King of Harts

20

Adrian

Hate her?

Hate.

Emory Hart thinks I hate her and it hasn't been sitting right with me for the last few days.

Hate!

Get fucked.

I couldn't hate her if I tried and trust me, I've tried. To think that that's what she thought all this time, it's torn me apart from the inside out. Every slick comment, every exchange, every glance and dirty look, she felt genuinely because she thought I hated her.

She thinks I hate her. Even now. Even after our little reunion. Even after the night of her fathers visit.

It makes me uneasy. It makes me hate myself a bit, if I'm honest.

It makes me regret things.

I don't like that.

Hate it, actually.

"I'm nervous" Grayson pulls me out of my thoughts and my head snaps up to look at him as he zooms through the kitchen, cooking dinner.

The incident at Happy's was on Friday, that was two days ago. Two days I've spent stewing in the thoughts of Emory going years thinking I fucking hate her.

Now, we're waiting for everyone's arrival because Grayson called an emergency family dinner at the Hart childhood home.

No one but Ava knows why because, well, it's her house and no one's going to deny her information of any kind after this little stunt Grayson pulled.

"What for?" I ask him, doing my usual walk around because I like to look at the pictures of Emory. My favorite being the one on the mantle above the fireplace of her sitting on the hammock in the backyard with her nose in a book, unaware of her photo being taken.

"I don't care what Addie says, I know what I said to Mo pushed all of the wrong buttons and I feel like an asshole and she's going to walk in here looking like that deer who's mom died" Grayson rants and I bite back a smile, shaking my head.

As a reflex, I twist the ring on my middle finger and clear my throat.

"Well, you are an asshole. But we all know that. Emory's well over it now, though you should say sorry because she is definitely gonna tear you a new one for sending Addie over" I shrug, Gray narrowing his eyes at me.

"Prick" he mumbles, going back to cooking while I admire pictures of his sister like the terrible best friend I am.

I haven't been able to stop thinking about the other night. The heartbreak in her voice when she had the nerve to tell us she wasn't worth fighting for.

The fuck did her father do to her to make her believe such a statement? The thoughts of anyone laying a hand on her makes me almost feral. I twist my ring, my jaw tight at the memory of her bruised wrist and I make it a personal goal of mine to hunt the fucker down myself.

Trying to shake my anger, I remember what it was like dancing with her. That in itself has burned into my fucking mind and I've jerked off to it more than enough times to put my hand in retirement because it's just not doing the job.