To Have and to Hate Read Online R.S. Grey

Categories Genre: New Adult, Romance Tags Authors: R.S. Grey Advertisement
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I ignore my growling stomach and the call of my pastels. I lie under my blankets with my book resting open on my chest, and I listen for signs of Walt. I’ve become adept at matching sound with source. I know the whirr of the espresso machine, the cling and clang of pots and pans as he makes himself breakfast.

I catch his footfalls as they approach my door, pause, and then carry on down the hall.

Tears burn the corners of my eyes and I blink them away, feeling as foolish as ever as I stare out the window.

I try to tell myself I can’t be upset with Walt for doing what he perceives to be the right thing. The bullshit he spouted last night was noble in some sense. Noble, but wrong.

Now here I lie, on this bed, in his apartment.

Unwanted.

I’m not sure where to go from here. Walt’s left me with so few options. I won’t repeat what I did last night. Absolutely not. I can’t bear the thought of begging him to take me at my word, to believe that I might be interested in him outside of who he is and what he represents, and after all that, still have him turn away again. Walt’s shell is thicker than most, and I worry it’s completely impenetrable.

I think of Camila and all the women who came before her. I should have pulled her aside when I had the chance and asked for her take on Walt. Is he as closed off as he seems? Am I silly for believing I might be the one to—as cliché as it sounds—change him?

Of course, there is another deeper thought niggling in the back of my head, a sad little voice reminding me that everything he said last night might have just been a nice way of letting me down easy. Oh yes, see, Elizabeth, we can’t be together because of our difficult arrangement. Buck up, chap. No worries.

After all, it’s not as if Walt has seemed all that interested in me before last night. Quite the opposite, in fact.

If he really wanted me, if he felt what I feel—I press a hand over my quivering chin—he wouldn’t give a damn about how difficult the circumstances are.

I finally kick off my covers once the temptation of coffee becomes too strong to ignore. I glance down and consider changing out of my pajamas before sneaking out of my room, but I’m taking a laissez-faire approach to living at the moment. That snazzy red ball gown—the one that mocks me as it hangs on the door of my closet—didn’t succeed in tempting him last night, so what’s the use in dressing nicely today?

At my door, I grasp the handle and pause, hating how nervous I’ve become, how silly I’m making this. I’ve lived in this apartment with him for weeks and survived just fine. Today shouldn’t be any different.

With newfound confidence, I tug open the door and make no attempt to silence my steps as I head toward the kitchen.

There, I find a covered plate with an accompanying note that says nothing beyond my name. My name in Walt’s handwriting. I pick it up gently, like I’m holding an old photograph I don’t want to tarnish.

Then, lifting the cover off the plate, I see he’s left me breakfast: scrambled eggs, sausage, sliced fruit.

It’s a kindness I’m not quite ready for. I take his note, pull out the trash, and drop it inside. I eat quickly and find fleeting relief in destroying his neatly arranged food with my fork.

I’m almost done when he walks into the kitchen wearing low-slung black sweatpants and a soft gray t-shirt. His hair is adorably messed up. His chin could use a shave. I swear there’s a hint of shadows under his eyes that aren’t usually there, but I don’t look at him long enough to confirm.

I have an instant to decide which path to take in regards to how I treat him, and I’m disappointed in myself when I take the low road, opting to pretend as if he doesn’t even exist.

I scrape the remnants of my breakfast out into the trash can then turn to rinse off my plate as he walks around me to get some water.

“Morning,” Walt says in a raspy voice.

“Morning.”

The budding conversation withers from there. Silence reigns, and I feel antsy with anxiety.

I’d flee, but I haven’t made my coffee yet, and the promise of a robust cup was the only thing that got me out of bed in the first place.

I walk over to retrieve a mug and set it beneath the espresso machine. Then I stand facing it while it whirrs to life. It always takes a moment to grind the espresso beans and heat the water, so I stretch out the kinks in my back in preparation for a day in front of my easel. I twist this way and that, and then I freeze when I find Walt watching me from the other side of the island.


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