Make Me Hate You: A Best Friend's Brother Romance Page 2

  My chest tightened in a completely new way — not from pain, or from abandonment, but from a yearning desire so deep and demanding that it stole my next breath and every other thought I had. I was completely frozen in his grasp, so focused on the way his warm lips caressed mine that I couldn’t concentrate enough to move a single muscle.

  He kissed me slowly, surely, as if he hadn’t had a second guess about it before in his life. And when he pulled back, he waited, watching me carefully, asking for permission to do it again.

  I answered with my hands sliding up his chest, over his shoulders, and into his hair, slicking my lips before I pulled him into me and kissed him back.

  I kissed him back.

  His response was instant, his arms full around me, crushing me into him as he deepened the kiss. A throaty moan came from his chest, and I gasped at the way it shook me to the core.

  Oh my God.

  I’m kissing my best friend’s brother.

  I’m kissing Tyler Wagner.

  And I never want to stop.

  And just like I hadn’t known that a heart could break the way mine did when my mother left, I didn’t know what it felt like to be touched like that by a boy. Sure, James and I had slept together, but it had been quick and clumsy most of the time, and I’d been mostly lost and confused, assuming that was just what it was like for the girl.

  But this… this was something else altogether.

  I didn’t know what it was to be wanted so desperately that each kiss felt like a fire searing every inch of skin covering my bones. I didn’t know what it was to tremble and shake, to be lowered back into pillows and sheets with hands so careful and confident that every other thought left my head completely. I didn’t know what it was to feel a mixture of extreme passion and somehow familiar safety all at once, to succumb to something so forbidden, and to love it like nothing I’d ever loved before.

  We crossed every line that night — and I went from loving my best friend’s brother in secret to wanting nothing more than to love him out loud.

  I lost myself inside that moment, inside that room, inside that night with Tyler.

  But of course, that was because I didn’t know what tomorrow would bring.

  I didn’t know that the next day, Tyler would ignore me completely, avoiding my eyes in his house and ignoring my texts when I left later that evening.

  I didn’t know he would call me three days later and tell me it was all a mistake, that we could never tell anyone, that it could never happen again.

  I didn’t know that the first time I felt truly wanted, and truly loved, was all a lie.

  But I found out quickly.

  I finished the last week of high school with a broken heart — broken from my mother, from Tyler, from my expectations on life — and I walked across the graduation stage in a numb trance.

  One week after that, I left my New England hometown on the first day of summer.

  I promised myself I’d never go back.

  And that I’d never talk to Tyler Wagner again.

  June 6th, 2020

  7 years later

  Outside the car that drove me through the small town of Bridgechester, New Hampshire, nothing had changed.

  The colorful colonial houses and small businesses still peppered the brick streets, gold plaques boasting the historic significance of each one along the way. The air that blew through the open windows still smelled like a New England summer — fresh and clean and woodsy, the humid summer heat seeping in and frizzing my long, freshly bleached blonde hair. Bridgechester Prep still had the same mascot, the same crimson and gold lettered signs congratulating the recent graduates, and the same castle-esque brick build.

  The town still centered around Lake Tambow, its cool, clear waters drawing tourists from all over during the summer, and the colorful turn of the leaves drawing them in all through the fall.

  Outside the car, that town was exactly what it had always been.

  But inside the car, there was me.

  And I was nothing like the girl who’d left seven years ago.

  My chest was tight as the Uber drove through downtown and then out toward the west side, each street and turn so familiar even after all these years. I watched the White Mountains in the distance as we climbed the steep street that led to the long and winding drive I never thought I’d see again, the one that led to the house I swore I’d never step foot inside of after that night.

  But after all this time, Morgan was still my best friend.

  And last week, she’d called me to tell me she’s getting married.

  In two weeks.

  I chuckled to myself, because only Morgan would announce a wedding with less than three weeks to plan it.

