Make Me Hate You: A Best Friend's Brother Romance

by Kandi Steiner

  “Tired?”

  I shook my head.

  “Head hurt from the screens?”

  I shook my head again.

  “Bored and tired of sitting still?”

  My eyes widened, and I nodded emphatically, which earned me a chuckle and Tyler closing his laptop, too. He stood, abandoning his laptop in the empty chair between us and stretching his arms up to the sky, twisting his spine this way and that. My eyes wandered the length of him, smiling a little at how much he looked like a boy in that moment. He wore flannel sleep pants and a simple white t-shirt, his hair somewhat disheveled. It reminded me of winter weekends we’d spent with Morgan just lounging around the house, having movie marathons, playing games by the fire, never changing out of our pajamas.

  “Come on,” he said when he finished stretching. “Let’s take a walk.”

  I was still in the clothes I’d gone running in that morning — capri leggings and a tank top — and I reveled in the way the cool breeze coming off the lake slicked across my skin as we walked the edge of it. The Wagners had a little sliver of beach alongside their dock, and we walked the length of it before Tyler plopped himself down in the brown sand.

  I wrinkled my nose.

  “Oh, come on,” he said, patting the sand next to him. “It’ll wash off.”

  I didn’t know why that moment made me feel like I was on an adventure when, in reality, I was just in my childhood best friend’s backyard — but for some reason, I felt it. I had that same rush that I always did on the flight to a new place, or in the car on the way from the airport to check into a new bed and breakfast.

  It was a slow, constant rush, like that of a steady stream.

  The sand was cool and soft when I sat down, and I tucked my legs under me criss-crossed, my eyes on the lake as it glittered and waved. The sun was slowly setting, already hidden behind the thick trees of forest and the distant outline of the White Mountains. But there was enough golden light to flood the lake with an amber glow, and I sighed, closing my eyes and soaking it all in.

  “I love the way—”

  “Shhh.”

  I frowned, opening my eyes to shoot a glare at Tyler for shushing me.

  “No talking,” he reminded me.

  I huffed, and Tyler chuckled, shaking his head before he looked at me. “It kills you, doesn’t it? To be silent?”

  I shot lasers at him with my eyeballs.

  That made him laugh hard and deep in his chest. Then, he pulled his phone from his pocket and thumbed to the notes app in it, handing it to me.

  I stared at it a moment before cocking a brow at him.

  “You want to talk, so talk,” he said, nodding at the phone in my hand. “Just don’t use your voice.”

  Tyler’s eyes were a golden-brown in the evening light, a shade I hadn’t seen in years. I remembered it though. I remembered the way those little flecks of gold lit up when the sun was angled like this, from summer nights so long ago that they seemed like another lifetime.

  My fingers hovered over the keys on his smart phone, and suddenly, I didn’t know what to say. Yes, I wanted to talk, because, quite frankly, I really didn’t know how to be quiet. I mean, I started a podcast to listen to myself talk, for Christ’s sake.

  But what did I have to say to Tyler?

  I frowned, because there was a whole lot I could say, but none of it would be nice.

  And none of it would matter.

  So, instead, I aimed for the light and shallow, something to entertain the both of us. After all, we hadn’t talked since we were kids, and we’d spent an entire day locked inside in complete silence. Would it be so bad to just have a normal conversation?

  I typed in the note and passed the phone back to him.

  “How’s work?” Tyler read, chuckling as he handed the phone back to me. I figured starting there was easy, since it’d been what he brought up on the dock last night. “It’s fine. Work. Lots of boring numbers to most people.”

  Not boring to you, I typed out, showing him the screen.

  He smiled. “No, not to me. You know I’ve always been a nerd for this stuff.”

  Your teenage fanbase seems interested, too.

  “You can’t stop yourself from getting a jab in, can you?” He shook his head, but there was the hint of a smile on his lips. “Believe it or not, most of my followers are in the twenty-three to thirty-eight age range. And I like to think that, hopefully, at least half of them are people who are actually interested in learning more about their finances, as opposed to staring at my abs.”

