by Raquel Belle
Contents
Hating Tate
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“The Princess And The Punk”
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
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“The Princess And The Punk”
About the Author
Other Books by Raquel Belle
The Not So Bad Boy
Hating Tate
Hope Elmore is a hot mess. A single mom, she struggles to button her shirt the right way, let alone manage the lives of her two kids in addition to holding down two jobs. Thank goodness she’s got her hot best friend, Rob, to help out.
If life weren’t hard enough, she absolutely hates the guy who runs her kids’ after-care program. Tate McCullough is a wall of a man, militant and inflexible. She hates him with the heat of a thousand suns.
Until…she doesn’t. Until the night he sees her at her second job as a bartender, tells her his sad backstory and lays a kiss on her that makes her toes curl into her feet. And how does she react to kissing her arch nemesis? Well, she heads home to sleep with her best friend, like any rational person would do.
Hope’s life begins to unravel and she realizes she needs to cure old wounds before she can fully move forward.
Hating Tate is a standalone romance featuring a haggard but sexy young mom, two hot guys, and some very hot sex.
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Thank you so much for picking up Hating Tate! I really hope you enjoy it. Before you dig in though, as a token of appreciation for being one of my readers, I would like to offer you a FREE copy of my book “The Princess And The Punk” (you can read more about it on the next page). It’s going to launch on Amazon at about $3.99 but if you hurry, you can click on the link below and get it for free!
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But first read Hating Tate!
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“The Princess And The Punk”
Jessa Ames is the perfect student and she’s on track to become the ultimate Librarian…that is until her selfish roommate leaves her in the lurch halfway through the semester of her senior year in college.
She needs someone to share expenses with and she needs it fast!
So when Tristan Delancey, a tall, tattooed, gorgeous hunk of a punk shows up at her door, Jessa agrees to let him move in, albeit reluctantly. He’s certainly better than all the other crazies who’ve coming knocking.
The attraction between them is instantaneous, but Tristan’s wild, beer-drinking, partying lifestyle makes him a polar opposite to Jessa. It isn’t long before Jessa finds herself with a major crush on her new roommate...and things start to get really, really messy, for both her and Tristan.
Making matters worse are Tristan’s cynical friends and the fact that Jessa’s mom is hell bent on seeing her get together with Devin, a disingenuous, farce of a man from back home.
Could Jessa ever end up with someone like Tristan? Could Tristan ever make things work with a girl like Jessa? Should Jessa listen to her mom and do what’s right for the family?
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Hating Tate
Raquel Belle
Copyright © 2019 by Raquel Belle. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations or excerpts for review purposes.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental.
Belle, Raquel. Hating Tate.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to all the usual suspects, my family and friends, for always being there for me. I love you all. Your support means the world to me.
There’s someone I really need to thank for helping me realize this book: My editor. Hating Tate was a bit of a departure for me, in more ways than one. Your encouragement in helping me bring this character to life was a transformative experience. I took myself to a place I didn’t know I could go. Hope is always going to be a part of me now. Thank you for showing me the way.
Chapter One
Pretend this is one of those comedic, freeze-frame, movie moments where you get to see a whole slew of wacky things converging on the unsuspecting protagonist.
Instead of the camera-ready protagonist, insert the haggard, single mother of two. Her hair looks like a brown, fuzzy loofah with curls spilling every which way as they fall out of her not-artfully-crafted braid. Her white, Oxford shirt is pressed and buttoned but not on the correct buttonholes—and yes, she wore it like that all damn day. She is literally kicking the door of her silver, 1998 Honda Accord, and she has dropped her keys.
In the movies, there’d be some hunky, male character who would find her cute and quirky. He might pick those keys up for her, even. He’d look like Matthew McConaughey or Milo Ventimiglia or Sam Heughan. Heck, I’d even settle for Ashton Kutcher.
That is not my life.
Precious time, people. I seem to have very little of it, and right now it’s seven minutes after six, and I’m seven, soon-to-be eight, minutes late to pick up my two children from their after-school program.
I grab my keys and run for the doors. Maybe he won’t be here today, I think. Maybe it will be Megan, or Ronnie, or Clarissa.
But no. Because I am seven minutes late, and this is my life, it is Tate McCullough who’s standing right at the door, as I enter the building, arms folded over his broad chest, frowning, and staring at his watch. Not Sam. Not Matthew. Not Milo. Not Ashton.
Ugh. I hate Tate McCullough.
