Guy Hater Read online

  Guy Hater

  Ethan Asher

  Copyright © 2019 by Ethan Asher

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Editing by Proof Positive Pro

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Charleigh

  2. Charleigh

  3. Guy

  4. Guy

  5. Charleigh

  6. Guy

  7. Charleigh

  8. Guy

  9. Charleigh

  10. Guy

  11. Charleigh

  12. Charleigh

  13. Guy

  14. Charleigh

  15. Charleigh

  16. Guy

  17. Charleigh

  18. Guy

  19. Charleigh

  20. Guy

  21. Guy

  22. Charleigh

  23. Charleigh

  24. Guy

  25. Charleigh

  26. Guy

  27. Charleigh

  28. Charleigh

  29. Guy

  30. Charleigh

  31. Charleigh

  32. Guy

  33. Charleigh

  34. Guy

  35. Charleigh

  36. Guy

  37. Charleigh

  38. Guy

  Epilogue

  You’re Awesome

  Stay Connected

  Prologue

  Charleigh

  I hate this town.

  I hate its expansive mountain views and all the oh-so-happy-and-in-love couples who Instagram said views. I hate the disgustingly fresh air. I hate the verdant evergreen forests and every single one of the crystal-clear, snow-fed tributaries that meander through them. I hate everything about this sleepy mountain town, from its tiny woodland critters down to its dumb name.

  I know what you’re probably thinking by now…

  What are tiny woodland critters and how could anyone hate them? And fresh air? Wow, girl. You must be a blast at parties. And also: WHY. DO. YOU. STILL. LIVE. THERE?

  You probably think I have some unresolved issues that I should work through with a therapist. Scratch that—a whole team of therapists working around the clock to make sure I’m not a threat to society.

  You’d be right, somewhat.

  However, when it comes to Whispering Pine (see? PINE TREES CAN’T WHISPER. Dumb.), Colorado, I only have one unresolved issue: Guy Finch.

  Guy “My Farts Make You Flinch” Finch.

  Guy’s the type of—well, guy—who leaves less than a spoonful of ice cream in the container before putting it back in the freezer. He’s the type of person who, if he does replace the toilet paper, puts the roll upside down like a savage.

  Guy Finch wears socks with sandals.

  Okay, I went a bit too far with that last one. I don’t know if he wears socks with sandals. And to be honest, I don’t know if he does any of the other things I’ve accused him of.

  I know… I know…

  But here’s the one thing I do know for certain about Guy Finch. He made my life hell when we were kids. And when I extrapolate from what I know about him then, I’m sure my previous accusations are accurate and well within an acceptable margin of error.

  And now that he’s back in Whispering Pine, it’s enough for me to hate everything about this town. He should’ve been turned away at the city’s limits, but instead, the friendly folk of Whispering Pine opened their loving arms and embraced the monster that is Guy “I’m As Sharp As A Wrench” Finch.

  But I won’t be so welcoming.

  1

  Charleigh

  As I walk through the oversized board-and-batten door of The Lookout, there are three things on my mind: taxidermy, Guy Finch, and a hard, stiff drink. To be clear, as much as I hate Guy, I don’t want him dead, stuffed, and mounted on a wall. Unless…

  No, Charleigh. You’d never get away with it. He’s a cop!

  It’s the first time I’ve stepped foot in here and the decor is killing me. Dead eyes stare down at me from the wall, judging me as I pass by them on my way to the bar. Interior design tip number one: Swaths of oversized trophy kills lining every wall do not a rustic lodge make.

  As I’m navigating through the packs of men (and only men), I feel like I'm in The Prancing Pony or Green Dragon Inn. The men may not be as small as Hobbits, but they're certainly as hairy. All that's missing from the ambiance is said group of men breaking into a rousing song about gold, dragons, or elvish lords while a few of the shorter ones dance a merry jig on a table.

  Every breath I take is filled with alcohol, stale air, and burps. Mostly burps. And with the amount of testosterone circulating in the air around me, I’m pretty sure I’ll have a full-grown mustache à la Tom Selleck or Ron Swanson by the time I leave.

  When I find a stool at the bar, I check my phone and find a text from my brother.

  Jamie: Where are you?!

  Not there…

  And by there I mean the dinner I should be attending—the one where all threads of conversation will weave together into a single strand: my brother’s upcoming wedding. It’s not that I’m not happy for him. Or that I don’t want to hang out with his fiancée. Believe me, the more I hang out with Marissa, the more I respect her for being able to kiss Jamie without gagging. And I’d love to watch Jamie squirm as I recount how he wet the bed until he was twelve.

  Kidding!

  Kinda.

  No. The reason I’m here and not there circles back to the two things left on my mind: Guy Finch and booze.

  Guy Finch and my brother are best friends. Which means that Guy is my brother’s best man. Which means that he’s going to be at the dinner. Which means that I’m here and not there.

  Charleigh: My ceiling sprang a leak again! It’s being fixed. I’ll be there soon.

