interrupt us, forcing me into a politeness I don’t feel, a thin sheen of civility that barely covers the feral hatred that’s seeping to the surface.

This can’t be healthy. Seeing Nash—living in the same dam house with him—can’t be healthy. What happened to my normally pleasant and happy self? My sense of humor? Hell, what the fuck happened to my brain?

“Tollhouse cookie, anyone?” Charline looks between us, holding the plate, her expectant smile not diminishing one bit as we both remain silent for a couple of beats. For my part, I need a few breaths to get my racing heart under control and to beat back my anger.

I’m not sure what Nash’s problem is because I know for a fact he loves cookies—all sweets—and by rights, he should be all over that plate like a jackal, should have grabbed a handful of those cookies and scarfed one down by now.

He pushes his hands through his hair. My arms are crossed over my chest. He turns his glare from me and softens his expression as he faces Charline.