Hate Notes

“Feel free to start looking around, or you can stay here in the foyer—whichever you prefer. Mr. Eastwood is just finishing up with his previous appointment and should be with you shortly.”

Apparently it took more than one person to show a fancy penthouse. Not only was Reed Eastwood somewhere in the vicinity but a hostess was also assigned to greet me and hand me a glossy booklet with information on the property.

“Thank you,” I said before she disappeared.

I stood in the foyer, clutching my kelly-green Kate Spade purse that I’d scored in the clearance section of T.J.Maxx and feeling like this might’ve been a very big mistake.

I had to remind myself why I was here. What did I have to lose? Absolutely nothing. My life was a mess, and at the very least, I could satisfy my curiosity about the author of the blue note and put this whole thing to rest. I just needed to know what had become of him—of them—and I would be on my merry way.

Thirty minutes later, I was still waiting. I could hear muffled talking on the other side of the space but hadn’t seen anyone emerge yet.

Then came the sound of footsteps echoing along the marble floor.

My heart beat faster, only to slow down again upon the sight of the hostess walking a wealthy-looking couple through the foyer and to the exit. No Reed Eastwood.

The woman, holding a tiny white dog, smiled at me before the three of them disappeared into the elevator.

Where is he?

For a moment, I wondered if he’d forgotten about me completely. It was so quiet. Was there a back exit? Even though I probably should have just stayed in the foyer, I decided to wander a bit and made my way into a grand library.

Dark, masculine wood lined the space. Open bookshelves covered every wall from floor to ceiling. Under my feet lay a Persian rug that likely cost more than I could make in an entire year.

The smell of old books was intoxicating. Meandering over to one of the shelves, I picked up the first one that caught my eye—The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain. I remembered hearing about this book in school years ago but couldn’t recall for the life of me what it was about.

“The first great American novel, depending on who you ask.”

My body shook at the sound of his deep, penetrating voice. It was the kind of voice that sliced right through you.

My hand over my chest, I turned around. “You scared me.”

“Did you think you were alone?”

I froze—absolutely froze—as I took him in. Reed Eastwood was as dark and intimidating as this room. One look, and my knees were shaking. He was even taller than I’d imagined, and he wore what I was certain had to be a dress shirt custom-tailored for him. It fit the curves of his chest like a glove. He also wore a bow tie and suspenders, which on anyone else might have been deemed nerdy. But on this man—on that muscular chest—they were incredibly sexy.

He just stood in the doorway, observing me and holding a folder. I thought that was kind of rude, but honestly, I had no experience in this scenario. Doesn’t a Realtor normally extend his hand to a client? Apologize for being late?

“Have you read it?” His voice once again vibrated through me.

“What?”

“The book you’re holding. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.”

“Oh. Um . . . I have. I think . . . yes, in school, years ago.”

Shivers ran through me as he approached, giving me a skeptical look as if he could see through my answer. That made me very uneasy. His eyes were like dark chocolate—the deepest shade of brown. As they scrolled once down the length of my body, my nipples hardened.

“What made you pick out that book in particular?”

Answering honestly, I said, “The spine.”

“The spine?”

“Yes. It’s black and red and coordinates very well with the room. It popped . . . stood out to me.”

His mouth curved into a slight, cynical smile, although he didn’t laugh. He seemed to be studying me. His intensity made me want to just run. Forget this whole crazy endeavor. He was nothing like I’d pictured, based on the sweetness of that blue note.

This was not what I’d signed up for.

“At least you’re honest, I suppose.” He tilted his head. “Right?”

I was sweating. “What?”

“Honest.”

He said it like he was challenging me.

I cleared my throat. “Yes.”

He inched closer and took the book from my grasp, his fingers brushing against mine. The slight touch felt electrifying. I couldn’t help checking his left hand for a wedding band; there was none.

“This was a controversial book in its time,” he said.

“Why was that, again?” Again. Like I ever knew the answer in the first place.

As I waited for his answer, I breathed in the rustic scent of his musk.

