P.S. I Hate You

by Winter Renshaw

  I don’t apologize. I shouldn’t have to.

  “You remind me so much of the old me,” he says, “but I can’t figure you out, and it’s driving me insane.”

  “Then do your sanity a favor and stop trying.”

  “Don’t you think I would if I could?” he asks. “God, I wish I could. You have no idea.”

  I try not to laugh. “What do you want, Keir? I don’t have time to keep going in circles with you. You know how I feel. My mind’s not going to change.”

  “I want to see you again,” he says without missing a beat, clear as day like he hasn’t touched a drop of alcohol all night.

  My heart doesn’t ask for permission before it decides to flutter. Slapping my hand over my bare chest, I pull in a cleansing breath. I won’t lie and say it doesn’t feel good to hear someone say those words to me, but that’s all they are … words.

  Strengthening my resolve, I say, “Keir—”

  “—I want to see you again, and I want to fuck you so hard you won’t walk straight for days.” His voice is a low growl, ripe with determination. My pussy pulses in response, enveloped in heat, and I graze my teeth along my lower lip before biting down.

  I want to fuck him again too.

  But it’s not going to happen.

  I won’t allow it.

  “You’re treading on dangerous waters,” I say. “You have no business getting attached to me. I don’t want what you want. You’re going to get hurt.”

  “You could never hurt me. I wouldn’t allow it,” he says. “Promise.”

  “You also promised you’d never bother me again, and here you are ringing me up two days after we had sex because you can’t stop thinking about me,” I say. He begins to respond, but I interrupt. “Goodnight, Keir.”

  I almost feel bad for hanging up on him, for crushing his hopes of ever seeing me again, but the feeling passes, and I return to my laundry.

  Keir will find someone new. He’ll move on. And I’ll just be some girl he fucked, another notch on the bedpost, which is all I wanted to be in the first place.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Keir

  I wanted to go out Monday night.

  Connor said no.

  Connor also said no to Tuesday and Wednesday.

  But Thursday? Connor says that’s a “socially acceptable night to enjoy a reasonable amount of alcohol in a public place.”

  So here I am.

  At some new bar on the north side of Georgetown, trying to rein in my wicked intentions and not approach the girl on the other side of the room who bears a striking resemblance to Rowan.

  I haven’t spoken to her since the night I fucked her brains out—five days ago.

  Not that I’m counting.

  But my phone history makes it appear that I called her Monday at eight seventeen PM and spoke to her for four minutes and thirty-eight seconds. I have no recollection of such a phone call taking place. I can only hope I was coherent enough not to make myself sound like a total fucking jackass, but judging by the fact that she has yet to contact me since our alleged conversation, I’m going to say I probably hindered my cause.

  My phone lights to my right, filling with a text from Connor telling me preliminary polls show Hunter Harrington has a large, dedicated voter base as shown in preliminary straw polls.

  A second text comes through, telling me to check my email. Drawing in a long breath, I press my inbox and glance over a message forwarded from someone I’ve never heard of to someone else I’ve never heard of to someone else I might have heard of to Connor.

  Someone’s saying Hunter Harrington is about to announce his engagement to Mary Kate Winslow, heiress to Winslow Oil Holdings, a billion-dollar corporation and one of the largest known donors of Hunter’s party.

  So that’s why Hunter dumped Rowan. She couldn’t help him win.

  Tossing back what’s left of my whiskey neat, I slam the glass on the counter and nod at the bartender. He’s pretending he doesn’t know who I am, pretending there isn’t a swarm of Secret Service agents in every corner of this bar.

  They always think they’re doing me a favor, or that I’ll magically want to become their best friend all because they were cool enough not to fawn over me.

  Yeah, doesn’t work that way.

  Sometimes I forget what it was like before my father took the oath of office, when he was just some New York governor that nobody cared about and I was just a skinny kid whose dating life wasn’t tabloid headline fodder.

  The bartender fixes my drink and tells me it’s on the house.