“You’re eight minutes late, Ms. Elmore,” he says, still staring at his watch. “You’ll need to go to the front desk and pay the $30 late pickup fee, I’m afraid.”
I purse my lips and inhale sharply. “Could I add that to next month’s bill? I haven’t brought my purse in with me today.”
I’m trying to be casual about this, trying not to give him any reason to think I’m desperate.
“I’ll make a note of it,” he says.
I exhale.
Then he says, “I do have another matter about which we need to speak. It’s about Eric. Ms. Elmore, he pushed another child today, and that child was relatively unharmed but upset. When I went to speak to Eric about it, he put his fingers in his ears and closed his eyes. He refused to acknowledge me, and I wasted sixteen minutes trying to get him to listen to what I had to say. That’s sixteen minutes I was not able to interact with the other children, Ms. Elmore. Sixteen minutes that could have been spent on enrichment activities.”
I
bite my lip and look at the door, where Eric and Amy are peering out at this interaction. “I’m sorry you wasted sixteen minutes today. I’ll talk to Eric about the pushing and about his behavior with you as well.”
“I’m afraid this is his last chance, Ms. Elmore. If we have another incident like this, I’ll be forced to suspend him from the program for two weeks.”
“I understand,” I say, narrowing my eyes at six-year-old Eric, who at least has the decency to look contrite.
“Ms. Elmore …,” Tate says.
I look away from my son and my focus on Tate once more. He’s a good-looking guy in a military kind of way. He’s got high-and-tight and strong cheekbones, and pouty lips, and pretty blue eyes. It’s upsetting, actually, because I can’t stand that I hate a man who is so incredibly attractive. It’s a real waste of a pretty face.
“Eric needs some structure at home, I think,” Tate says. “He needs a man in his life, someone steady who can balance your … efforts.”
I recoil. “My…efforts? And … a man? Is this 1952?”
“I just mean that it can’t be easy to maintain structure when you are balancing so much,” Tate says. “I’m sure you can barely get yourself dressed in the morning.”
I don’t want to believe that this is a dig, not a direct assessment of the way I look right now, in this moment. The fact is, my alarm didn’t go off when it was supposed to, so I woke up late and in addition to that, the dog ran halfway around the neighborhood—again—and I had to chase him in my Payless pumps, costing me another ten minutes.
Time, people. It’s my enemy, I’m telling you. I do usually look better than this. I swear.
“Ms. Elmore,” Tate says again. I snap back to the moment. He continues, “How about Big Brothers, Big Sisters? Would you mind if I make a referral?”
I shrug. “That’s fine. If you don’t mind, I’m going to get the kids home for dinner.”
“Yes, of course,” he says.
At that, I wander to the door and tell the kids to get moving. We’re to the car before anyone says anything.
As I put on my seat belt, I ask, “How was your day?”
Eric says nothing. He’s waiting for me to yell at him, I suppose. Amy says, “I did the classroom spelling bee today. I got second, and the top three from each class go on to the school-wide, and then the top three from that go to the district-wide. I really hope I get to go.”
She babbles on for most of the ride home, sharing fifth-grade drama. One of her friends got braces. Another one is going to horse camp this summer. I only half-listen, because I’m still embarrassed about my encounter with Tate.
At home, Amy bounds up to the house and lets the dog out. He comes barreling down the stairs as if someone has hit the “turbo” button, and I yell, “Amy, the leash!”
Too late. Our three-year-old brown lab goes racing down the row of lawns to the end of our cul-de-sac street, looking like a blue-collar greyhound. Amy goes running after him, and I just sit on the front steps, defeated.
Eric plops down next to me and puts his face in his hands. I put a hand on his back. “You mad at me, Mama?” he asks.
I rub his back a little. “No. I mean, you could’ve handled that situation better. Probably, right?”
“It was Ethan, Mama. He’s always bein’ mean to me, and today he cut in line and stepped on my foot, so I pushed him, but then I got in trouble.”
Eric starts crying, big crocodile tears rolling down his freckled cheeks. I pull him onto my lap, and he buries his face in my neck.
“Buddy,” I say, “you’re in first grade now and you have to learn to control your anger and find other, more productive ways to handle situations like this. And when someone like Tate tries to talk to you about it, you can’t just pretend he’s not there. You have to apologize, and own up to what you did.”
“I did tell Mr. Tate that Ethan cut in line and stepped on my toe. I told him!”
