by Ella James
Hate You Not
An Enemies to Lovers Romance
Ella James
Hate You Not
Ella James
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Editing by Librum Artis Editorial Services
Cover design by Y’all. That Graphic
Formatting by Jamie Davis
©2020, Ella James. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of Ella James. Anyone downloading this book from any vendor other than Amazon.com is engaging in ebook piracy.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Sneak Peek
Follow Me
Also by Ella James
Chapter One
June
What do they say about kids and candy? No candy because it makes them wild…or is it all the candy because of the blood sugar crash afterward? Lots of sugar makes you crash, right? When I get those iced shortbread cookies from Miss Dora’s Bakery, I’m falling asleep after.
Is it good for them to sleep right now? Or should they stay awake so they can process? Do they seem more sleepy or more hyper?
I glance into the back of the truck’s cab just in time to see my niece and nephew click their giant lollipops together in a refined sugar high-five.
Someone giggles—Oliver or Margot?
“What are you kids doing back there?” I ask in my best teacher voice.
There’s that giggle. “Margot? Is it you that giggles like a little church mouse?”
She does it again.
“That’s adorable, darlin’.”
“Darlin’!” Oliver’s laugh is more snorty. “You’re such a darlin’,” he caws at his sister.
Give it time and you’ll be drawlin’ just like me. I want to say that—but it doesn’t seem wise. Now is not the time to draw attention to the cultural shift my sister’s kids are about to undergo. Are undergoing already…from the time they stepped off the airplane in Atlanta five and a half hours ago; Oliver wrinkled his little freckled nose and said, “The air is…sticky. Sticky icky wicky!”
Just you wait till summertime.
We made our way across the airport to my truck, hauling ninety-seven bags and both of their booster seats. It took for-freaking-ever to get out of city traffic. They were needing dinner, so I took them by the Steak ‘n Shake for shakes and burgers—I don’t care what vile lies my sister told her rich-boy husband, she got burgers for them last time they were home, two years ago—and that’s when Margot asked for candy.
“What were you hoping for?” I asked with caution.
“Maybe…a giant lollipop?”
So of course I found a place—a very overpriced place off the interstate—and when Margot pointed to a sucker bigger than her little pig-tailed head, I got it. Got them both one. Eight bucks each. Say what you will about a bunch of sugar, but it always makes me feel better.
“How’s those lollipops coming?” I ask, trying to emphasize the “g.”
“Mine’s comin’ real well.” Oliver pops his lips together.
“Make that ‘real good’ and you got yourself a deal.”
He laughs, and Margot pops her lips together, too. “I love candy.”
She sounds so much like Sutton just then. That weird feeling presses on my chest—the lead-heavy, maybe-I’m-about-to-wake-up, nope-I’m-not-and-I’m-all-filled-with-existential-dread feeling. I have to breathe out of my open mouth to make it ease up.
“What’s your house like?” Oliver asks.
I glance in the rear-view. Mostly dark, so all I see is trees on each side of the interstate and a bunch of head and tail lights behind us.
“I thought you remembered.”
“Well I don’t.” His voice is petulant, and I’ve spent enough time with them by now to know he might break out in tears at any second.
I shift into Fun Farm Aunt mode. “There are chickens. Roosters, chickens, all of them. All cock-a-doodling and strutting around.”
“Struttin’,” he mimics, and I hear the smile in his little voice.
“Well that’s what they’re doing. Standing out there in the mud, picking at grass.” I try again to add the “g” onto the end of “picking,” but I guess I don’t do it all the way because Margot giggles.
“Pickin’,”she echoes.
“There’s some cows. A couple of big, fat milk cows. They lie down when the rain comes…sometimes, anyway.”
“Do they stick their feet up in the air like this?” I see Margot’s feet stick up behind the truck’s front seat.
“Nope. They just sort of curl up so the lightning doesn’t strike them.”
“What else?” Oliver asks.
“Well, I have a horse, remember?”
“Can he be mine?” Margot asks, and I smirk.
“He’s a she. And you already have a horse that’s coming to live here.”
“Oh yeah!”
“I want to ride your horse when we get there, Aunt June.” Oliver yawns after he says it.
“I think it might be too late at night for that.”
“It won’t be!”
“I think he’ll be sleeping.”
“Will you put my Batman covers on my bed?” he asks.
“They won’t be washed yet, but—”
“That doesn’t bother me!”
“So then…yeah.” I nod slowly. Pushover. “I’ll put it on, and Mar, your Frozen stuff, too.”
“No one ever calls me Mar.”
Well, shit. “Margot.” Pronounced Mar-goh. Surefire way to confuse every teacher from Heat Springs Primary all the way on up through the tiny local high school. “My bad, little lady.”
She giggles. “No one ever calls me little lady either.”
“I want to hear that music again,” Oliver says.
