Page 64 of Love to Hate You

Christ, she’s like one of those yappy little dogs with a bone.

Let it go, woman!

Move on!

“Just drop it!” I snap.

“I can’t.” She straightens her shoulders and glares. “There has to be a reason why you treated me like crap. I want to know what it was.”

I press my lips into a tight line.

“You’ve always been such a prick. Why?” She shakes her head, her hair bouncing around her shoulders.

I’m tempted to reach out and—

Her tongue darts out to moisten her lips and the movement all but kills me.

“Please, just tell me.” Her eyes cloud. “Your behavior…it’s always bothered me.”

“I…” There’s nothing I can say to make her understand without revealing too much of myself, and I can’t do that. I need the walls between us to stay firmly in place. Because without them…

I don’t even want to think about what could happen. The damage that would be inflicted.

“I’m a prick to everyone,” I mutter.

“That’s not true.” Her voice rises. “You’re nice enough to the girls you sleep with.”

This isn’t a conversation I can have with her. She has no idea what kind of Pandora’s box she’s trying to open.

I shoot to my feet. “This conversation is pointless. I’m going to bed.”

Her mouth drops open as I stalk to my room. I need some distance, so I can wrangle my emotions back under control again. I’ll be damned if I’m forced into admitting something that won’t do either of us any good.

“I never took you for chickenshit,” she yells.

I spin around to face her. Anger and desire rush through my system. “Excuse me?”

She jumps from the couch. Our gazes lock as she closes the distance between us.

“You heard me.” The closer she gets, the further she tips her head back to meet my eyes. “You’re a chickenshit, Carter Prescott. I don’t understand why you can’t just be honest with me. What’s the big deal?”

I clench my hands into fists to stymy the need to reach out and grab hold of her, to haul her body against mine.

But I can’t do that.

She’s not mine.

Daisy will never be mine.

Those thoughts slice through me like a razor. Pain radiates throughout my entire being.

Why can’t she just let this go?

Doesn’t she realize that I’m holding on by a thread?

When I remain silent, she comes at me again with, “You’ve spent all these years pressing my buttons and pissing me off. There has to be a reason for it.”

I don’t know why I expected anything different. This is quintessential Daisy Thompson. It’s one of the qualities I admire most about her. When that girl wants something, she won’t rest until she has it.