Hate Mates

1 | repercussions

repercussions

There was something creepy about sitting with your dashingly handsome rival in a hospital - Cate Miller thought, stealing a sneaking glance at Ryle Davis whose 6'3 figure was bent forward as he leaned with his elbows on his knees.

He sat on the chair beside her, sucking a plump bottom lip between his teeth. One of his thumbs rubbed absently at his stubbled chin while the other hand raked through his thick, dark hair occasionally. His amber eyes were bored down on his polished black shoes which made a rhythmic tap tap tap on the tiled floor that smelled of chlorine.

She looked away when he almost caught her staring. She couldn't help it. With him near, her nerves were always on fire with the itch to strangle him.

"Stop distracting me," Cate grumbled, causing the movement of his feet to immediately cease as the man turned to her.

"You should know — it was all your fault," he said bluntly. "If you hadn't tried your little magic trick with the tablecloth, we'd have been at home now."

"You shouldn't have pissed me off. You should be glad it wasn't my shoe," she retorted, continuing to chew on her chipped nails with the nervous waves that rushed through her body.

It wasn't supposed to turn out the way it did — their evening. It was because of Ryle that they were now here, waiting for their darling boss, Samuel Dollop, to fix his broken leg. It was the poor old man's birthday and the staff had planned a surprise party for him, only for it to end up with him slipping on the cake and crashing straight into the shit elevator.

Cate had been responsible for the cake and Ryle had changed the flavor of it behind her back. He now had the audacity to remind her whose mistake it was that had enraged her.

Bad temper and Cate Miller were old friends. In fact, they were best friends. It wasn't her fault she had a temper. It was the fault of the twelve heartbreaks that she had endured in life.

Her heartbreaks ranged from family, career, and boyfriends until finally, she decided that she was better off alone. Her last heartbreak had been a year ago when she discovered that her two-year-old boyfriend, Harlow, had been fucking her lawyer older sister behind her back. She had sworn then that it would be her last heartbreak. She was never letting the unlucky number 13 tag along with her. 12 was the time to seal the deal.

Being alone was a heartbreak too, except it was more tolerable than being the victim of someone else.

Through her periphery, she found Ryle lifting a bulky arm of his behind the neck of her chair as if it were an ordinary thing to do. He leaned back, spreading his muscular legs, strong enough to carry a one-twenty-pound woman for hours with ease. His muscles rippled under his faded blue shirt, paired with black jeans.

"You need to have a leash on that temper," she heard him suggesting.

Irritation built in her throat; her eyes burned and her mouth had the urge to spew some filth out which would destroy him within seconds. She bit down upon her tongue, swallowing those vulgar words before they could escape her. Clearing her throat, she produced something of what she thought was a more professional tone when talking to a coworker/stealer of clients/reason why she was doomed to never marry.

The last reference was from the one tiny minuscule time when she had felt him brush his knuckles over a lock of her hair while she had bent to retrieve her pen that had fallen under his desk. He had immediately adjusted himself before she could catch him red-handed but that one second had ruined her ability to think when she was near him.

It was easier to be angry at him instead of letting him have a clue of her real feelings which charted from 'Maybe we could go out for dinner sometime?' to 'I'd like to ride your face, Mr. Davis. Lie down, please'.