What I Hate About You
Автор
Autumn Ferris
Прочтений
744K
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Chapter 1
SUSAN
Laughter rolls across the floor like a wave, breaking against the edges of my concentration. I blink up from my computer screen, the glow still dancing across my glasses, and glance down the walkway past my cubicle. The sound is unmistakable—loud, male, and unfiltered.
My eyes find the source easily.
A cluster of men huddle around a desk, their shoulders shaking with amusement. The desk belongs to none other than Xavier Kama. Of course it does.
He’s standing now, laughing with the group, his hands gesturing in a way that leaves no doubt about the subject matter. Crude. Predictable. Testosterone-fueled nonsense.
I exhale sharply, push back from my desk, and smooth my hands over the front of my gray knee-length skirt. My blouse—a baby-blue V-neck—feels suddenly too soft for the mood I’m in.
I straighten my spine, snap my laptop closed, and slide it into my bag with more force than necessary.
I step out, heels clicking against the tile, and stride past them without hesitation.
“Could you playboys please keep it down?” I say, my voice clipped. “This is a workplace. Not a frat house. Though I’m sure you boys get that confused all the time.”
The laughter dies instantly. Silence stretches, thick and awkward.
I don’t look at them. I don’t need to. I can feel their eyes trailing me as I pass, their murmurs bubbling up again behind me—low, amused, and unbothered.
I reach the elevator, press the button, and wait. The doors slide open with a soft hiss, and I step inside.
I don’t need to turn around to know he’s followed me. I feel him before I see him.
Xavier leans against the wall, casual and smug, placing himself between me and the control panel. His arms cross over his chest, muscles straining against the seams of his button-up shirt. His amber eyes gleam with mischief.
“Hmm,” he says, his voice smooth. “I always knew you were sexually deprived, Susie Q, but I didn’t realize you were intimidated by the topic too.”
Narrowing my eyes, I step forward to lean past him and mash the button for the main floor. My shoulder brushes his chest. My hair slips from my shoulder, grazing his arm, and I catch it—the scent.
His scent.
Coconut. Palm tree. Something warm and coastal. It hits me like a memory I don’t want.
I close my eyes, inhale too deeply, and instantly regret it. My nerves spark like live wires, my pulse skipping in my throat. I straighten, step back, and fix my gaze on the elevator doors. “Must you always smell like a male whore at work, Xavier?”
He raises an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Really? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you liked what you smelled. You took your time standing back up. Not that I’m complaining. Faces disappear when asses are up.”
He pushes off the wall just as the elevator doors slide open. Hands in his pockets, he strolls out like he owns the building.
“Asshole,” I mutter, stomping past him.
I yank my phone from my pocket, thumbs flying as I message my sister.
Susan
Please tell me you’re free for lunch. I need a break. And a drink. Or possibly a shovel.
***
Mindy’s grin stretches wide as she leans forward, elbows resting on the edge of the café table, her iced tea sweating against the napkin she’s wrapped around it. She’s watching me like I’m her favorite soap opera and she’s already predicting the next scandal.
“So let me get this straight,” she says, stirring her drink with a lazy flick of her straw. “He smells like a man whore—your words—and you still remember the exact scent?”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the laugh that slips out. “It’s not like I want to remember. It’s just…strong. Coconut and palm trees. Like he bathed in a tropical vacation.”
Mindy raises her eyebrows, sipping slowly. “You claim to hate him,” she says, her voice light but pointed. “But you remember what cologne he wears. That’s not hate, Susan. That’s foreplay.”
I nearly choke on my water. “Seriously?!”
She nods, chuckling. “He followed you into the elevator and then leaned against the wall like he was posing for a calendar. He wants to rock your world, absolutely one hundred percent. And with the way you’re blushing right now…” She gestures toward my face with her straw. “I think you want to sample some of him too.”
I press a hand to my chest, feigning offense. “I most certainly do not. I mean, yes, he’s easy on the eyes. I’ll give him that. But the moment he opens his mouth? Instant attraction death. His personality is like industrial-grade pussy repellent.”
Mindy snorts, nearly spilling her drink. “Oh my God, Susan.”
“I’m serious,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “He’s all smug smirks and cocky one-liners. It’s like he thinks he’s God’s gift to women.”
“Well,” she says, setting her glass down and glancing at her watch, “you know how to fix that.”
I narrow my eyes. “Don’t.”
She grins, wicked and victorious. “Make him eat yours.”
My jaw drops as heat floods my face, crawling up my neck and into my ears. “Mindy!”
She’s already standing, tossing a few bills onto the check. “What can I say except you’re welcome, sis.” She winks, slings her purse over her shoulder, and skips off, leaving me red-faced and speechless in her wake.
I sit there for a moment, staring at my half-empty glass, trying to will the blush out of my cheeks. I knew what I was asking for when I messaged her. Mindy’s always been the bold one. The one who dives headfirst into chaos and somehow surfaces with perfect hair and a new story.
I’m not a prude. I’ve had sex. I’ve had relationships.
But I don’t do casual. I don’t do reckless. I have standards. Requirements. Like dating. Like trust. Like not being emotionally allergic to vulnerability.
Mindy’s had her wild episodes. She’s lived the one-night stands, the spontaneous road trips, and the “oops, I kissed a stranger” moments. But now she’s engaged to Greg, and they’re planning a Valentine’s Day wedding next year. She’s settled down. Mostly.
I glance at the time and sigh. I need to return to the office. Our boss is supposed to announce the assignment for the Valentine’s Day special today.
Two journalists, not just one. She told us that once the names are revealed, the rest of the details would follow.
And I already know what I’m hoping for.
And exactly what I’m dreading.
Because if Xavier Kama’s name ends up next to mine on that assignment list, I might truly have to borrow Mindy’s shovel.