  Of course, she’d given me the title of Maid of Honor, and I knew I’d have my hands full trying to help her pull off a Wagner-worthy wedding in fourteen days. No doubt she’d want the very best, and I was thankful that at least the majority of my time would be occupied with wedding tasks.

  Because at the root of everything, there was a gnawing pit in my stomach being back in my hometown — one I promised myself I’d never return to.

  It’d been easy up until this point — relatively so, anyway. Aunt Laura had always come to visit me in Oakland, assuming that Bridgechester held bad memories for me because of my mom. And that was part of it, though not the most pressing, if I was being honest. Morgan had obliged, too. She loved any excuse to travel to a warmer climate and see the west coast. Of course, she had begged me a few times to come visit her, especially when we were in college, but I’d somehow managed to avoid it.

  Until now.

  When your best friend is getting married, you do whatever she asks of you — no arguments, no excuses.

  I pushed down the selfish part of myself that wanted to throw a tantrum at being back, at the fact that I’d likely be in close contact with the one person I’d spent the last seven years avoiding, reminding myself that this was about Morgan.

  And it had been seven years, for Christ’s sake. We were kids, and maybe when I was younger, it had hurt to even think about coming back here. But, I was twenty-five now, a young woman with a promising career and a full life out in California just waiting for me to come back. I could handle being in my hometown for a couple of weeks. I could handle being around the boy who broke my heart when I was a teenager.

  Besides, I had a boyfriend now.

  A handsome, accomplished, perfect boyfriend.

  Tyler Wagner couldn’t affect me anymore.

  That was the final thought in my mind when the Uber turned into the long drive of the Wagner house, cruising slowly through the elaborate black-and-gold gate and coming to a stop in front of the large, white columns of their estate.

  “Thank you,” I said, pulling up the app on my phone to tip him as I opened the door. “If you just pop the trunk, I can grab the bags.”

  “Are you sure?”

  The words were barely out of the driver’s mouth before I heard the distinct squeal of my best friend, and I turned, watching a flailing Morgan fly down the stairs and sprint toward the car.

  I smiled — genuinely — for the first time.

  “I’m sure,” I said, shaking my head at her. “Trust me, I’m about to have a dozen hands waiting to help.”

  The driver smiled at me as I let myself out of the backseat, and as soon as I did, Morgan crashed into me, flinging her arms around my neck.

  “YOU’RE HERE! YOU’RE HERE!”

  I chuckled. “I am.”

  She pulled back, the freckles on her cheeks more pronounced than they had been when we were kids. She had the biggest smile in the world, one that took up her entire face and boasted two, deep dimples — one on each cheek. Her chestnut hair that used to fall all the way to the middle of her back was in a short pixie cut now, one that accented the beautiful heart-shape of her face, and she wore glasses at least three times too big for said-face.

  Somehow, they made her look even more adorable.


  “I can’t believe you’re here — back in Bridgechester! I thought I’d never see the day!”

  Mr. and Mrs. Wagner were on the porch behind her, smiling down at me and waiting for their turn at hugs as Harry grabbed my bags out of the trunk of the Uber, tapping it once it was closed to set the driver on his way. I thanked Harry as he passed by us with my luggage in tow, and Morgan looped her arm through mine, dragging me up the stairs to the porch.

  “Jasmine, sweetie,” Amanda — her mom — said first, wrapping me in a gentle hug. She was roughly the size of a seventh grader, with the same chestnut hair as her daughter and the same wide smile. “Welcome home.”

  My chest pinched at the sentiment — home.

  I’d never felt like I’d really had one, but the Wagner’s was about as close as it got.

  “Ayuh, welcome back,” Morgan’s dad said next, wrapping me in a crushing hug that was a stark contrast from the one his wife had given me. “It’s about damn time, kid.”

  Robert Wagner was the tallest of the family, a shocking six-foot five, with thick golden hair that was always styled to perfection and the same superhero chin I used to tease his son about when we were younger. Morgan got her kind, hazel eyes from Mr. Wagner, and her athletic ability, too.

