Page 30 of Hate You More

Her brows take a lower perch. “What kind . . . a photo?”

“One of you. And me. It did the rounds on social media.”

“An old one? Why would—”

That’s when I see the penny drop, but I’m already pulling out my phone. She takes it from my hand, but before she can get a good look, a loud voice cuts in from the other end of the bar.

“Aw, fuck! Gretch does have a type, and it’s pretty boys. Look—she’s givin’ him her number.”

“What’s the matter, Pete?” she asks without looking up. “You a little hormonal tonight? A little testy?”

His friends heckle, and Pete shrinks into himself, picking up his beer as though he could hide in it.

“My friend here is a surgeon,” she adds. “Maybe if you ask him nicely, he’ll graft you a better personality. Idiot,” she mutters under her breath. “This could be anyone.” Her gaze slices upward. “I know it has our names, but . . .” With a shrug, she hands the phone back.

“But it was us. And then there’s this.” I pass it back again, open to the platform Hannah prefers not to name, and the thread full of shit from financial influencers and so-called stock market gurus.

“Today’s social media posts are tomorrow’s metaphorical kitty litter,” she says, still unimpressed.

“How about an article in Bloomberg?”

“Stick it on a blimp, float it over Manhattan—Clara loves Troy. It doesn’t mean that it’s true.” Clara loves Troy, not the other way around.

“It meant something to the share price.”

“And it sometimes says Broadway on the buses, but they’re not all headed that way.”

“That’s true, though I kind of like the idea of a blimp. For advertising, I mean.” I join Pete and hide behind my beer.

“It doesn’t mean a thing,” she insists, slicing a blade of her hair behind her ear.

“But it could.” I don’t look at her as I set my glass down. “What time do you get off?”

One elegant and highly defined brow lifts. “Why do you want to know?”

“I have a proposition I’d like you to hear.”

Chapter 9

Clara

“Drink? Actually, I only have terrible coffee or water.”

What the hell was I thinking, bringing him here? Oh, I remember. He turned up in O’Rourke’s, looking like he stepped from a GQ shoot, took a seat at the bar, and said in that sexy voice of his, “What time do you get off?” While there were absolutely no sexual undertones, my ridiculous brain teleported me there anyway.

“Thanks, but I’m good,” he says, sliding off his jacket.

So good. My mind could take this many, many places. If I had less sense.

“Let me take that.” I reach for his jacket. I may live life in a dump, and I might likely be forced to move into an even bigger dump, but I still have manners. I hang it over the back of a stool, resolutely ignoring how the softness of his T-shirt highlights the shape of him.

“I have a proposition for you.”

I do not need to mentally fan myself as I drop my laundry bag on the countertop—a fun Saturday afternoon activity—and shrug out of my own jacket. The bag of gummy bears falls out of my pocket.

Be calm, I tell myself as I swipe it up. Just take a moment. Troy’s only here because he said “somewhere private,” and you very sensibly thought sitting alone in a darkened park with him was not the best idea. Mostly because I remember what happened between us in dark spaces.

At least my roommates are all out this evening. Must be nice to have a social life.