  Ah, there it is. The special treatment.

  I knew he could only pretend I was a nobody for so long.

  Grabbing my drink, I walk across the room, to the girl with Rowan’s buttery blonde hair, dancing in the corner like no one’s watching. Only the closer I get, the more I realize she doesn’t resemble Rowan at all—maybe from far away, if I’m squinting and have had three or four drinks. But up close, she’s nothing but a designer imposter version. And she smells. Like cheap perfume and cheap clothes. Her dress looks like it’s about to fall apart at the seams, and it’s practically see-through.

  One of the girl’s friends tap her on the shoulder then point toward me. Blondie brushes her hair from her sweaty forehead as her gaze focuses in my direction, and then she starts walking closer.

  I turn on my heel.

  Yeah, that’s going to be a “no” for me.

  Striding across the bar like I fucking own the place, I return to my spot and finish my whiskey. Several spots down, I catch the bartender shining a flashlight on someone’s ID, and I roll my eyes.

  Just another underage asshole trying to pretend they’re a big kid for the night.

  Turning my back from that nonsense, I sip my drink.

  A woman yells.

  The bartender yells back.

  My guys are watching everything unfold, two of them stepping closer in case they need to whisk me away.

  A moment later, two burly security guards flank the young woman’s sides and escort her to the front door, passing me on the way.

  “Hannah?” I call out. I’d recognize those long legs anywhere.

  Rowan’s sister turns toward my voice, her eyes unfocused. She’s plastered. Clearly.

  The guards keep pulling her along, so I nudge my guys and we follow. The second we get outside, I tell them she’s with me.

  “So you’re responsible for this?” one of the guards asks.

  “No,” I say. “But I’ll take it from here. I know her sister. I’d be happy to see to it she makes it home safely.”

  The guards exchange looks.

  “You know him?” one of them asks Hannah.

  She smiles. “I do. That’s President Montgomery’s son.”

  “Obviously,” the guard says. “But do you know him.”

  Hannah’s dopey grin widens. “Yeah. He has a thing for my sister. He totally wants her. He—”

  “Ma’am, do you feel comfortable leaving with him?” the other, less patient guard asks.

  She stops rambling and sidles up to me, slipping her arm behind my back. “I do. I mean, he’s got all this security and stuff so no one shoots him and he’s got this big fancy car, so I think I’d feel safe with him.”

  “She’s all yours,” the first guard says to me. “Get her ass out of here.”

  “Hey, whatdya do with my ID?” Hannah asks, slurring.

  “Hannah.” I motion for her to shut the fuck up.

  The guys head back, letting the door slam behind them.

  “Fake ID? Nice.” I say when it’s just us and my guys. “Bet your sister’s going to be thrilled.”

  “You’re not going to tell her, are you?” Hannah tugs at my suit coat, but I pry the fabric from her manicured little hands.

  My SUV pulls up to the awning and I tell her to get in.

  “Where are we going?” she asks when we’re a few miles down the road. “Do you need my address? I think I live … that way.�
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  “I’m not taking you home,” I say. “I’m taking you to Rowan’s.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because you’re clearly in no condition to care for yourself, and I won’t be sending you home only to have you fall down your apartment stairs and break your neck.”

  Hannah laughs. “Fortunately, my apartment has an elevator.”

  The car is silent for a moment, and I recognize the street signs as we get closer to Rowan’s building. My heart picks up its pace for a minute, but I force ice to my veins.

  “How is your sister?” I ask. “Haven’t heard from her lately.”

  Hannah is slumped in the seat beside me, tracing letters into the fogged glass. “Rowan is … Rowan.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.

  “You know how she is,” Hannah says.

  My jaw tightens. I don’t find the coy thing amusing at all. “No, I don’t actually. I’m still getting to know her.”