  I chuckled in his arms, squeezing him once more before we released. “Thank you. It’s good to be back.”

  That last part was a lie, but I was good at faking it.

  “Harry will take your things up to the Hibiscus Suite,” Mrs. Wagner said. I knew exactly which guest room she was talking about, the one on the third floor that had a sweeping view of the lake.

  And yes, they did actually name their guest rooms — that’s how many there were.

  “I’m making my famous lobster rolls tonight,” Mr. Wagner added as we made our way inside, and I chuckled at the way he pronounced it — lobstah. Robert was born and raised in Boston, and his accent never let us forget it.

  Seven years on the west coast had all but stolen my own accent, which was slight, anyway, seeing as how I spent most of the time in New Hampshire as opposed to the city. But Morgan had developed a bit of her own from her time in college at BU, and hearing the Wagners made me miss what little accent I’d had for the first time.

  “Just got the water boiling. Should be about an hour or so, give you some time to wash up and settle in.”

  “And tell me all about Jacob,” Morgan added, waggling her eyebrows.

  I snickered, head spinning already, as it often did at the Wagners. They were a house full of extroverted entertainers, and this was what they lived and breathed for — having guests.

  “Is it just the four of us tonight?” I asked, trying to sound coy, like I was asking after the other members of the bridal party more than anything else.

  “Yep! Everyone else gets in tomorrow, and even when they get here, most of them are staying in Boston. They want to explore the city while they’re here. So, it’ll just be us tonight,” Morgan said, bopping alongside me. “Well, and Ty, of course. If he ever leaves his office,” she added with a roll of her eyes and a smirk.

  My stomach fell to the floor, blood draining from my face at just the mention of his name. It was like a flash of memory from a dream long ago, the way his smile blurred my vision like a lightning bolt in that moment. I could see him so clearly, as if he was already there in the foyer with us.

  I could feel his hands in my hair, pulling me closer…

  I forced a smile, shoving that memory away as fast as it had come, but didn’t offer a word otherwise.

  “Come on, let’s go sit by the pool,” Morgan said when her parents excused themselves back to the kitchen. “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

  My smalt blue eyes stared back at me in the mirror of my private bathroom hours later, lined in coal and lashes painted black. The tan I’d been working on made the blue even brighter and more striking. They had always been my favorite feature, and I stared at them, through them, wondering why the strong woman I had become was shaking like a scared little girl.

  I knew, of course — but I didn’t want to admit it.

  I sighed, running my fingers through my bright locks to situate them the way I wanted over my shoulders. My hair was long and straight, the roots darker than the bleached strands and tips. I’d put on just a touch of makeup — enough to cover the dark circles under my eyes, but not so much that it would look like I tried. And though I knew dinner with just the Wagner family would be casual, I still put on a fresh pair of white jeans and my favorite dusty blue top, one that tied in the front and showed just a tiny sliver of my stomach. I’d had a board-like, athletic build my entire life, and where I used to pray for boobs and hips and an ass that wasn’t flat as a shelf, I’d come into my figure over the last several years, appreciating it for what it was.

  With one last turn and glance at my outfit, I sighed, shutting off the bathroom light and making my way downstairs to face the music.

  I had to get it over with at some point.

  Morgan and her parents were in the kitchen, her dad putting the final touches on dinner while she and her mom sat at the kitchen island, each with a glass of red wine in hand. As soon as I joined them, Morgan poured one for me, too.

  “How long’s it been since you had a proper lobster roll, Jasmine?” Robert asked.

  “Too long.”

  “I’d say,” Amanda chimed in. “By the way, what’s with your accent? You turning valley girl on us now?”

  I chuckled. “I live in Oakland, not LA. And just because I’ve learned to pronounce my r’s doesn’t make me any less of a New England girl.”

