I Hate You - Ilsa Madden-Mills Page 0,22

“Maybe next time. I want to be fresh tomorrow.”

He shakes his head at me. “I’m gonna hold you to that. Me, you, and some hot girls—it’s going to happen.” He grins.

“Yeah. Soon.” Just let me figure out football first.

8

On Sunday, I’m ready to eat my arm off by the time I pull into the parking lot of Piggly Wiggly. It’s the night before classes start and I’m stocking up.

After grabbing several packs of SlimFast, I find myself standing in front of the pasta aisle, salivating over an image of Ma’s ravioli in my head. Who am I kidding? Dear Diet, you’re boring and tasteless. Instead of losing weight, I’m going to look into those stretching machines and see if I can just get taller.

Feeling frustrated, I zoom past several aisles, aimlessly grabbing salad mix, low-carb chips, and diet soda.

I pass by the cupcakes in the bakery, and my mouth waters at the smell of sweet sugar. I shove on past, muttering under my breath. I glance down at my shirt, which reads I Just Finished My First Marathon (Just Kidding—I’m On My Third Cupcake), then roll my eyes.

Not today, Satan. Not today.

Head to the alcohol! That will help. Do they make low-calorie wine? Yes, yes they do.

I walk past a few people and maneuver to the liquor aisle—then I see him.

Facing away from me, he’s bending down to check out the beer. From this angle, he could be any hot college guy at the grocery store, but the new, longer hair is unmistakable, and I’d know that frame anywhere.

That tight, muscular ass? Best on campus.

I don’t see Dani, and relief washes over me. I’m wary, though. She’s probably back at the makeup section a few aisles back.

He’s about ten feet away, yet his chiseled profile is enough to make me pissed, those broad shoulders enough to make my heart stutter. In his cart are packs of Big Red gum, a giant bag of Cheetos, protein drinks, and beer.

I look around to reroute my shopping and avoid him. The last thing I want is a replay of our bookstore argument a few days ago. Avoidance is the best course of action.

An older lady, maybe in her sixties, appears at the other end of the aisle, facing him. She seems distracted with her phone up to her ear as she talks to someone and bumps into his cart. I hear him apologizing as he moves out of the center of the aisle.

Her phone drops to the floor with a clatter.

Moving like lightning—as usual—he bends down, picks up her phone, and hands it back to her.

She doesn’t take it; her mouth flops open like a fish as she takes him in.

Yeah, he has that effect on most females, but this is different. This isn’t awe.

Blaze is still holding out her phone, and she snatches it out of his hand.

WTF?

Before I know it, I’ve eased in closer, moving slowly as I browse the Zinfandel selection, one eye on the pink wine and one on them.

His feet shuffle. Someone is antsy.

I pick up a bottle of something and pretend to study it.

“Mrs. Wilson…how are you? I—I—” he says softly.

She crosses her arms, seeming to gain back her composure. “Blaze Townsend. What are you doing here?” Her voice drips with a deep, thick Southern accent, someone who’s lived in Mississippi her entire life.

“Ah, I attend Waylon. Just restocking before class—”

“Of course, with alcohol I see.” Her eyes dart to his cart. “Are you even twenty-one?” She purses her lips and continues. “Why wouldn’t you be? You get to grow older. You have a life. Aren’t you the lucky one?”

My hackles rise.

“Yes, ma’am. Have you, um, moved to Magnolia?”

She sniffs and looks down a rather long nose at him. With faded blonde hair up in a French twist, cream slacks paired with a green sweater set, and a silk scarf that looks more expensive than my rent, she smells like old money. I picture her living in a plantation-style mansion, probably with a big porch and Greek columns in the front.

Her voice is cold. “No. Visiting some friends here for the week. They have a house on the lake. We’re retired now. Not much left for us to do in Alma. No grandkids.”

“Right, right. Guess Mr. Wilson isn’t mayor anymore.” He pauses, his hands moving from his legs to his cart, which he clenches like a lifeline. “I—I don’t get back to Alma much—”

“Don’t blame you.”

Her face is scrunched up, as if she smells something horrid, and