The One I Should Hate

Episode five

She tried counting backward, calculating dates, but panic made everything blur together. Marcus had forced himself on her months after the divorce papers were finalized. She’d given in because fighting him only made things worse, especially when Bob was nearby to hear it.

At the time, she’d told herself one night wouldn’t matter.

Now she wasn’t so sure.

Wilson’s voice drifted back through her memory.

Are you sick?

Maybe stress really was causing this.

Fear could do strange things to the body.

Lack of sleep.

Anxiety.

Panic.

She clung desperately to those possibilities.

Tomorrow she’d take a pregnancy test.

Tomorrow she’d know for certain.

And if it was positive…

Brittany squeezed her eyes shut hard enough to hurt.

Bob needed her.

The inn needed her.

The Wesleys depended on her.

But lying there alone in the darkness, one painful truth settled over her heavily.

There was no one she could truly depend on except herself.

For one reckless moment, Wilson’s face flashed through her mind.

Strong hands.

Steady voice.

Familiar eyes.

The old ache returned instantly.

Then reality crushed it.

Wilson belonged to another life now—a polished world of wealth and ambition far removed from this small coastal town.

And Brittany had learned the hard way not to build her future around people who left.

Swallowing hard, she pulled the blankets tighter around herself.

“I’ll handle it,” she whispered into the darkness.

But sleep never truly came.

This time Brittany couldn’t suppress the shiver that crawled over her skin as Bob shoved the jar inches from her nose.

Inside, dozens of tiny spiders clung to the larger one’s back, writhing in a restless mass.

“Oh, wow,” she murmured weakly. “That’s…terrifying.”

Bob grinned. “Cool, right?”

“Absolutely horrifying,” she corrected. “Don’t you think maybe it wants to be left alone?”

“I’m not hurting it.” He hugged the jar protectively against his chest. “I just want to keep it for a little while.”

Brittany stepped back instinctively. “I think it would prefer freedom to becoming part of your collection.”

Bob rolled his eyes dramatically and looked at Wilson for support. “See? Mom’s trying to make me soft.”

Wilson leaned against the counter with his glass of water, amusement dancing in his dark eyes. “Really? Funny, she didn’t seem soft last night. I’m still recovering from that attack.”

Brittany refused to smile.

Barely.

Especially when Wilson rubbed the side of his neck with exaggerated suffering.

“You’re being dramatic.”

“Says the woman who nearly destroyed my future children.”

Bob blinked. “What?”

Wilson immediately pointed at his neck. “She means this bruise right here.”

Brittany shot him a warning look before Bob could ask more questions.

Wilson only grinned wider.

He tugged the collar of his damp T-shirt aside just enough to expose the reddened mark near his shoulder.

Unfortunately, that also revealed a little too much chest.

Brittany’s gaze darted away instantly.

“Looks fine to me,” Bob declared.

“Give it time,” Wilson said solemnly. “I’m deeply wounded.”

“Maybe next time use the front door,” Brittany muttered.

Wilson laughed outright at that.

The sound hit her harder than it should have.

Fifteen years ago, that laugh used to undo her completely.

Apparently some things hadn’t changed nearly enough.

Trying to regain control of the conversation, Brittany pointed firmly at the jar. “You can keep the spider until tomorrow. Then it goes back outside where it belongs.”

Bob opened his mouth to argue.

“No negotiation.”

He sighed heavily. “Fine.”

The doorbell rang before he could complain further.

Relief swept through Brittany so fast it almost embarrassed her.

Being around Wilson was exhausting. One minute she wanted to strangle him. The next, she caught herself remembering exactly why she’d fallen in love with him in the first place.

And that was dangerous.

“I’ll get it,” she said quickly.

Bob barely looked up from his spider. “Pop said Wilson still has to help weed the garden after that.”

Brittany paused.

Pop.

Not Randy.

Wilson must have noticed it too, because something softened briefly in his expression.

“I’m impressed,” she told Bob. “You’re becoming useful around here.”

