New Hope, Old Grudges Read Online Anne Malcom

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary Tags Authors: Anne Malcom Advertisement1

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I’d hated working there then, and I hated it now.

Now, it wasn’t the work… It was what it signified. How far I’d fallen.

My mother, on the other hand, hadn’t fallen at all. No, her once modest little store had reached new heights, not just with the increased tourist foot traffic but with the new wave of spiritualism being trendy instead of fringe like it had been when I was in school. Women my age with expensive purses and polished outfits were buying crystals, men with low buns and knit cardigans were getting sage, teenagers were buying books on the occult.

My mom had even expanded to the store next door, the store light and airy, smelling of pine and cinnamon.

In short, Mom was kicking ass.

I was immensely proud of her. And again, immensely ashamed of myself for being so ashamed of her in the first place.

Swimming in self-hatred and regret, I pasted on a smile for customers and mentally calculated how many days it would take me to earn enough to get out of here.

Even though my mother was paying me way too much, it would still take way too long.

The wind chimes over the door didn’t make my head lift—I’d long since tuned them out with all of the comings and goings. Plus, I was trying to agree with the woman in front of me that the crystal she was buying would suck up all the negativity left over from her narcissistic ex, when I knew that the stone was the result of hydrothermal activity, nothing more, nothing less.

And who was I to try to bring someone down? If this woman truly believed this piece of rock would improve her life and was willing to pay twenty bucks for it, I wasn’t going to step in the way.

Maybe I should’ve got some for myself while I was at it. Couldn’t hurt.

So it wasn’t until after I had bagged up the crystal, wished the woman a pleasant day and rounded the counter to adjust the crystal display that I saw who had come into the store, holding a Kama Sutra Tarot card deck in his hand.

Brody Adams.

Looking as good as he had last Friday night.

Better, even.

His uniform again seemed to be tailored for him, and his muscles, his presence towering and masculine in the store that definitely catered to the divine feminine. His dark hair was longer on top, slightly messier than it was before—it was windy outside. His jaw was still covered with the almost-beard stubble, and the scar over his eye seemed more prominent against his tanned skin in the light of the store.

I stopped in my tracks as his hazel gaze went over me. I couldn’t control the shiver I felt under his stare, remembering the words at the bar, the husky promise in them.

My back went straight. I pushed those memories away. I instead held onto old memories, much more visceral and formative.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded, folding my arms, secretly happy I’d worn the red cashmere sweater that did great things for my complexion and had bothered to put on makeup.

Brody held up the Tarot deck. “Shopping.”

“We’re closed,” I told him sharply, refusing to react to the sexual deck he was holding.

“It’s the middle of the day,” he observed. “And they don’t seem to think you’re closed.” He nodded to the couple of teenagers in the book section.

“Let me clarify.” I stepped forward to snatch the deck from his hand. “We’re closed for you.”

I’d gotten close enough to smell him. He smelled of cedar and snow and something that screamed that he chopped wood in the wilderness.

Brody’s gaze tightened. “Look, I came in here because I wanted to apologize. Again. For the past. For not remembering you. For hanging out with assholes like Sam Norton.”

To his credit, he looked and sounded sincere. He very well might’ve been. Or he might not have been. Men were great liars. I’d learned that the only way women could, the hard way.

“Okay, your conscience is appeased, now … go.” I shooed him away with my hands.

Brody stayed in place, not moving his eyes off me.

He didn’t go. Nor did he speak for a long time. At least a minute. Which was a long time to stare at someone without speaking. His gaze was electrifying and unyielding, and I refused to break it, even though I really wanted to.

“Can you at least remind me of what it is I did to you?” There was a plea in his voice. A healthy dose of shame. Regret.

But that wasn’t enough to save him.

I blinked in shock. Holy crap. He still didn’t remember. That one interaction cemented my hatred for New Hope, took years of therapy to heal from and still haunted my dreams, yet it wasn’t even worth remembering to him.

I saw red. “Remind you?” I repeated. “How nice that you have the luxury of forgetting interactions with girls who should’ve known better than to show Brody Adams kindness.”


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