  Why show them if you don’t want people to stare?

  At that, Tyler sighed, his eyes dancing over the lake. “I don’t know. I know it sounds like I’m a sell-out, and I guess in a way, I am. But… when I first started this channel, I just wanted to be different. You know? I work for my dad, in the same office he started out in, I have his same last name, and all this pressure hanging over me to be like him.” He swallowed. “That channel was mine. It was new and there was nothing else like it when I started it. When I started getting attention from blogs and magazines for being The Hot Money Guy, at first, I was pissed. But then, I saw all the new followers rolling in, the paid ads, and I figured… what the hell? Might as well embrace it.”

  I nodded at that, because as much as I made fun of him for it, I understood the choices he made. I’d made similar ones, myself. When you find out what images get the most attention, what videos get the most plays, what subjects get the most downloads, and maybe most importantly, what pays the bills — well, you wash, rinse, repeat.

  I’d never stopped to consider the pressure Tyler might be feeling from working with his dad, though. To me, Robert was the best parent anyone could ask for. He was smart, established, built a successful company from the ground up. He loved his kids, still made time to cook dinner even when he worked, and always made room for dad jokes. He took them on vacations, sent them to any summer camp they ever wanted to go to, and supported them in any sports or hobbies they wanted to pursue.

  He was perfect.

  At least, to me.

  Then again, I didn’t know who my father even was, let alone have any sort of relationship with him.

  What’s it like working for your dad? I asked next.

  Tyler read the question, letting out a long, slow exhale before he picked up a stick and started drawing little shapes in the sand at his feet. “I mean, what can I say? You know him as well as I do. He’s a great boss — not just to me, but to everyone.”

  He paused, and I typed out but…

  Tyler smiled at that. “But,” he said on a sigh. “I guess I just get in my head sometimes. I wonder if he’s proud of how I’ve strayed from advising the very affluent to focusing more on the everyday American and how they can stretch their dollars and make their money work more for them. It surely doesn’t pay as much, and I know in his mind, he wants me to take over everything when he’s ready to retire. But… I don’t know. I wonder if he doubts me, you know?” He looked at me then, the flecks of gold in his eyes bouncing as he looked back and forth between mine. “If he wonders whether my hands are steady enough to leave this company in.”

  I frowned — not just at his assessment, but by my own urge to reach for him in that moment. If I hadn’t been aware enough to stop myself, I would have already had my hand over his, squeezing, reassuring.

  Instead, I typed out a response on his phone.

  I don’t think he wonders at all. I think he’s proud of you.

  Tyler smiled at the message, but then his eyes were on the lake again.

  And I didn’t know why, but I found myself typing once more.

  I worry a lot, too. I love my podcast, but I never, ever expected it to become what it has, to be my only job, my only source of income. Right now, it’s lucrative — very much so. But, I’ve never seen money like this in my lifetime, and to be honest, I know I’m not handling it right. I blow way too much on travel and shopping, and I don’t even have an IRA or anyth
ing like that yet. So, just know that there are a lot of people out there who need videos like the ones you post. Like me. I paused, then added. Not that I have ever watched them.

  Tyler laughed at the last of my message, but his eyes were light and playful when they met mine. It felt… good — to talk to him, to not be at each other’s throats.

  It felt warm and comfortable and right.

  It felt the way it used to when we were younger.

  But the longer he stared at me, the more my mind played tricks. I blinked, and I saw the boy he used to be seven years ago. I blinked again, and I smelled the sweat on his skin, felt the rush of breath leaving his mouth and touching mine…

  I cleared my throat, shaking the memory loose before I handed him his phone back and looked out over the lake again.

  I was done talking.

  “How’s your throat feeling?” Tyler asked after a while.

  “Better,” I said, and before he could shush me, I held up a finger. “Hey, I needed to actually speak to see if it sounded any better.”