  It’s not a complete lie. There is a leak in my apartment but I plugged it with paper towels and duct tape. It’s all up to code, I swear. Well, it will be once my landlord finally fixes it. Hopefully.

  “What can I get you?” asks the only other female I can see in the bar. Her black hair and blunt bangs contrast starkly with her pale complexion and cornflower blue eyes.

  “Tequila and lime, please,” I say, staring at her shiny septum piercing.

  She smiles. “That kind of a night, huh?”

  My phone vibrates. I glance at the message and groan.

  “Yup.” I let the ‘P’ really pop. “That kind of a night.”

  She raps her knuckles twice on the bar and then retreats to grab my drink.

  Jamie: Guy’s not here either.

  Yet.

  Is what I’d say if I wanted to be confrontational. Instead, I feign ignorance, which I’m sure will go over just as well.

  Charleigh: Oh, he’s supposed to be joining us tonight? I didn’t know. I’m just waiting for them to finish up.

  I’m such a bad liar. I’ve heard that you either cut close to the truth or deviate as far from it as possible. I settle on a middle ground between the two that seems plausible never of the time. Yes—never of the time. Neverytime. It will catch on, I swear.

  Jamie: I know you two haven’t always gotten along. I know you’re avoiding him. And I know he’s changed.

  Charleigh: You seem to know a lot of stuff, Jimbo, but do you know how to fix a leak? These guys are taking a really long time and I don’t think they’re accredited contractors. Is there some sort of accreditation process for contractors? Remind me to Google that later.

  Jamie: Charleigh…

  Jamie knows the history between Guy and me. He knows how Guy teased me.
But he also knows that Guy wasn’t always an asshole to me. We actually got along once upon a time.

  “One tequila and lime,” the bartender says, setting it down in front of me.

  “Thanks,” I say, snatching the glass and bringing it to my lips.

  “You sure you don’t want anything to chase it down?”

  I pause, the glass rim grazing my bottom lip as I look at her pretty blue eyes staring back at me with such misplaced concern. I’m Charleigh Holiday. I know how to take a motherfu—phleagh!

  I sputter and cough, shaking my head as I set the glass down and push it away. You know those videos of toddlers tasting lemons for the first time? That’s my face right now. It’s staring at me from the mirror behind the bar and it’s not pretty.

  After a few seconds of gasping for air, I mutter a semi-decipherable command that I hope will turn my drink into something that won’t burn the lining of my esophagus the next time around.

  Eyes watering. Nose running. Throat still throbbing. The bartender, trying hard not to laugh, takes my drink and leaves, her hair bobbing triumphantly as though to say, “I told you so.”

  What am I thinking? I don’t like tequila. Hell, I don’t even like alcohol. I’ll have an occasional cider or glass of wine, but straight tequila?

  Once the burning sensation in my throat subsides, I look around me, hoping that no one saw that. Thankfully, everyone else is too busy smashing pints to notice. Except for…

  Oh, hello.

  One of the only men at the bar with more hair on his head than his face stares at me with an amused grin. His lips move slowly as he speaks with the bartender but his eyes focus on me. From this distance, I can just make out his features.

  Dirty blonde hair. Dark eyes. Prominent jawline and brow ridge.

  This guy looks like an LL Bean cover model but without the hunter-green down vest, braying blonde wife, two kids, and a golden retriever named Kingsley. Some women might describe him as dreamy, but not me.

  Nope. Not me.

  The bartender leaves, but Mr. Not-So-Dreamy keeps his eyes locked on mine as he raises a glass to his lips, swallows, and then sets it back down. I turn away and focus on my phone just as he smiles at me, sending a fluttering sensation through my chest.

  Charleigh: I swear I’m not avoiding Guy. I didn’t even know he was going to be there.

  There’s a long pause between my text and the next one Jamie sends. But when it hits, it hits no harder than a bullet train.

  Jamie: I expected more from you, Charleigh.

  My brother sure knows how to hit me right in the gut. Ugh. This is awful.

  “Here you go,” the bartender says as she places down something that I definitely didn’t order.

  I glance at her with raised eyebrows. “What is this?”

  She motions with her head at Mr. Not-So-Dreamy, who has a shit-eating grin plastered on his much too handsome face. “Chardonnay. Compliments of the gentleman over there. He said it might be more your style.” Her cheeks redden as she turns, trying hard to mask the laugh itching to come out.

  “More my style?” I sputter as she heads over to another customer.

  I stare at the glass in front of me, take a breath, and groan. Okay, he may be right. I do like chardonnay, but I hate how this guy thinks he knows me based on absolutely nothing at all.

  If I weren’t already preoccupied, I’d tell him as much. Instead, I stand up, make a face at him as he waves at me, and then surreptitiously ask the bartender as I pass by her to have someone bring the glass of wine over to me in a few minutes. I don’t want to give Mr. LL Bean the pleasure of knowing he was right.