“I understand, but then you put your fingers in your ears and closed your eyes. How else could you have handled that, Eric?”
He picks at my lopsided collar with tiny fingers. “I coulda just told him I was sorry I pushed Ethan?”
“Yes, you could’ve done that. It would have been over in minutes. Now you’re on the verge of suspension from the program. That’s not good, dude.”
“I know. I’m sorry, Mama. I’ll do better.”
Amy wanders back, holding Rigby by the collar. We all shamble inside and begin our nightly routine.
When I have the kids asleep, I open up my laptop. I work full-time as an administrative assistant to a financial planner on weekdays, and a few hours a weekend as a bartender as well. Usually, my full-time work does not spill into my home life, which is exactly what I need at this point in my life. I check my email and among the requests for shift coverage at the bar, I find an email from Tate McCullough.
It’s a recap of his concerns about Eric’s behavior, with a minute-by-minute recount of the incident. He’s copied the rec center director, as well.
I’ve tried to be really careful with my reactions to Tate. There aren’t that many after-school programs that will bus the kids from school, and this one is on the way home and mostly within my budget. If Eric gets kicked out, I’m not sure where he could go after school.
Eric’s a good kid, he really is, but he can be a handful. He’s always been emotional, has always had impulse control issues, but he really cares about people, and he’s incredibly smart. In fact, both of my kids are extremely intelligent—both started reading in preschool, both are excellent at math, both are creative and curious. People like Tate really get under my skin, because they act like the handful of behavior things outweigh the whole of who my kids are.
I start to draft my thoughts in response. I begin with the usual apology for the disruption.
Dear Mr. McCullough:
I apologize, again, for the disruption my son caused today during after-school. He shared with me this evening that another child “cut in line and stepped on his foot,” and that the same child has been antagonizing him semi-regularly for the duration of the program. While I did address Eric’s behavior— we talked about it not being okay to push, and that he could not respond to you in the way he did. I’d also like to know what is being done with regard to this other child’s behavior toward my son.
I also want to address that these are children. They are six and seven-years-old, in this case, and they are likely to make mistakes. Threatening to kick Eric out of the program seems like a harsh response to behavior that seems, in my mind, to be fairly normal for boys of his age. Perhaps, instead of your militant approach to discipline, you could try offering a more engaging, supportive approach to the children when they act in this manner?
I don’t need to remind you that I am a single mother. You, yourself, told me this afternoon that it seems I “can barely dress myself,” and so you must know what threatening to take away my child’s after-school programming does to an already heightened stress level. I am asking you to show some compassion, and to work with us, rather than against us.
Thank you for the recap of this inconvenient (for you) episode. I assure you I have discussed this with my son, and will continue to work with him on his responses to other children, and to you, for the future.
Sincerely,
Hope Elmore
I hit send, then feel a pit form in my stomach. I shouldn’t have been such a jerk. Shit. Now he’s going to target us even more.
Can I recall this email?
While I’m looking under every possible heading for instructions on how to recall a message, the instant messenger on my Google account pings.
Oh, God, it’s him.
McC: Perhaps we should have a conversation when you are not rushed, Ms. Elmore. I feel that we have gotten off on the wrong foot.
HopeEl: Yes, a year ago, when you told me my kindergartner was “out of hand” and “immature.”
HopeEl: And when you told me my son was “out
of control” after he kicked a soccer ball into the river behind the rec center.
HopeEl: And when you told me that every minute you spend with my son is a minute you can’t get back.
HopeEl: Shall I go on?
McC: I realize that you feel I am “against” you and your son, but I assure you that is not the case.
HopeEl: Oh, really? Is this how you treat all of the families in your program? I’m guessing not, or you wouldn’t have any families at all!
McC: Can we please schedule some time to talk in person?
HopeEl: I’m sorry. I work full-time and have a part-time job. I have two kids and a house to maintain. I can’t spare time for you. And if you’re going to kick us out, just give me some notice so I can find alternate care.
McC: I understand. I’ll just email you when there is a match for your son at BBBS.
HopeEl: What the hell is BBBS?
McC: Big Brothers Big Sisters. Remember, I mentioned making a referral this afternoon?
HopeEl: …
McC: At any rate, I’ve made the referral. I think it would be good for Eric to have some consistent, positive, male interaction. Plus, hopefully that will provide you some added support.
McC: It’s late, so I’ll send more information by email. Goodnight, Ms. Elmore.
