Hate to Love: A Bayfield High Romance Book 4 (Bayfield High Series) by Madeleine Labitan

Author:Madeleine Labitan [Labitan, Madeleine]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2019-06-05T22:00:00+00:00

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I can’t sleep. One glance at the alarm clock on my bedside table tells me it’s already five minutes after midnight. Damn. I’m supposed to be sleeping already. If this keeps up, I’ll end up looking like a sleepless hag at my date tomorrow. And I can’t have that.

Sliding out of bed, I step into my fluffy slippers and pad out of my room and head down to the kitchen. Going straight to the fridge, I grab the milk carton inside. This should put me to sleep.

“Why are you still awake?” Mom, who’s still in her scrubs, stands at the kitchen entry.

Startled, I almost drop the milk. “Jesus, Mom.”

“Don’t use the name of the Lord in vain,” she chides sternly, placing her handbag on top of the island counter.

“Right. Sorry.” I watch as she pulls up one of the stools and sit. I gesture to the milk in my hand. “You look tired, Mom. Want me to get you a glass?”

“Yes, please.” She stares while I retrieve two glasses from the drawer and pour some milk into them, handing one to her. “How’s work?”

I smile, sitting opposite her. “It’s been great.”

It really is. I know I came close to quitting when I started, but I don’t feel that way anymore. Sure, I feel tired after every shift—and there are always customers that make me want to scream in absolute frustration—but I find the job fulfilling. It makes me feel like an adult. A responsible adult.

She takes a drink from the glass. “Looks like you’re enjoying yourself.”

“I am. Not at first, though. I thought everyone hated me.” I laugh, swirling the milk in my glass. “I’m not exactly a people person.”

That puts a frown on her face. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

Oh, but it is. I don’t look as friendly and approachable as Maddy and Amanda. In fact, some people have told me that I look intimidating. I usually just laugh it off. It never really bothers me. Just because people see me a certain way doesn’t mean it’s true. And it’s not my obligation to make them believe otherwise. They can think or say whatever they want—it’s their choice. Just as it’s my choice not to care.

So I just shrug.

Sensing I’m not interested in talking more about it, Mom changes the subject. “I’ve seen the payment you made on the credit card.”

That perks me up. “It’s just the first.”

She looks at me fondly. “I’m so proud of you.”

I almost choke on the milk I’m guzzling. “You are?”

Don’t get me wrong. Mom is never stingy with praises. She always says she’s proud of me and Jake, especially after we aced a test. Or whenever she gets hold of our stellar report cards. The same goes with Dad—on work-related stuff, of course.

But this is different. I didn't take the job because I was being a good daughter. I wasn't looking to score some brownie points. I took it as a punishment for my screw-up. So hearing Mom say she's proud of me for that punishment is a little mind-blowing.

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