“I was already useful,” he argued.

Wilson snorted. “Debatable.”

Bob gasped in mock offense and chased him with the towel from the counter while Brittany headed for the front door.

The girl standing outside looked barely old enough to graduate high school. Her dark hair was streaked purple near the ends, silver rings lined one eyebrow, and colorful tattoos disappeared beneath the sleeves of her sweatshirt.

Not exactly the Victorian atmosphere the inn tried to maintain.

Still, Brittany invited her inside politely.

As they began talking in the hallway, Wilson and Bob passed behind them on their way back outside.

The applicant’s voice faltered mid-sentence.

Her eyes locked directly onto Wilson.

Brittany noticed immediately.

Of course, she did.

Women had always noticed Wilson.

At eighteen, he’d broken hearts without even trying. At thirty-four, with confidence, money, and that expensive city polish layered over his old charm, he was even worse.

The girl stared openly until the back door shut behind him.

Then she blinked and looked at Brittany. “Sorry—what was the question?”

Brittany repeated herself calmly, though suddenly she was painfully aware of her own appearance.

Simple sweater.

Hair pulled back carelessly.

No makeup.

For years, Marcus had looked through her instead of at her. Somewhere along the line, she’d stopped wondering whether other men found her attractive at all.

Wilson had said she looked good.

But he’d probably just been teasing her.

“Mrs. Livingston?”

Brittany pulled herself back to the conversation. “Sorry. Go ahead.”

“How many hours would the job be?”

“Mostly evenings Thursday through Sunday,” Brittany explained. “Our cook, Boyd Robertson, runs the kitchen. Maria and I help when things get busy.”

The girl nodded distractedly, glancing again toward the backyard windows.

Brittany almost laughed.

Apparently, Wilson’s effect on women remained annoyingly intact.

“I actually need something full-time,” the girl admitted after a moment.

“I understand.”

After she left, Brittany closed the door slowly behind her.

From outside came the distant sound of Bob laughing again.

Then Wilson’s deeper voice followed.

Warm.

Easy.

Familiar.

Brittany pressed her hand briefly against the doorframe and exhaled.

No matter how much time had passed, Wilson Wesley still had an unsettling talent for turning her entire world upside down.

Wilson whistled under his breath as he yanked another stubborn weed from the garden.

Rain clouds had finally drifted away, leaving cool ocean air and pale sunlight stretching across the backyard. Normally, he’d be buried under legal briefs and nonstop phone calls by now, but for some reason he didn’t feel anxious about any of it.

Which was strange.

His office in San Francisco was probably drowning without him.

His assistant had undoubtedly left ten messages already.

And yet here he was, kneeling in damp soil beside his grandfather while Bob chased bugs with entirely too much enthusiasm.

Maybe it was the slower pace.

Or maybe it was Brittany.

Wilson straightened and drew a deep breath of salty air blowing in from the cliffs nearby.

Through the kitchen window he caught sight of Brittany talking to Robertson.

She looked older than the girl he remembered, of course.

But somehow even more beautiful.

Life had refined her instead of hardening her. Her figure remained slim and athletic, her movements graceful and controlled. But her eyes carried something new now—strength layered over old pain.

She looked at him differently too.

Not with the open trust she once had.

That part was gone.

Wilson couldn’t really blame her.

As though sensing his attention, Brittany glanced toward the window.

Their eyes met briefly.

Then she pulled the curtain shut.

Wilson stared at the fabric for a second longer than necessary before returning to the weeds.

“How does this section look?” he asked Randy casually.

His grandfather leaned against the rake with a grunt. “Good enough. Robertson guards the herb garden like a national treasure, so don’t touch it unless you want him yelling.”

Bob wandered over carrying the spider jar carefully in both hands.

“What do you think spiders eat?” he asked seriously.

Wilson looked into the jar. “Probably tiny children who don’t listen to their mothers.”

Bob narrowed his eyes. “You’re making that up.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

Wilson shrugged. “Worth a shot.”