Hate to Love You - Chapter 23: Chapter 23

Hannah
I don't know what possessed me to go up to his apartment with him.
Maybe curiosity finally got the best of me; I always did think it led to more problems. But dammit, I really wanted to know what his place looked like.
While we were parking, he explained that there were seven floors but only five apartments in the building, each on its own floor. The bottom two were reserved for the reception, the fitness center, and the indoor pool while everything above it was private accommodation. The outside was no less impressive with its well-manicured gardens and a lot of tall, dense white firs, along with some other smaller native trees and plants. High walls surrounded the property, and security guards manned the entrance. It was all just so... private. And serene. A huge difference from the chaos on campus.
I don't know why that surprised me, but it did. Though, I suppose it made sense. You would probably be desperate to hold onto some semblance of peace when you're a public figure like him. I just knew that peace wasn't cheap.
My gaze found his back as he led me into the building, and my attention immediately fixated on his back muscles, watching them move in a mesmerizing dance under his shirt. It wasn't even a surprising revelation when I realized that all that anger and fear from before was gone. Just a few minutes in his presence and he had me forgetting that I was supposed to be wary of him.
Once, I'd asked myself why people gravitated to him, but now that question terrified me. Because I knew the answer. It was simple really.
He was just so fucking bright.
There was a lone man at the reception desk, and he smiled in greeting as soon as he saw Tristan. "Good afterno—" He stopped when he noticed me, his smile morphing into a look of surprise as he stared at me.
Tristan simply gave him a polite smile in turn and offered neither of us an explanation as he led me towards the elevator. I turned to look back as he pressed the button to take us to the seventh floor, finding the man still staring at me.
"Why is he looking at me like that?" I whispered, a little perturbed by the look on the man's face
The doors opened, and Tristan indicated that I should get in first. "Looking at you like what?"
I stepped in and turned to the front to face him, giving him a no-nonsense look. "Don't play dumb with me. He's staring at me like I'm the first woman he's ever seen. Do I have something on my face, and you're just not telling me because you think it's funny?"
He laughed and stepped behind me. "Your face is just as beautiful as the day I first saw you — maybe that's why Carlos is staring. He can't help himself."
The doors slid shut. "You did not think I was pretty when we first met. We hated each other."
"Did we?" In the mirrored doors, I could see him leaning against the metal railing behind us, arms folded as he watched me.
Frowning at his reply, I answered, "I insulted you in front of a crowd of people, some of whom were probably your fans... and I admit that I might have played a part in ruining your chances with several women. I mean, you had a breakdown in my kitchen because I was fucking up your life — your words, not mine. How could I not think you hated me?"
He smirked, tilting his head, and I watched as a stray lock of dark hair fell and brushed against his forehead. I was starting to love when his hair did that.
"I think you wanted me to hate you."
The doors opened, breaking our eye contact as a small hallway came into sight. Light grey walls covered in framed black and white pictures of famous landmarks led to a dark door with two tall plants on either side of it. To my brief amusement, I found a photograph of Pikes Peak in the center.
Tristan stepped around me, his arm brushing against mine as he headed straight for the door. My eyes followed him as his words echoed in my mind. Instinctively, I wanted to defend myself and outright reject that claim, but I also knew he was right.
"Are you coming?"
He was standing at the now-open door, holding out a hand to me.
I looked at it. "Do you hold all of your friend's hands?"
I was acutely aware of how we held hands in the car, but that lapse in my judgment wasn't going to happen again. I had regained some of my senses since he'd kidnapped me, so I knew it was best to avoid touching him altogether.
Nodding, he said, "Yup — we kiss too."
That one got to me and a reluctant smile fought its way onto my lips. Covering it up, I rolled my eyes, and retorted, "Ha ha. The only thing you can kiss is my ass." Scoffing, I walked past him and through the door, ignoring his hand as I took care not to brush against him.
When I got no response, I stopped and turned back. He was still standing there, watching me with that stupid smirk of his. Maybe telling him to kiss my ass had been the wrong thing to say, but it was out of my mouth before I could think.
"If you think I meant that literally, I didn't. Don't think I haven't noticed your blatant obsession with my butt."
"You have? That's great. I was getting tired of trying to hide it." He smirked softly as he followed me inside and closed the door behind him.
I shook my head at him, ignoring the way my pulse jumped. "You're the biggest flirt I've ever met. Don't you ever take a break?"
He shrugged sheepishly, really honing in on that boyish charm. "Not even in my sleep, but I'll try and behave from now on. I promise."
Do not falter, Hannah. Resist the smile.
I turned back around to take in my surroundings. His place was warmer than I imagined it to be. I'd been expecting a minimalistic and dark apartment, but it looked lived in and had personality — his personality.
Sunlight streamed through the large windows overlooking the gardens beneath us. He had a huge L-shaped couch facing a flat-screen TV on the only wall in his living room. The kitchen was open and surprisingly big with a big marble island to separate it from the rest of the place. And the kitchen was clean, but used — there were some fruit and giant glass jars of powder on the counters, and a whole array of spices on a spice rack. Did that mean he knew how to cook?
On a shelf next to the hallway that presumably led to his bedroom and any other rooms, was a pile of textbooks, a jacket, and several framed family pictures, along with some other trinkets. I wanted to inspect the pictures at a closer distance, but I was taking cues from him.
"I believe I promised you a cup of coffee." Walking towards the kitchen, he gestured at the two barstools on the outer side of the island and walked around them to get to the coffee machine.
I climbed onto the right chair and got comfortable, watching him as he went to get a cup from one of the cupboards before placing it under the nozzle. "You're quite the host."