  I find a cozy spot in front of the floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace away from the noise, but the noise in my head is still raging. And my phone is still beeping.

  Jamie: How’s that leak?

  Charleigh: If I were on a boat, they’d be calling for women and children to head to the lifeboats now.

  With each lie I tell, I feel worse. I should bite the bullet and go. It’s been years since I’ve seen Guy, and maybe Jamie’s right. Maybe he outgrew his jackassery and cleaned up his act a little. The thought nearly sends me into a fit of laughter: Guy changing?

  “You forgot something.”

  The gritty masculine voice hugs me like a fleece blanket. It warms me from the inside out like a steaming mug of hot chocolate (mini-marshmallows included, of course). It’s deep and rough and—oh my God!

  It’s him. And wow, Lieutenant LL Bean is far more handsome at this distance. He looms over me with wide, strong shoulders and a smile that could drop a thousand panties. But definitely not mine. His rugged charm and masculine features and heavenly scent have absolutely no effect on me.

  None. What. So. Ever.

  I glance at the glass of chardonnay that looks like a child’s cup in his large hands. “No, I don’t think I did.”

  I turn around, pick up my phone, and begin texting my nonexistent friend who will totally save me from this situation. The heat from his gaze spreads all over my body me as I type gibberish into a note app. Jesus. I’m a plate of food under a heat lamp ready on the pass. Order up and get me out of here!

  He leans over, setting the glass on the small wood stump table next to me. “You know,” he says, his warm breath tickling my neck, “it’s usually more convincing to open your Messenger app, rather than your note app, when you’re pretending to text someone.”

  Every breath is filled with his scent. It’s spicy and masculine and doing things to my brain that usually happen after I’m a few glasses of wine deep.

  Blood rushes to my head and pounds in my ears. My heart thumps faster and faster as my mouth dries. Before I have a chance to respond, he takes a step back, tells me to have a good night, and then walks away, leaving every inch of my body sizzling.

  That’s IT?!

  I’m no longer thinking about Guy. I’m no longer thinking of Jamie or the dinner I’m not attending. All I’m thinking about is the short, frustrating encounter with Mr.—okay, fine!—Dreamy.

  I’m not sure how long I’ve been stewing in my thoughts, grudgingly drinking my chardonnay—which is delicious, by the way—when I’m interrupted.

  “Beautiful night isn’t it, Red?”

  I love it when creepy, drunk old men try to grab my attention by using one of my physical attributes as my name, said no woman ever. My gag reflex is fully charged as I slowly twist my neck to gaze at the monstrosity looming next to me, panting as though he’s just finished a marathon.

  The cloying smell of alcohol on his breath mixes with his Axe body spray and sweat, creating a scent that makes my nose want to shrivel up and die. But as soon as his greasy meat mittens grip my shoulder, I say, “Nope,” and make my exit, finding another seat at the other end of the fireplace.

  It takes a few moments for my departure to register on Mr. Clueless’s face. When it finally does, he comes stumbling after me with the grace of a newborn elephant on ice.

  “Oh, come on. Give us a smile, Red,” he says when he finally makes it to me.

  Okay, it’s official: I’m in The Lord of the Rings because not only does this guy talk like Sméagol, his bloated face with bulbous eyes and gnarly, slimy teeth bear a striking resemblance to him too. It’s uncanny, but I’m not his Precious. And I swear to Gandalf, if he calls me Red one more time, I’ll unleash hell.

  I stand up, grab my empty glass, and head toward the bar. But as I pass by him, he snatches my arm and I can’t help gaping at him, stunned. What in the hell is going on?

  “Emma!”

  I turn toward the voice, still dazed. It takes me a few moments to register the person’s face, but when I do, I’ve never been so thankful. Mr. Dreamy’s rushing over to me.

  “Sebastian,” I call back.

  Sebastian?!

  Sméagol releases me with a grunt just as Sebastian—whatever the hell his name is—reaches me. “There you are,” he says, grabbing me. I assume he’s going to drag me away, but instead, he ki
sses me.

  And holy hell, is this a kiss.

  2

  Charleigh

  Have you ever been to outer space?

  Me neither. But whatever the hell Sebastian’s doing to me with his lips makes me feel weightless, as though at any moment I could float away into a vast nothingness if not for his arms tethering me to him.

  When I finally come down from the euphoric high of making out with him, I have two things on my mind: Who the hell does he think he is, and why can’t I stop myself from kissing him?

  His lips are so soft and meld perfectly against mine, and he tastes sweet like cinnamon and sugar. My mind feels like a live wire, flopping and flailing and spinning wildly as sparks of electricity arc. I can’t remember the last time someone’s made me feel like this.

  Has anyone ever made me feel like this before?

  He grips the back of my head with one hand, deepening our kiss, while the other presses against the small of my back. My arms are bunched up against his hard chest as he kisses me roughly. I whimper as he pulls away for a brief moment, looking at me in a way that jolts all my baser instincts into overdrive.

  My God, this man is something else.