Page 9 of Ruining Hattie

BASTION

T he following week, I don’t arrive in Wisconsin until Monday night, just to prove to myself I have the self-discipline. I spoke to my lawyer, and things are moving along nicely with my plan. All that needs to happen is for me to bait the line and watch Hattie bite down on it.

I’m meeting her tonight, and today I plan to make another sweep of her apartment to see if anything I missed the first time can lend some more insight into her now that I know a little more about her.

I watch her leave her building, punctual as usual. Her hair is pulled up in a ponytail, and she has on a sheath dress in a floral pattern that looks as if it’s at least a size too big for her.

As I did last time, I wait twenty minutes to make sure she isn’t going to return, then I pull the baseball cap over my head and grab the clipboard from the passenger seat. I’m back in her apartment in under three minutes. Seriously, the rush is addicting. I can’t do this many more times.

It looks much the same as it did the last time I was here. Everything is in its place, though there are different books on the coffee table. She must be an avid reader. Then again, she does nothing else.

A quick tour of the bedroom and the bathroom reveal nothing new, and I end my tour in the kitchen. I’ve just pushed the junk drawer closed when I hear a key in the lock.

Fuck.

A quick glance around tells me there’s nowhere to hide, and trying to slip out of the sliding glass door in the living room will only announce my presence to who I assume is Hattie.

Goddammit, this whole thing is going to be over before it even starts. Why the hell did I insist on coming here again?

The door closes softly behind Hattie, and I hold my breath, praying that she just forgot something, grabs it, and goes. And that whatever it is, it isn’t in the kitchen.

Heavy steps make their way from the door into the living room.

My stomach lodges in my throat. She’s going to catch me, and there’s not an excuse in the world she’s going to buy for what the fuck I’m doing in her apartment.

“Still reading your smut.” The deep chuckle of a man rings through the silent apartment.

My forehead creases. Did she lie to me when she said she didn’t have a boyfriend?

Footsteps sound again, making their way away from the kitchen and down the hall. I slowly creep out of the kitchen without making a sound until I’m in the living room, where I stand looking between the escape of the sliding glass door and the entry to the hallway.

I should get the hell out of here before I’m caught. But I want to know who the fuck this guy is and what he’s doing here. Why does he have a key to Hattie’s apartment? I’ll dig into my curiosity later.

Slowly enough not to make a sound, I head toward the hallway entrance, pausing when I hear something. It takes me a minute to figure out what it is—the sound of Hattie’s dresser drawers opening and closing. Somehow, I think this guy has a different agenda than I do for being here.

Deciding not to press my luck, I turn and slowly make my way to the slider, careful not to make any noise as I open it before slipping outside and closing it. I return to my car and wait.

Fifteen minutes later, a beat-up old pickup truck pulls out of the parking lot with a man behind the wheel. I snap a picture of the license plate and text it to Mr. Smith, telling him I want to know everything there is to know about the man who owns the truck.

I have an idea, but I want to know for sure what the fuck is going on.

I purposely arrive ten minutes late to the café that night.

Not so late that Hattie will have given up on my arriving, but late enough that she’ll worry whether I’m going to show up at all.

I want her to feel the disappointment of thinking I won’t be there, then the relief when I walk through the door.

It’s an old trick I learned from my younger days when I used to fuck rich married women for the financial benefits.

When I step through the café doors, Hattie is quick to spot me, raising a hand in greeting. Even from the distance between us, I can see the way her shoulders move away from her ears, how her forehead relaxes now that I’ve arrived.

I quicken my pace across the café to reach her. “I’m so sorry I’m late. I got caught up with something for work and I was going to text you to let you know I’d be late, but I realized that we haven’t exchanged numbers.”

“That’s okay, I understand.”

She doesn’t immediately offer me her number, which irks me, but I don’t let it get to me. Maybe I have more work to do here than I thought.

“Just give me a minute and let me grab a drink. You all set?” I glance at the steaming cup of hot chocolate sitting on the table beside her.

“Yes, sorry, I was going to get you something, but then I realized I don’t know how you take your coffee.” Her blush says she’s embarrassed, as if she feels bad she didn’t memorize my order as I did hers. But she’s not a con artist. I am.

“That’s okay, Hattie. I won’t hold it against you.” I wink and head over to the counter.

I return to the lounge area a few minutes later. Instead of taking my usual seat across from her, this time I sit in the chair to her left.

“My apologies again for being late.” I set my coffee on the table beside her hot chocolate.

Hattie waves away my concern. “It’s really not a big deal.” She gives a nervous chuckle. “Though I was starting to wonder whether you were coming.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

She shrugs and glances at her lap.

“Anything exciting happening in your life?” I ask.

That question draws her gaze back to mine, and she gives me what I interpret as a “you know better than that” look.

I raise my hands. “It’s possible.”

“Just not probable.” She rolls her eyes playfully.

“We can’t all lead a life full of mystery and intrigue like me. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”

She laughs. “You are a little mysterious.”

“Is that so?” I arch an eyebrow.

“Can I ask you something I’ve been wondering about?” She licks her lips, as if she wants to ask this question but is scared at the same time.

I pick up the mug and bring it to my lips. “You can ask me anything.” The real question is whether I’ll tell you the truth.

She presses her lips together before she voices what’s on her mind. “How old are you?”

“Didn’t your parents teach you not to ask a man his age?” I wink even though the subtle mention of Carla makes me want to hurl this coffee cup across the café.

“Sorry, it’s rude of me to ask.”

I chuckle. “Not at all. I’m thirty-seven.”

“Oh.”

Usually Hattie’s thoughts are projected on her face like a film reel, but I can’t actually tell what she’s thinking in this moment.

“Not what you expected?” I hold her gaze.

“No. Yes.” She’s apparently flummoxed and shakes her head. “I mean, I didn’t really know how old you were.”

It’s clear now that she’s asking herself whether I’m too old for her to be spending time with, even though if I had to guess, she probably hasn’t even admitted to herself that she likes me. She’s probably thinking, what would my parents think if I brought this man home ?

“Age is just a number as far as I’m concerned. Believe me, I don’t feel any older than you inside.” That might be the most truthful thing I’ve ever said to her.

“You really think that?”

Am I seeing hope in her eyes? She really is into me. Satisfaction fills me as I realize that maybe what she’s worried about is whether I think she’s too young for me. “I do. It’s a stupid thing to get hung up on.”

She smiles, and we spend the rest of the evening getting to know each other better.

Well—I get to know her better. She gets to know a version of Bastion Clarke who never really existed. Perhaps he would if he’d had a loving, nurturing mom to raise him.