  He tilted his head. “And? What do you think?”

  I shrugged, holding up my hand and waving it side to side in a gesture that said it wasn’t as bad, but it wasn’t great, either.

  Tyler stood, brushing sand off his ass before he reached down a hand to help me up. “Come on,” he said. “I’ve got one last remedy in mind.”

  “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  Tyler widened his gaze, pointing at me with a warning. “Shh.”

  “I’m serious,” I argued, pointing to the bottle in his hand. “I’ve read up on this. It’s a myth that whiskey does anything to help sore throats or hoarseness.”

  “Shhhh.”

  “But I don’t—”

  In the next instant, Tyler turned, pressing his finger over my mouth before my next word made it free. And the notion shocked me still, my breaths locked in my chest, eyes crossing to look at his finger on my lips before they trailed up to meet his gaze.

  He smirked. “Stop. Talking.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him when he removed his finger, but sighed in surrender, plopping down on one of the bar stools at the kitchen island. I watched — silently — as he put hot water on to boil in a tea kettle, ready to mix it all together with the fresh lemon he’d sliced, bourbon, and honey.

  “I’m well aware that the experts say hot toddies don’t help a sore throat,” he said when he delivered said hot toddy in a steaming mug in front of me. “But, quite frankly — they’re wrong.”

  I rolled my eyes, but felt the smile tugging at my lips, anyway.

  “Mom’s Irish side of the family would definitely side with me. And anyway, even if it doesn’t help, the hot tea and whiskey combo will at the very least soothe you.”

  Tyler sat at the island next to me, propping his head up on an elbow. The tea was too hot to drink yet, but still, he watched me — waiting.

  It was silent in the house, save for the distant hum of the air conditioning.

  The same hum that reverberated through me the day Tyler kissed me in his room.

  It was sensory overload, being in the same house, smelling his familiar scent, hearing that same sound that I’d noticed just before he’d kissed me all those years ago. It shocked me to the core, how it all flooded back.

  I could almost feel his cool sheets when he lowered me into them.

  I could almost feel his hot hands snaking up between my thighs…

  My throat got even more dry at the memory, which seemed to be striking me over and over like a baseball bat the longer the day went on.

  I shook it off, reaching for the mug and holding it in my hands for warmth. I blew on the steam, knowing it wasn’t ready to drink yet, but not able to look at Tyler any longer.

  “You know,” he said when I took my first sip. “You’re kind of cute when you can’t talk.”

  I flipped him off to the tune of his deep-bellied chuckle, but then I smiled, too, my hands around the mug as I lifted it toward him in a gesture of thanks.

  “It’s good?”

  I nodded.

  “Nothing whiskey can’t fix.”

  I didn’t respond to that, just took another sip of the honey, lemon, whiskey brew and let it warm me from the inside out. I wasn’t hopeful that it would actually help — not after I’d read in several articles that it didn’t — but, to Tyler’s credit, it did feel good. It warmed my throat and soothed my soul, and I guessed that was enough to make me feel like it was worth something.

  The sun had finally set, and little lights clicked on from timers throughout the house. First, a lamp in the dining area, then a few more in the living room, one by one until the house was filled with a dim, warm light.

  “I can help you,” Tyler said after a long stint of quiet between us.

  I raised a brow.

  “With your finances,” he continued. “If you want. I can help you figure out investments and savings, get a little safety net going so you don’t feel like you’re just blowing your wad.”

  He smirked at that, and I rolled my eyes up so hard my eyelids fluttered.

  “Seriously, though,” he said. “I want to help.”

  I chewed my lip, watching him, trying to figure out what the stinging pain in my chest was trying to tell me.

  His phone was on the counter, and I reached for it, holding it to him to unlock. Once he did, I found the notes app, pulled it up, and nearly vomited when I wrote, Sometimes, I feel like a fraud.