"Am I?" He sounded amused, pressing a button as he kept his back to me. "Is that a compliment?"
"It was... an observation. I guess you've managed to surprise me in more ways than one. You're very different from the man I thought you'd be." I folded my arms, following his every movement.
As the water boiled, he turned around to face me, leaning one hip against the counter. "Let me guess — I'm way more awesome than whatever you had me pegged as?"
I couldn't help the small smile tugging at my lips. "That's still up for debate. You did just kidnap me in front of a whole crowd and manage to get away with it scot-free."
He showed zero remorse, grinning at me instead. "Spur-of-the-moment decision. What can I say — you turn me into an idiot."
I narrowed my eyes at him. "Pretty sure you manage that all by yourself."
"Okay, smartass," he retorted, humor coloring his beautiful green eyes. "Let's not get distracted from what we came here to talk about. You started by explaining why your mom was a lot."
I don't think he intended it, but all of my own amusement disappeared in an instant. I had completely forgotten about our conversation in the car. And now that I was staring down the barrel of it again, it seemed like a terrible idea. Tell him about my mom? Why had I thought that was a good plan?
Because I didn't want him to hate me. I wanted him to understand why I acted the way I did.
Swallowing hard under the intensity of his stare, I looked down at the counter, tracing the silver veins in the marble. "Right. My mother..." Taking a deep, reinforcing breath, I began, "Well, to get right into things — I don't think my parents ever really loved each other. My mom probably married my dad because her parents pushed her into it, and my dad used her to escape his own family's expectations. They were young, and when you live in a small, conservative town, marriage is heavily encouraged — especially by the church."
"Are you Mormon?"
"No. My parents used to be, but my dad wanted nothing to do with it, so they left both the faith and the town behind. I never met my grandparents, but if they were anything like my mom, I don't regret it." I paused, feeling a pang of bitterness. "I don't think my mom has ever truly moved on, though."
I suspected she was grappling with a lot of guilt over her actions, and the only way she could find forgiveness was by repenting and dedicating her entire life to seeking redemption and earning her place in heaven. Now that she was divorced, her behavior had only gotten worse.
"Anyway," I continued, "growing up, they were always either fighting or ignoring each other." I could still remember the simmering rage I felt lying in my baby brother's bed, covering his young ears as our parents' screams echoed throughout the whole house.
I had to shake my head to get rid of the bitter memory. "My mom was the worst. She had a hair-trigger temper and came up with all sorts of creative punishments for us, from controlling our food and water or getting rid of our toys."
"Where was your dad during all of this?" His question carried a strained undertone.
I licked my lips because they felt dry all of a sudden. "He was... around. Kind of. He tried to avoid being in the house as much as possible, so he was either at work or doing his own thing away from my mother. Sometimes he would try to step in when she went too far, but it usually ended in a screaming match between them." Eventually, he started getting irritated whenever I asked for help, so I quickly learned to leave him alone — but I wasn't going to tell Tristan that. My sob story was sad enough as is.
This time, he frowned, and I couldn't help the trickle of humiliation rising in my throat. I wasn't accustomed to sharing this kind of personal information, and there was something painfully raw about laying it all out in the open. It felt strange hearing my own words, as if someone else was telling the story.
"Hannah?"
I looked up, meeting his oddly encouraging gaze. "You're doing great," he said softly. I knew he said it to both comfort and reassure me because he must have seen something on my face.
Giving him a small, reassuring smile in turn, I kept going. "She got even worse after he left, and I couldn't take it anymore. I needed out of that house." Guilt speared my chest, forcing me to look down in shame. "College felt like my chance at freedom — a way to escape my family and finally live my own life. I wanted the fun, the freedom, boys, everything." I could still recall those initial feelings of excitement and hope, blinding me to the pain and damage my absence would cause.
I blinked when he slid a cup of coffee into my field of vision, leaning against the other side of the kitchen island with both forearms resting on the cool surface.
"Thank you," I mumbled, already drawing the cup up to my lips. It was hot, but I liked to be reminded that I was alive every time I drank coffee.
"Okay, I'm still confused about what happened to Tyler Rogers. When you say boys, I'm assuming we've moved on from him?"
It took me a second to figure out who he meant and I had to roll my eyes. "Tommy Russo. And I broke things off with him soon after we... you know. I was only using him to piss off my mom because she kept lecturing me on the importance of staying pure for marriage." The funny thing was — I lost the courage to tell my mom about it the next day. I was scared she was going to make us get married or something equally as crazy, so I swore him to silence and cut off all contact after that. I still felt bad about using him, but some of my old friends had let me know that he had a new girlfriend, so I hoped he was happier now.
"Sex in the name of sticking it to the authorities — I like it. Your mother sounds like she deserves that and worse, no offense." Disgust edged his voice, and it gave me a small measure of relief. Sometimes, hearing someone else acknowledge how awful my mom's actions were made it feel more real, rather than just a product of my memories — memories that, over time, I had started to downplay, even to myself.
I waved a hand. "None taken. You don't even know the half of it. She makes Meredith Blake look like a loving mother."
He didn't find that as funny as I thought he would, brows furrowing even more as he said, "Okay, so you left for college to escape her. But I'm guessing that's not the whole story?"
My laugh came out flat and unfeeling, devoid of any genuine amusement. "Oh, trust me, the story's only just begun."
He pressed his lips together as he studied me with that piercing gaze. "I had a feeling you were going to say that. We've already crossed Terry Richards off the list, so..." His voice trailed off, but his meaning was clear.
My eyes widened. Tristan Beckett was a lot smarter than I gave him credit for.
Bracing myself, I gathered the courage to finally say, "I met Dylan during my freshman week."