Reed ran his long fingers along the other books on the shelf, not looking at me as he spoke. “It’s a satirical account of the social atmosphere in the South just before the turn of the century, but the author’s take on racism and slavery is interpreted differently by many. Thus the controversy.” He finally faced me. “You were probably taught that in school when you weren’t paying attention.”

I swallowed.

First discovery about Reed Eastwood: condescending asshole.

Condescending asshole—who’s right. I hadn’t been paying attention.

He placed the book back on the shelf and looked at me. “Do you read?”

Every question came out of his mouth in a challenging way.

“No. I . . . used to read romance novels. But I got out of the habit.”

He cocked a mocking brow. “Romance novels?”

“Yes.”

“So tell me, Ms. Darling, how is it that someone who doesn’t read—aside from the occasional romance novel—comes to be interested in a penthouse property featuring a library that takes up twenty-five percent of the entire space?”

I said the first thing that came to mind—anything to avoid awkward silence with this man.

“I think the library adds character. Being surrounded by books is very sexy . . . cozy . . . I don’t know. There’s just something intriguing about it.”

God, that was a stupid answer.

He continued looking at me inquisitively, like he was expecting more. His gaze made me very uncomfortable, not only because he was so serious but also because he was so attractive. His dark hair was parted to the side, and unlike the rest of him, it wasn’t perfectly coiffed. He was also sporting three-day scruff on his chin. Reed had a dangerous energy about him that contradicted his proper attire. Something in his eyes told me he’d have no trouble bending me over and smacking my ass so hard that I’d feel it for days. At least, that’s where my mind went.

Being in the quiet of the library, coupled with the power of his stare, was making me tense.

He finally said, “Shall we tour the rest of the space?”

“Yes . . . please. That’s why I’m here.”

“Right,” he muttered.

I breathed a sigh of relief, grateful for the change of environment. The library had started to feel like a dungeon.

Reed was equally impressive from the back. Watching the curve of his ass move against his tailored pants, I tried to fight the sexual thoughts in my head.

He led me into the impressive kitchen. “We have mahogany floors. As you can see, it’s gourmet—designed with the chef in mind and recently renovated. Countertops are granite, center island is marble. Bosch stainless steel appliances. Everything is top-of-the-line. Cabinets are custom white lacquer. Do you cook, Ms. Darling?”

Straightening my black sheath dress, I said, “I do, on occasion, yes.”

“Great. Well, feel free to look around. You can let me know if you have any questions.”

Was he starting to act normal with me? My pulse began to calm down a bit.

I strolled around the massive kitchen, my heels clicking throughout the room. He leaned his muscular forearms against the center island, his body still as his eyes followed me. The break in his intensity had apparently been short-lived. It was back.

Forcing my eyes away from him, I nodded. “Very nice.”

“Questions?”

“No.”

“Ready to move on?”

“Yes.”

The next stop was the master suite. The room was dim, but the large window in the space that displayed a spectacular view of the city more than made up for that.

“This is the master suite. Take a moment to look inside the generous walk-in closet. The en suite bath features a steam shower, Jacuzzi tub, and marble floors. And as you can see, this room has the best view in the entire place.”

I took my time, looking at everything in a last-ditch effort to appear serious. He followed close behind me, which put my body on alert. I was highly sensitized to his sexuality, and I didn’t like it. This man was not nice. He was not Reed—or at least not the Reed I’d fantasized about. My Reed was supposed to give me renewed hope. This one was slowly sucking the life out of me.

Once we circled back into the main space of the bedroom, he looked at me. “Questions? Comments?”

I needed to just end this. Say something.

“I’m thinking . . . um . . . that this might be too much space for me.”

He sat down on the bed and crossed his arms, the ever-present folder still in his hand. “Too much space . . .”

“Yes. I’m thinking it might be a lot for just me. I . . . work a lot. And . . . won’t have time to enjoy it.”

He glared at me—like, full-on glared. “Oh, that’s right. The dog-surfing instruction.”

Dog what?

“Excuse me?”

He tapped the folder with his index finger. “Your occupation. You filled out the application and submitted all of your information. That job sounds very involved—dog surfing. How does one come to teach that?”