  Sitting up, Hannah looks to me and shrugs a single shoulder. “I don’t know. She’s Little Miss Perfect. She’s got her perfect little apartment and her perfect little routine and her perfect little extracurriculars. If you can’t find her, she’s probably candy striping or scooping dog poop at the homeless animal shelter or something.”

  “So she has a big heart,” I say. There’s a reason my strategists chose her.

  “A big, perfect heart.” Hannah exhales. “It’s cold living in her shadow, you know? To never have sunlight on my face.”

  “Poetic.” I roll my eyes.

  She bursts out laughing. “She’s always been the wind beneath my wings.”

  Frowning, I ask, “Isn’t that a song or something?”

  Hannah slugs me in the arm. “Geez, took you long enough. Little slow on the uptake, President Montgomery’s son.”

  Tugging my sleeve into place, I clear my throat. “Keir. Just call me Keir.”

  “What’s it like being the son of a president? Did you grow up in the White House?”

  “I was twenty-four when my father took office so … no,” I say. “Back to Rowan …”

  “Do you spend Christmas there? I bet it’s magical,” she rambles on. “How many trees are in the White House?”

  “I wouldn’t even know.” My voice is stagnant. I’m bored with this conversation. Glancing out my window, I spot Rowan’s street ahead. “Is your sister seeing anyone?”

  Hannah sits up, head cocked and mouth spread wide. “Way to just come out and ask. Are you always this smooth?”

  “Is she?” My patience is paper thin.

  “No. She got out of a relationship a few weeks ago,” Hannah says. “If she’s seeing someone new, she hasn’t said anything to me about it.”

  My driver stops out front and my guys help Hannah out.

  I follow.

  “Seriously?” she asks as we head in.

  “I’m going to personally deliver you to your sister,” I say.

  “Hey, Bob, did you know I’m a pizza?” Hannah says to the doorman before giggling like a maniac.

  Hooking my hand into her elbow, I lead her to the elevator and press the button for Rowan’s floor. Thirty seconds later the doors chime and part, and I straighten my tie as Hannah darts down the hall.

  Clearing my throat, I rap three times on her door, glancing at Hannah, who’s dancing to some song that’s obviously in her head because the hall is as silent as a church.

  A minute passes before the lock is unbolted from the other side, and the door swings open … but only part way.

  “Found something of yours,” I say.

  “Hannah, what are you doing here?” Rowan asks her sister, though she looks at me. “What is this?”

  “She was at a bar. In Georgetown,” I say. “With a fake ID, though I’m not sure that she really needed it seeing how she was already shitfaced before she was escorted outside by security.”

  “Hannah.” Rowan reaches for her sister but keeps the door mostly closed, as if she’s naked on the other side. Or there’s something—or someone—she doesn’t want me to see.

  Hannah squeezes in and Rowan braces the door, peeking through a four-inch opening. “Thanks for bringing her here. It was nice of you.”

  She doesn’t smile.

  Her eyes don’t light.

  There’s zero emotion on her face at the sight of me.

  “Thanks again,” she says as she begins to shut the door.

  I press my hand against it, stopping it from closing. “Wait.”

  Rowan bites her lip before shaking her head and averting her eyes. “Not now.”

  Frowning, I study her. “Are you okay?”

  I don’t think I’ve ever asked anyone that … ever … but she seems to be in an odd state.

  “I’m fine. Goodnight, okay?” She lifts her eyes to mine, briefly. “Another time.”

  The door closes, locks.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Rowan

  “Holy shit. What’s he doing here?” Hannah points to Hunter, who happens to be standing in the middle of my living room.

  “Go to my room and get changed,” I tell her. “And clean yourself up. You smell like cheap beer.”

  Hannah glares at Hunter before sauntering to my bedroom, disappearing from sight.

  “Yeah, Hunter, so what are you doing here?” I ask, arms folded as I keep a careful distance from him.

  I was in the midst of applying for another job while simultaneously watching the newest Bridget Jones movie when there was a knock at my door.