I turn up the country. We’re winning with some vintage Garth Brooks. As he drawls about having friends in low places, I can sort of sense them lying down. When I stop for a gas refill outside Albany, I find them slumped in their seats, their poor little heads hanging, begging for some neck pillows. I make a mental note to try to find some—somewhere cheap. Maybe the dollar store.
In the bright light of the gas station, I check the latch on my tool box, where all their luggage is. Then I shut the little gas tank door, climb quietly back into the truck, and straighten the slouched unicorn that’s riding in the passenger’s seat beside me. I think of snuggling him up beside Margot but figure that might wake her.
Maybe they should be processing, but they’re so tired. It’s near ten o’clock here, which is eight their native San Francisco time. Saying bye to their house…driving by their sc
hool again, and then the stables where their horses board—it was a long morning, and that was before we caught our plane.
I hang a left at the last light in Albany and watch the city’s lights fade in my rear view. Maybe I can take them back up this way sometime soon, just so they can spend an hour in a city.
We start on a winding highway down toward Heat Springs, tall pines lording over the two-lane road. I feel a little like a kidnapper as pink clouds drift over the moon. Fields punch their way between tufts of forest, stretching on in fanning rows of cotton, peanuts, and corn. I swerve a little bit to keep from hitting a raccoon.
We pass the McKesson’s vast farm, then the old, abandoned highway patrol post, overrun with kudzu. The speed limit drops. The forest thickens, and the moon peeks out. My thoughts wander—way down into high school, past my best friend Leah and I, to when Oliver was born. Sutton brought him home, and we fussed over who would hold him first. I think of Sutton herself, platinum blonde in her Heat Springs High cheer uniform, always so long-legged and muscular and pretty, like Athletic Barbie. It never even dawned on me that she—or anybody from my family—might move far away. I think of Mama getting sick right after Sutton moved off. Those care packages Sutt used to send, with all the Lush bath bombs and fancy facemasks and these trinkets she had found in San Francisco. Life is a strange thing. So taken for granted. Sometimes it feels like nothing ever happens, that every day is the same…and then everything you know is just gone.
There’s a hard knot in my stomach all the time now. I can’t even imagine how Margot and Oliver feel. And then I shake my head, because maybe I can just a little. I wasn’t little bitty when I lost my mama, but I wasn’t quite 18.
The open sign for Heidi’s Place, a little restaurant and bar on the outskirts of town, flashes over on my left. That place is a mess, but I love going there. Jolene—she’s the daughter of Heidi, who’s retired now—was one of the ones who used to come by every Saturday and pray with Mama near the end. I won’t ever forget that.
About a half mile after Heidi’s, everything pops up all at once: buildings and mossy oaks and street lamps wreathed in gold light. The library sits, squat and dark and quiet, over on my right. Sidewalk starts to run along both sides of the street. Three churches wait behind it on my right, while on the left, there’s a line of storefront. Half the stores in Heat Springs—all right here.
I think of taking Oliver and Margot into Hester’s Rare Birds, an antique shop, and Shirley’s, the shoe store. There’s a sewing shop, and an ice cream parlor that I know they’ll love. Insurance place, two clothes stores—one’s got kid stuff—and then the pharmacy. They can get slushes and taffy there, so that should be a winner. Dollar General…the Goodwill. What would they make of a Goodwill? Again, that imposter feeling… What would Sutton think if she knew?
Well, she’d be pleased as punch, you eejit. You were her choice.
Something about that thought makes my eyes tear up. I wipe them and brake for the stop sign by Pine Park. We’ll be going there a lot now. They’ve got that rocking bumblebee thing—sort of like a one-kid seesaw. Plus the swings. Oh, and duh—the Floatin’ Bean is right there by it. The kids would love to have a Heat Springs Float.
So weird to see this whole town from a parent sort of angle. Even though I’m not their parent. Kinda thought I’d never be a parent, at the rate things are going. Which is to say…not going.
I hang a right down what we call Hamburger Highway. Hardee’s, Wendy’s, McDonald’s, Sonic, and Taco Bell. The Taco Bell is brand new. Wonder if it’s really emu meat. Surely it’s not. The kids could eat it if I cook at home most other times—and I will. I brought Sutton’s recipe book for vegans, just to make them feel at home. Let’s hope I can figure that out.
You and your fancy life, big sister. How am I supposed to reproduce that?
Neighborhoods branch off Hamburger Highway. We pass Willow Oaks, a little neighborhood where Dad lives now. Since Mama passed, he’s been there. He walked out the door the day she died and never went back to our childhood home again.
Right after her death was when the bank came calling. Daddy couldn’t face it, Mary Helen was panicking, and Sutt wasn’t around. So it was up to Shawn and me to work out a deal. My big brother put up two of his eighteen wheelers for collateral—mostly because Mama’s grave is on our land, behind a little church where all the Hinsons have been buried for a hundred years under the shady oaks.