Oh shit.

What have I gotten myself into?

At this point, lying was simply easier than explaining the truth.

I started speaking out of my ass. “As you said . . . it’s very . . . involved. It takes . . . a lot of schooling. A lot of practice.”

“How does it work exactly?”

How does dog surfing work? Beats the hell out of me.

“You stand at the back of the board and . . . the dog stands on the front . . . and, um . . . he . . .” I lost my train of thought.

“Surfs.” The word came out in a laugh.

“Yes.”

Reed stood up from the bed and approached me. “So it pays well?”

Swallowing, I shook my head. “It doesn’t, no.”

His questions came faster.

“You have old money, then?”

“No.”

“If your occupation doesn’t allow you to afford a place like this, how do you plan on paying for it?”

“I have other ways . . .”

His stare became icy. “Really? Because your credit report says you don’t have ways. In fact, it pretty much says you don’t have a pot to piss in, Charlotte.” My name rolled off his tongue like an obscenity.

He took a piece of paper out of the folder and held it in front of my eyes.

“Where did you get that?” I hissed, snatching it from him. “You looked me up?”

His tone turned angrier. “Do you really think I’m going to show someone a twelve-million-dollar apartment without a background check? You can’t be that naive.”

Humiliation overwhelmed me. “But you can’t do a background check on me without my permission.”

His eyes narrowed. “You gave me permission when you clicked the box to submit your viewing application. What a surprise, that fact seems to escape you.”

I loosened my defenses in concession. “So you knew from the very beginning?”

“Of course I knew,” he spat. “Let’s look at some of the other things you can’t seem to remember entering on your application.”

Oh no.

Reed opened the folder. “Occupation: dog-surfing instructor. Hobbies and interests: dogs and surfing. Previous employment: night manager at Deez Nuts.” He tossed the folder aside—more like whipped it across the room. The contents went flying.

“Why are you here, Ms. Darling?”

I literally peed in my pants a little. “I just wanted to see . . .”

“See . . .” He gritted his bright-white teeth as he spoke.

“Yes. I came to see . . .” You. “And I wasn’t expecting you to be so mean.”

His laugh was angry. “Mean? You have no regard for the value of a person’s time, walk in here with a completely fake profile, and you’re calling me mean? I think you need to look in the mirror, Ms. Darling. Surprisingly enough, it seems that is your real name. Why you lied about everything else and gave your real name is beyond me, not to mention idiotic. So, no. If I were mean, I’d be calling security right now.”

Security?

I snapped.

How dare he go there? I’d only come to see him. To make sure he was okay, that they were okay. And while I couldn’t admit that, his turning this nasty really flipped a switch in me.

“Okay. You want to know the truth? I was curious. Curious about this place . . . curious about what seemed to be the complete opposite of the life I’ve been dealt lately. I wanted a change. I’ve been down in the dumps for weeks, so I got a little drunk one night. Looked online and found this listing—found you. I wanted to come see, not for malicious reasons, not to waste your time. I just wanted a little bit of hope that things might turn around someday. Maybe I wanted to pretend things aren’t as miserable as they really are. I don’t even remember entering that ridiculous information, okay? All I know is that I got a call confirming this appointment, and I took it, thinking maybe it was fate—that I should come and experience something out of the ordinary.”

Reed was silent. So I continued.

“And I do read, Reed. I was embarrassed to tell you the truth. I still read romance, but only the books with hard-core sex since I’m not getting any at the moment because I don’t trust anyone enough to let them near me after my fiancé cheated on me. So, yeah . . . I read, Reed. I read a lot. And I would use the shit out of that library, except the books on my shelves wouldn’t be anything you’d be able to display to stuffy prospective buyers.”

His mouth curved up a bit.

“And if you can throw it in a Crock-Pot, I can cook it. But I would never actually use that kitchen. It’s way too much. This bedroom, though? Absolutely. It would be a dream. Just like this whole experience. It’s all a dream, nothing I’ll ever really get to live. So sue me for being a dreamer, Eastwood.”

I stormed away, but not before tripping on the rug on my way out.