  Hunter was the last person I expected to see, and while every part of me was screaming to ignore it, to let him stand there and walk away without the privilege of seeing my face, my curiosity overpowered all of that in an instant.

  So I opened the door. I let him in. And then Keir showed up.

  Hunter slides his hands into his pockets, studying me from where he stands. “I just came to tell you how sorry I am for ending things the way I did.”

  I don’t smile, my shoulders stay tense. “That’s it?”

  “I came to tell you …” he pulls in a deep breath before his gaze falls to the ground for a moment. My stomach is in a free fall. I need to know where he’s going with this. Hunter’s eyes flick onto mine. “I came to tell you I’m engaged, Rowan.”

  The room spins.

  “Engaged? You said you didn’t have time to dedicate to a relationship with your campaign coming up. Those were your words, Hunter. That’s what you told me.” My words spew faster and faster as I pace the room. “Were you with someone else the whole time you were with me?”

  I stop pacing, searching his eyes for my answer because he’s taking way too damn long to respond.

  “No.” His words slice through the air. “Never.”

  “Then explain to me how the hell you’re suddenly engaged.” My arms fold across my chest again, tighter.

  “Before you, I was with someone else. For a long time,” he says. “We took a break and she went overseas for work, but we always planned to get back together, to get married someday. I never expected to meet you, Rowan. I never expected to fall for you, to feel the way you made me feel.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better about all of this?” I shake my head, refusing to look at him a moment longer.

  He moves toward me, but I wish he wouldn’t. He’s the last person I need an ounce of comfort from.

  “Rowan.” His hands glide down my arms and he turns me to face him.

  I stare over his shoulder, out the window behind him.

  “Rowan,” he says my name again. “I’m sorry. I truly cared about you. I did. Still do. That’s why I’m here. Our engagement announcement will be in all the papers tomorrow. I wanted you to hear it from me first. I wanted you to know the truth.”

  “The truth? That you’re a goddamned coward?” I brush his hands off of me and step back.

  “I won’t argue with that.” Hunter sighs. “The way I ended things … the way I left … i
t was selfish of me. I own that, Rowan. And I’ll spend the rest of my life regretting the way I handled that, the way I hurt you.”

  Spoken like a true politician.

  I don’t believe a word of it.

  “How have you been?” he changes the subject, his tone softer.

  My brows furrow. “We’re not friends. You don’t get to ask me that.”

  Hunter lifts a hand in protest. “Fair enough. I just … I heard you were dating again. Keir Montgomery? Is that true?”

  I fight like hell not to smile right now.

  “Yet another question you don’t get to ask me,” I say, maintaining a steely tone.

  Hunter releases a frustrated breath. “You can hate me all you want, Rowan, but I still care for you. I want you to be happy, that’s all.”

  “You know what would make me really happy right now?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “If you turned around and walked out of here and never bothered me again,” I say, nodding toward my door. “I’d be elated. Truly.”

  “Don’t date Keir,” Hunter says. Just like that.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. He’s not right for you.”

  Lifting a hand to my hip, I say, “Yeah, well you don’t get to make that decision.”

  “I know him,” he says. “I’ve known him a long time.”

  Rolling my eyes, I glance away, pretending to have grown bored with this conversation.

  “He’ll hurt you, Rowan,” Hunter says. “He’ll hurt you a million times worse than I did. I just don’t want that to happen.”

  There’s something different in his eyes, the way they squint when he studies me. And his feet are planted, like he could stay here for hours, debating the worthiness of Keir Montgomery.

  “He uses everyone. That’s what he does,” he continues, his expression hardened. “He’s not a good person.”

  He’s jealous.

  That’s it.

  “Are you done yet?” I ask, yawning.

  My bedroom door swings open, banging against the wall as my sister strides down the hall in a pair of my pajama pants that are four inches too short for her and a faded Wellesley t-shirt.

  “He’s still here?” She points at Hunter. I’m about to tell her he’s just leaving when she storms up to him, her finger in his face. “Leave!”