It’s called Lawler Farm now—starting when my parents married, out of deference to Daddy, who was farming the land—but it’s not really. It’s Hinson land, going back generations. I’m a Lawler, but I’m Hinson, too, and I’m not letting the bank have our farm. So far, they haven’t gotten it.
I think of all the money in my bank account right now, what I could do with it. But I push those thoughts away. I’ll get the kids what they need, but I don’t think it’s right to use the money Sutt and Asher left their babies to bring the farm back steady into the black. Not even if it will be the kids’ new home. I’ll just have to keep on trying. Try harder. So I can keep them stable and secure.
I pass Shawn’s acreage on the right—and then the double wide that serves as home base for his trucking company. He’s got nine trucks now, doing real well. Our sister Mary Helen lives out near the Taylors’ pond, a few miles east. She and her kids might come over tomorrow morning. That’ll be good. Maybe.
I take a right onto my county road. It’s not mine, but it feels like it. Only thing but our farm that’s out this way is the old Helms place. Well, that and the water treatment plant. And hunting land. A lot of hunting land that’s leased to big-league city slickers from Atlanta and a few I know from Albany.
After two point five miles driving between the tall pines, my dirt road comes into view. It’s framed by fields where nothing’s growing at this moment. Woods rise up around the fields—still thick and lush, despite our hard times. I hang a right, and my truck’s tires bump over the old, familiar grooves. Pretty soon, it will be time to ask the Helms’ boy to smooth it out for me. Daddy could, of course, but he won’t touch the farm equipment. None of it. Feels like a failure, won’t move past his pride. The Lawlers have a lot of pride. I know that, don’t I?
This road always makes me feel good. I veer left at the fork, away from the path that goes out to the pastures and down to the low ponds. I’m driving in a thick wood. Mary Helen tells me anybody with some sense would be afraid to live out here alone, but I disagree. I’ve got Petey and Tink, my German Shepherds. I forgot to mention them to Margot and Oliver before they nodded off. I did talk about them yesterday, and Margot promised that she won’t be scared.
Beyond the darkness of the woods, up on my right, I see a moonlit clearing. It’s about twenty acres of bare fields where I can’t afford to plant crops—yet. I turn right at a red dirt path marked by a mailbox, and my humble home glows in the moonlight. It’s whitewashed wood, with a screened-in front porch where there’s a porch swing and a braided oval rug and two tables I set up with books and candles. Long ago, my grandmama’s spinster sister lived here. After we shut up my family’s house, which is just a little ways down the road, it made sense for me to come here.
I’ve made it mine. As soon as I near my normal parking spot, under a giant pecan tree, all the barking starts, as if in testament to that.
Tink and Petey burst out the unlocked screen porch door like the wildlings they are. The kids rouse, but only a little. There’s a moment where I panic over which limp kid to haul in first, but then Oliver sits up and frowns out the window and says, in his little city boy voice, “Oh. I hear your dogs.”
“They’re your dogs, too.” I smile back at him. “If you want them to be.”
I help him out of the truck, and he stands stoically in the pearly light as Petey and Tink whack him with their wagging tails and lick his face. And then he giggles.
“What do you think?” I murmur.
He looks at the house and fields and woods and then the dogs a
gain, and me. And he says, “I think I can be a brave farm boy.”
I think Sutton would be proud, despite her choosing city life. It’s not like they really had a choice, with Asher taking over his father’s real estate empire. The Masterson family has been in San Francisco for a century. They had power and money. No way Sutt was coming back to Heat Springs. But there’s nothing wrong with here, I tell myself again.
My house is old and worn, but cozy. I haul Margot inside, carrying her lamb style, and Oliver walks in front of us. I make Tink and Petey wait on the porch so they won’t overwhelm Oliver as he blinks around the comfy living room then joins me in the short hallway. There are two bedrooms, over on the left of the small house. While we were away, I had Shawn and Mary Helen swap them around, so that the larger one, which had been mine, became the kids’, and I’m now in the smaller room without the en suite bathroom.
My throat aches when I see what they did. The little twin beds Mary Helen found somewhere and painted white and put white bedding on. The bookshelves stacked with kids’ books. Nightstands I can see Shawn built himself, with matching powder blue lamps.
There’s a Batman poster over Oliver’s bed and a Frozen one by Margot’s.
I smile down at Oliver. He beams back at me and leaps onto his bed. I lay Margot out on hers and fold the blankets over her. She doesn’t stir.
Oliver takes my hand as I show him to the bathroom. He brushes his teeth with a new toothbrush and Sparkle Fun Crest paste like we used as kids, and then lies on his back on his new bed. He’s asleep by the time I come back with their bags.