  “A New England girl would be back to visit more than one time in seven years,” a deep voice said, and I closed my eyes, my entire body tensing at the sound.

  Tyler strode into the kitchen with the same brooding arrogance he’d always had, leaning against the refrigerator and crossing his arms as he took in the sight of me. I avoided his eyes for as long as I could, but when I finally looked up, he was staring right back at me in the most unapologetic way. His gaze even dropped slightly, taking in my full frame, and he cocked a brow in appreciation before a smirk found his stupid, full lips.

  “Nah, you’re a leaf peeper now.”

  Morgan said his name in a chastising tone, but it earned a chuckle from his father.

  I just narrowed my eyes, doing everything in my power not to notice how tall he’d grown, how his toned and tanned arms crossed over his built chest, how his russet brown hair was still a bit long and boyish, making him look so much like the boy I left behind that I nearly doubled over at the sight.

  “It’s summer,” I pointed out. “If I was a leaf peeper, I’d be here in October.”

  “I’m just saying, you can’t call yourself a New England girl when you talk and look like that,” he said, eyeing me. “And when you haven’t set foot in New Hampshire in almost a decade.”

  “I can call myself whatever I damn well please.”

  He surged forward with a challenge in his eyes, leaning over the kitchen island until his stupid grin was right in my face. I leaned back in the same instant.

  “Hmm… let’s test it. How do you pronounce the scenic highway all the leaf peepers like yourself drive through every fall?”

  I crossed my arms. “Kancamagus,” I answered, putting emphasis on the mog. “But most of us don’t pronounce it at all, since we just refer to it as The Kanc.”

  Tyler smirked, leaning in a little closer, his dark eyes fixed on mine like he saw every single thing I was trying to hide. “Now, say, ‘wicked.’”

  I flipped him off, and the entire family laughed, Robert pointing the wooden spoon covered in lobster salad at me. “I always loved that you had moxie, kid.”

  Tyler licked his bottom lip, eyes roaming over me for longer than necessary before he shoved back from the island again, dipping into the fridge and grabbing a Sam Adams Summer Ale and popping the top off on the edge of the kitchen counter. That earned hi
m a slap on the wrist from his mother, but he just winked at me before putting the bottle to his lips and taking a long, slow pull.

  I flushed, tearing my eyes from his just as Robert said it was time to eat.

  I managed to calm down during dinner, mostly thanks to Amanda and Morgan filling any empty space in the conversation. Every now and then, one of them would ask me something, like how California was (beautiful as always), how work was (wonderful, the podcast is growing more and more every day), or, my favorite, how Jacob and I met (at a networking event for local influencers, he was the most charming man I’d ever met — and I made sure to say that last part loud and proud).

  But, for the most part, the conversation hinged on the upcoming wedding.

  The wedding that would take place on the Cape two weeks from today.

  It should have surprised all of us when Morgan said she was marrying a guy she’d dated less than a year, and in two weeks, nonetheless. But, the fact that no one in this family batted an eye is a testament to how well we knew our girl. She had always been impulsive, and not in the way that she’d buy a pair of three-hundred-dollar shoes on a whim. No, for Morgan, it was always the big things — huge changes that she’d make up her mind about overnight and no one could ever talk her out of it.

  She cut off all her hair without ever looking back. She changed majors her senior year of college, just because she felt in her gut that it was the right thing to do. She got her first tattoo at a basement party in Boston and bought a horse she kept at a stable outside of town without ever having ridden one in her life.

  It was as if she mulled on what her next move would be constantly, and once she decided, that was it. There was no other option.

  So, when she met Oliver Bradford during her girls’ trip to the Cape last summer and told me with the utmost confidence that she’d be marrying him before her twenty-sixth birthday, I didn’t doubt it for a second. And when she called me last week to tell me he’d proposed, it didn’t surprise me at all that she wanted to get married on June twentieth.

  Four days before her birthday.