I Hate You - Ilsa Madden-Mills Page 0,23

I set the bottle back down on the shelf. Forget the Zinfandel; I’m outright staring now. FBI mode is on.

He hunches over the cart, leaning his arms on the side. “Right. I love Magnolia, so there’s no reason to go back.”

Bitterness flits over her face. “Good for you. You got the perfect life while my daughter is dead.”

He seems to take a deep breath. “I’m sorry. My parents—”

“Your parents.” She spits the words out. “They deserve what they got for killing my Carry-Anne.”

What?

He bows his head and stares at the floor.

“They were useless druggies. Everyone knows that. Only they took her with them.” Her face compresses. “You might be a big football player here, Blaze, but everyone in Alma knows where you came from.”

“I…I’m sorry for what happened to your daughter. I think about her—”

She jabs an unsteady finger at him. “No, don’t think about her. She should be alive right now. She should be married and happy and having babies, but your parents ruined our lives and…and…here you are living yours.” She takes a breath, and her hand rests across her chest as if she’s protecting herself. “Why, you’ve ruined my day.”

“I’m…sorry,” he says, and there’s a crack in his voice.

I swallow. He’s apologized three times, and each time is worse than last, his voice leaning toward that dark sound that wraps around my heart and squeezes.

“Sorry means nothing,” she mutters before whipping her cart around and speeding away until she’s around the corner, the tap tap tap of her heels loud as she picks up her pace on the next aisle over.

“Blaze?” I call out, not intending to, but it’s a reflex.

He hasn’t responded, and I forget my cart and walk up to him. I put my hand on his shoulder tentatively, not wanting to startle him. “Hey.”

He turns slowly, and I wince at the haunted look in his blue eyes, his usually sun-tanned face white.

His gaze locks with mine, and then it drops. “I wondered how long it would take you.”

“You knew I was listening?”

“Figured. You flew right past me in the cookie aisle and never looked up. We always seem to find each other.”

I grimace. “I didn’t want to see those frosted cookies with the sprinkles. Ah, sprinkles, my old nemesis.” I shake a fist in the air, but he doesn’t even crack a smile.

“I smelled your perfume when you hit the liquor aisle. Figured you were back there somewhere.”

“Dude, that is not perfume. I need to tone down the peppermint body wash and the essential oils I diffuse.”

He looks down at his hands. “Don’t. I like it. Reminds me of Christmas.”

I huff out a laugh. “Just call me jolly old Mrs. Claus. All I need is a big red velvet dress with white fur. Maybe I can get a side gig at Macy’s during the holidays.”

He raises his head and looks at me, his brows lowered. “You’re too hot for Mrs. Claus. If anything, you’d be one of those little elves with the pointy hats and green leggings.”

Oh.

It feels as if we’re having a nice conversation. I clear my throat. “Who’s the lady with the attitude? I’ll go after her if you want. I have a mean right hook. My brother Mattie taught me. The trick is how you hold your fist.” I demonstrate. “See? Knuckle is out.”

“Beating up old people? That’s not your style.” He shakes his head and reaches into his cart, takes out a beer, opens it, and takes a long swig. A grimace flits across his face.

“Blaze—”

“Trust me, don’t ask. It’s not a pretty story.” He pauses. “Besides, you were never that interested in my past before. You were too busy lusting after my hot bod.”

“I see you’re feeling better.”

“Not really. I think I’m going to throw up.” He holds up the bottle of Fat Tire beer. “This piss is not what I need, but my throat is dry…” He leans a little too far to the right, in danger of crashing into the cold storage, and I grab his elbow.

He takes in a deep breath, his chest rising as he gasps for air. “Shit, Charm. Don’t feel so good. Do you…can you…” Before he can finish his sentence, his eyes roll back in his head and he slips straight down to the floor of aisle 9.

FML.

My knees drop to the floor next to him, cradling his head in my lap, which thankfully didn’t hit the tile as hard as it could have. I say his name a dozen times, my