  Tyler’s eyes traced the words several times before they found me, and I expected him to ask questions, to wonder how in the world I could possibly feel that way. How could I have millions of listeners, of followers, of people who looked to me for entertainment and advice every single day and still feel so insecure?

  But he didn’t ask.

  In fact, he looked at me in a way that told me he knew exactly what I felt.

  Because he felt it, too.

  After a moment, he nodded, looking at the sentence on his phone screen once more before he set it to the side. Then, he let out a slow breath, and scooted his stool a little closer to mine.

  In the next breath, his hands reached out to frame my face, and everything in my body froze.

  I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t blink. I couldn’t move away from his grasp or lean into it, though the urge to do both hit me in equal measure.

  All I could do was sit there, stiff and silent, as Tyler Wagner searched my eyes with his own, his thumbs smoothing over the skin of my jaw, his fingers curled at the back of my neck.

  He held me there for the longest time, studying me, not saying a word.

  Then, he leaned in on a breath, his forehead touching mine, and a shaky inhale slipped through my lips.

  “You are spectacular, Jasmine Olsen,” he whispered, his eyes closing as my chest split open. “Don’t ever forget that.”

  My heart pounded in my chest, in my ears, in my throat — pulsing so hard I felt it throbbing in every inch of my body. I still couldn’t catch a full breath, not even when he lifted his forehead, lifted his gaze, and especially not when his eyes were watching mine again.

  And then, the front door blew open, and a flurry of commotion came with it.

  “… to be fair, there is a very big difference between clementine and tangerine,” Morgan said somewhere in the foyer, and I heard the distinct laughter of her parents, and something mumbled in return by Oliver.

  In the same moment, Tyler’s phone buzzed on the kitchen counter — so loud and insistent that it made the device crawl like a bug.

  The name Azra indicated who the call was from, and my stomach dropped at the sight of her — of her long, black hair blowing in the breeze on the coast where she stood, her brown eyes wide and playful, her smile dazzling. She had eyebrows I would pay someone to tattoo on my face and still not be able to attain, and there was something sensual about her, something that felt like a hot summer night in a foreign country. On top of tan legs that stretched on
for days where they peeked out from the slit in her long, hot pink dress, it was painstakingly clear.

  She was absolutely gorgeous.

  And I’d wished I’d never had to see her.

  Tyler quickly released me, sniffing like he’d just realized what he’d done at the same time Jacob’s name echoed inside me as if I had done something wrong, too. And without another word or glance in my direction, Tyler swiped his phone off the counter, answered with a quiet, “Hey there, beautiful,” and snuck out the door that led from the kitchen to the back porch, leaving me alone at the island.

  I stared at the door he walked through with my heart hammering in my chest, with his words pricking my skin like tiny needles.

  “Jazzy!” Morgan said, sweeping into the room all smiles. She wrapped me in a fierce hug, shaking me side to side. “I brought you lobster bisque from the best place on the Cape! How are you feeling?”

  She appraised me when she pulled back, still holding me in her arms, and I tore my eyes from the back door to force a smile.

  Then, I held up my right thumb, giving her the sign that I was feeling better, knowing in my gut that I was anything but good in that moment.

  She clapped, hugged me again, and launched into all the details of her day.

  And outside, there was the distant sound of something splashing into the pool.

  Morgan was a tornado in human form.

  She had always been this way, ever since the first day I met her — which just so happened to be my first day at Bridgechester Prep High School. It was Tyler who’d approached me first, who’d watched me from afar in the halls all morning and then made his way over to me, asking if I wanted to sit with him at lunch, asking who I was, where I’d come from.

  Seeing me.

  Sometimes, I dreamed about that day, and in such vivid detail that I woke up with a sheen of sweat on my chest. In the dream, I’d see Tyler exactly as he was that day — young, boyishly shy, charming in a way I hadn’t ever been exposed to. I could see the first smile he flashed me, hear the first time I made him laugh, see the curiosity in his eyes — curiosity that made heat bloom deep in my stomach, a fire that never did die.