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There is more to her story.
Her story is dark and twisted.
She’s not sunshine and rainbows and sprinkles and frosting and overwhelming privilege. That’s all a facade.
And with that kiss, despite how fuckin’ infuriated she makes me, despite that she’s full of secrets and frustration, I decided I wanted to know those secrets.
So much so that this morning, instead of going back to sleep, I spent far too long searching her name, researching her until the images started to blur on the screen.
Searches I have fought my hands to make late at night since she moved in.
Searches that lead me down rabbit holes, press photos of Lola in sleek dresses that show off her curves on the arm of her father.
Quotes about how proud she is of her father and how she’s devoted to his cause to whatever the fuck they were celebrating.
Each and every photo I found was of the well-off, privileged, dutiful daughter.
The Princess of Ocean View.
Including the press release her father’s office seemed to have sent out when Libby’s was announced.
“I’m thrilled to assist my daughter Lola in any and every way as she makes her own footprint on the boardwalk by bringing the people of Ocean View a taste of my late wife. Libby’s features recipes that Lola and her mother, Libby, created together before she tragically passed, and it’s an honor to have a hand in making sure her memory will live on.”
It’s clear her daddy did, in fact, help build her business.
I’m not sure why that makes me so angry, considering I once had an entire family business tied up in a bow, just waiting for me to take over.
Honestly, this whole situation is so fucked. I can’t stand her and her pink store and her stupid delicious cookies and her shitty fucking music and her annoying as fuck work hours.
But also, I’m man enough to see the truth.
She’s gorgeous. And she’s sweet. And, honestly, she means well. Each time she comes knocking for me to keep it down, it’s valid.
And she’s right to be pissed that I keep barging in on her place, expecting the same respect I’m not giving her.
But something in me wants to fuck with her, annoy her, get her as angry as she makes me. Something comes out in her when she does. Something I find irresistible.
In another world, another universe, she’d make a good match for me. Sunshine to my dark, sweet to my bitter. A pretty, kind thing to sit in my booth while I work, chat up my customers, cackle in the lobby with Hattie, drive me wild.
Except she’s clearly trouble.
I don’t need trouble.
I don’t know what that bruise on her wrist was, or why she was acting like a scared, cornered kitten. Whatever it is, it’s none of my business, and even more, it’s not my problem to solve. She made her own bed.
I’m not going to lie in it with her.
Even if I can’t get the vision of her shorts-wrapped ass out of my mind.
I shake my head, knocking the vision free before I answer Hat.
“What?”
“I told you. She’s donating something to the auction. Not sure what, though. You need to text her and get the listing so I can put it up on the site.”
“Why can’t you do it?” She smiles her devious cat-like smile that she only does when trying to make me miserable. The one she does when there’s a devious motivation behind her words.
“Because it’s your fundraiser, not mine.” I stare at her some more, knowing there’s another motivation.
