Loathe to Love You by Ali Hazelwood

Two


            Five months, two weeks ago

            I don’t have time for this.

            I am late for work. I have a meeting in half an hour. I have yet to brush my teeth and my hair.

            I really don’t have time for this.

            And yet, like the fool that I have grown to be, I give in to temptation. I slam the fridge door, turn around to lean against it, cross my arms as menacingly as I can, and stare at Liam across the expanse of the open-concept kitchen.

            “I know you have been using my coffee creamer.”

            It’s wasted energy. Because Liam just stands on the side of the island, as impassible as the granite of the countertop, calmly spreading butter on a piece of toast. He doesn’t fight back. He doesn’t look at me. He proceeds with his buttering, unbothered, and asks, “Have I?”

            “You’re not as stealthy as you think, buddy.” I give him my best glare. “And if this is some kind of intimidation tactic, it’s not working.”

            He nods. Still unbothered. “Have you informed the police?”

            “What?”

            He shrugs his stupid, broad shoulders. He is wearing a suit, because he is always wearing a suit. A charcoal three-piece that fits him perfectly—and yet not at all, because he really doesn’t have the evil-corporate-businessman physique. Maybe during his mandatory Kill the Earth training he interned as an oil rig driller? “This alleged theft of coffee creamer appears to distress you a lot. Have you told law enforcement?”

            Deep breaths. I need to take deep breaths. In D.C., murder can be punished with up to thirty years in prison. I know, because I looked it up the day after I moved in. Then again, a jury of my peers would never convict me—not if I laid out the horrors I’ve been subjected to in the past few weeks. They would surely rule Liam’s death as self-defense. They might even give me a trophy. “Liam, I’m trying here. Really trying to make this work. Do you ever stop and wonder if maybe you are being an asshole?”

            This time he does look up. His eyes are so cold, my entire body shivers. “I did try. Once. And right when I was on the verge of a breakthrough someone started blasting the Frozen soundtrack at full volume.”

            I flush. “I was cleaning my room. I had no idea you were home.”

            “Mmm.” He nods, and then does something I did not expect: he comes closer. He takes a few leisurely steps, making his way through the beautiful mix of ultramodern appliances and classic furniture of the kitchen until he’s towering over me. Staring down as though I’m an ant problem he thought he’d long gotten rid of. He smells like shampoo and expensive fabric, and he’s still holding the butter knife. Can you stab someone with that? I don’t know, but Liam Harding looks like he’d be able to murder someone (i.e., me) with a beach ball. “Isn’t your emotional-support creamer bad for the environment, Mara?” he asks, voice low and deep. “Think of the impact of ultraprocessed foods. The toxic ingredients. All that plastic.”

            He is so condescending, I could bite him. Instead I square my shoulders and step even closer. “I do something you’ve probably never heard of—it’s called recycling.”

            “Is that so?” He sets the knife on the counter and glances next to me, at the bins I installed after I moved in. They are overflowing, but only because I’ve been too busy to bring them to the center. And he knows it.

            “There’s no pickup in the neighborhood. But I plan to drive to the— What are you . . .” Liam’s hands close around my waist, his fingers so long, they meet both on my back and above my belly button. My brain stutters to a stop. What the hell is he—?

            He lifts me up till I’m hovering above the floor, then effortlessly moves me a few inches to the side of the refrigerator. Like I’m as light as an Amazon delivery box, the giant ones that for some reason have only a single stick of deodorant packed inside. I sputter as indignantly as I can, but he doesn’t pay any attention to me. Instead he sets me on my feet, opens the fridge, grabs a jar of raspberry compote, and murmurs, “Then you better get to it,” with one last long, intense look.

            He goes back to his toast, and I go back to not existing in his universe.

            Lovely.

            I growl my way out of the room, half flustered and all homicidal, still feeling the heels of his palms pressing into my skin. In his sleep. I swear I’m going to kill him in his damn sleep. When he least expects it. And then I’ll celebrate by throwing empty bottles of creamer at his corpse.