Dare You to Hate Me

It was the eyes that convinced me she wasn’t some sort of mirage. The honey tone is brighter than anything I’ve seen on anyone, even when she’s in a mood—something she’s been in since the day I approached her at Bea’s. That unique gold color told me all I needed to about the girl I’d missed for too damn long.

His eyebrows dart up. “No shit? How long has it been?”

“Too long.” My jaw ticks, not wanting to think about what she said. “She left when she was sixteen. I’ll leave it at that. The past doesn’t matter. We’ve somehow landed in the same town, at the same college, and trust me when I say that shit shouldn’t have happened.”

I think of the scars.

“But it did,” he says slowly, knowing the reason I got hauled here.

I got distracted.

I let people under my skin.

I forgot what I wanted most.

And Ivy? She went through shit I can’t even pretend to imagine.

“But it did,” I confirm, cementing an old belief that things happen for a reason. Dad always tells me there’s no such thing as coincidences in life.

“DJ said you asked him to keep an eye on her in class,” he remarks.

My chin dips. “It’s not like I’m asking anyone to follow her around. Only to let me know if something goes on. She’s been through a lot, man. She doesn’t need anything else happening. If I can make things easier for her here while I’m around, then I’ll do it.”

“Does she know about the combine? That this is your last semester here?”

A dark feeling rises inside me. “No.”

He reads my mood and grabs my shoulder. “I’ve got your back. So does DJ, even if he’s a flirt. If anything goes down at the house, you’ll be the first to know.” Looking away, he sighs again and glances at a group of girls giggling and waving as they pass us. “Those girls at the house can be real bitches. Raine hates most of them, but it’s a place to live. I imagine it’s how Ivy feels too since Lindon doesn’t have a lot of off-campus housing.”

I don’t confirm or deny my agreement.

When we part ways, I’m left sitting in my truck knowing I should go home. Instead, I find myself driving toward the bakery.

The younger girl who’s usually talking Ivy’s ear off sees me before my old friend does. It gives me time to check out Ivy’s curvy figure while her back is to me. Her long legs are wrapped in tight blue denim that’s formed to her hips and perky ass, and her arms are covered in sleeves that go well past her wrists for reasons I know well. I know that there’s a huge cupcake on the front with Bea’s written in big font across her chest and a bee buzzing around it. I’d be lying if I said one of the first things I noticed, beside her eyes, was anything other than how big her tits had gotten. Last time I’d seen her, a few guys at our high school had pointed out how they barely filled out her bra.

I’d punched one of the dickheads who’d made the comment and nearly got suspended. Mom scolded me when she got the call to pick me up, but quickly changed her tune when she found out I’d only hit him to defend Ivy.

Bea’s granddaughter catches me staring and grins, her cheeks turning pink when I shoot her an unashamed wink, and then bumps Ivy’s arm, tips her head toward me, and heads in the back to leave me alone with her.

When Chaos turns, surprise flickers across her face. “It’s not Sunday,” she blurts, wiping her hands off on her thighs.

I crack a grin. “I’m aware.”

She glances down at the floor, hesitates a moment, then walks over to the counter closest to me. “Did you want your usual? Or is that only your Sunday order?”

I can’t help but wonder if that’s an invitation to make dropping in at random a common occurrence. “I wouldn’t mind a coffee,” I admit. “Practice was rough, and I have homework to do still.”

She probably doesn’t care, but she at least pretends she does as she goes about preparing my regular. While she’s busy, I look around the empty bakery. “Slow day?”

“It’s usually slower this time of day.”

“Oh.”

We go silent again. The sound of liquid pouring into the cup is the only thing between us. I shift on my feet, slide my hands in my pockets and watch her pour in my shots of milk.

Eventually, I say, “How has your day been?”

She pauses what she’s doing for a moment to glance over her shoulder at me, the colored hair falling down her back, then puts the lid of the cup and walks back to the counter. “It’s been fine. Do you want anything else? Bagel?”