The One I Love to Hate Read online

  The One I Love to Hate

  By Amanda Weaver

  Don’t hate the player...

  Achieve lifelong dream of becoming a reporter? Check.

  Land dream job working with her idol at the Brooklyn Daily Post? Check.

  Navigate working across the street from her college nemesis?

  Okay, yes, hate the player.

  But Jessica Romano doesn’t have time to be bothered by the likes of Alex Drake. She’s struck up a fiery online flirtation with a mystery man and—thanks to Alex’s family’s gossip website, competitor Click News—she also has a newspaper to save.

  But she is bothered by Alex. She’s bothered by the fact that Click News keeps scooping the Daily Post’s stories. And by how Alex always gets what he wants.

  And she’s really bothered by how she can’t seem to stop staring at his stupid, sexy face.

  Or how their competitive banter is starting to sound like familiar foreplay.

  Suddenly Jess isn’t just bothered by Alex; she’s hot and bothered. Hot sex and swoony romance are almost enough to make her forget the vast divide between old media and new...and the Romanos from Brooklyn and the Drakes of Manhattan.

  One-click with confidence. This title is part of the Carina Press Romance Promise: all the romance you’re looking for with an HEA/HFN. It’s a promise!

  This book is approximately 87,000 words

  While the Romano Sisters series is my love letter to Brooklyn, where I have lived for the past fourteen years, The One I Love to Hate is my love letter to the free press, and to journalists everywhere who often risk their lives to shine light into the dark corners of the world.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Excerpt from Love and Other Disasters by Amanda Weaver

  Acknowledgments

  Author Bio

  Also by Amanda Weaver

  Chapter One

  Jessica Romano eyed the line of coffee-starved New Yorkers snaking toward the door of Ému Coffee and Tea with grim resignation. In Brooklyn, it seemed the only constant was change. Ému’s coffee was undeniably a step up from the coffee served by the bodega that used to inhabit this storefront. It was too bad the excellent brew had to come with a pretentious name, ironic decor, and jacked-up prices. The same thing was happening all over Williamsburg. Once this had been a workers’ neighborhood. Now it was a haven of hipsters, without a workman to be seen, unless you counted the construction workers slamming together glass-and-steel luxury apartment buildings on every other corner. Sure, change was inevitable, but did it always have to obliterate the past?

  At least the Brooklyn Daily Post still soldiered on in the neighborhood. They might be small, but they were mighty. Media was evolving—or devolving—more and more every day, but there would always be a need for the kind of serious journalism the Daily Post produced, and Jess was grateful as hell to be a part of the team.

  Serious journalism required fuel, though, so it was time to face Ému. Taking her place at the end of a long line of expensive shredded denim and creative facial hair, she pulled out her phone to kill some time. There was a text from her sister reminding her that Gemma was cooking Sunday dinner for the family this week. Attendance was mandatory. No problem. It wasn’t as if she had other plans.

  In her inbox, there was a reminder about her student loan payment, which she couldn’t afford. Journalistic integrity paid lousy.

  After email, she checked in online—Twitter, Instagram, her much-neglected Facebook, and last, the Journalist Collective’s message board. The Collective’s website was meant to be a place for people in the media to exchange information and advice, but the message boards had long ago devolved into everybody’s favorite catty industry gossip site. Jess didn’t go a day without checking in.

  This morning, most of the usual agitators were online. Festivus3000, NotYourMothersByline, and DeeperThroat were all gossiping about who might be in line to take over at the Denver Daily Star. RitaSkeeter93 was complaining about freelancers’ rates again. Oh, and Peabody was there.

  She didn’t know Peabody. She hadn’t even chatted with him on the message boards, but she’d been watching his handle for ages. Everything he said was so intelligent and reasoned, and he had such clear, principled positions on things. His wry sense of humor was exactly her speed, and while he might snark on politicians or polemicists, he was never cruel to ordinary people. He seemed so smart, so kind, so... Okay, it was kind of pathetic, but she had the teeniest crush on him.

  It was a theoretical crush at best, because the rules at the Collective were strict: everything was absolutely anonymous, to protect reporters who might be posting there. As a result she knew nothing about him. Not his name, or how old he was, or where he might work. But seeing his handle always made her day just a little bit brighter.

  This morning he’d posted a link to a short story in the New Yorker, and written, This story stopped me in my tracks. Succinct writing that still manages to be stunningly lyrical.

  She’d just read that story last night, and then read it again this morning, because she couldn’t stop thinking about it. It was a magical story, set in New York on New Year’s Eve during WW2, featuring star-crossed lovers, with a dash of art and a sprinkling of fate, all written with masterful skill. Of course Peabody loved it, too, because he had excellent taste.

  No one else had responded to his post, so summoning her courage, she typed out a reply under her own handle.

  PaperGirl: Right? It was such a gorgeous piece of writing, and I desperately needed a bit of beauty before tackling this day.

  His reply popped up immediately, and she let out an involuntary squeak of surprise.

  Peabody: Same for me. What are you facing down this morning?

  Gah. He was talking to her! She’d finally gotten up the courage to say something to him and he’d replied right away. Eager to keep the conversation going, she typed a response.

  PaperGirl: I’m dealing with the supervisor from hell. What about you?

  She’d just hit send when someone pointedly cleared their throat behind her. A gap had formed in the line in front of her while she’d been reading. Hurrying forward, she looked back to apologize, but the “sorry” died on her tongue when she saw who was standing behind her.
<
br />   “What are you doing here?”

  Alex Drake gave her a broad smile, all dazzling white teeth and carved-from-marble dimples. His star-power hadn’t lessened a bit since she’d last seen him.

  “I’m applying for a mortgage, obviously. Isn’t that why everybody hangs out in coffee shops?”

  So he was still the biggest smart-ass alive. That had been her very first impression of him when she encountered him in their Exploring Journalism class during freshman year, and it was still true. Well, truthfully, her very first impression had been that he was unbelievably hot. Then he’d taken a swipe at the perfectly valid point she’d just made, taking up an insupportable position just to be contrary, and the second impression erased the impact of the first. “No, I meant why are you in this coffee shop, annoying me?”

  “I need coffee. And unfortunately this place is closest to the office.” Alex looked around at the reclaimed driftwood counters, the uncomfortable-looking galvanized steel stools, and the elk antlers mounted over the cash register. “Are there really no bodegas around here?”

  She refused to admit that she’d been thinking the same thing. Then his words registered. The office...

  She half turned to face him. “Wait...are you working—”

  “At my father’s latest acquisition? Yes, I am. Thank you for your congratulations.” He didn’t have to look quite so delighted at her dismayed expression.

  “I didn’t give them.”

  “Aww, come on,” he teased. “You know you’re jealous.”

  The word sent a jolt through her system. Oh, she’d been plenty jealous of Alex in the past, but she was all done with that.

  “I’m hardly jealous.” Like she’d ever work for Alex’s father, the Genghis Khan of modern media. Never.

  Alex pointed over her shoulder. “Line’s moving. Keep up, Jess.” The way he was grinning, you’d think he’d actually missed annoying her.

  Hearing him call her that nickname again was like an ice-cold finger dragging down her spine. “It’s Jessica.” She scooted forward to put more space between them.

  “Your friends call you Jess.” His phone pinged with a message so he didn’t see her scowl as he looked down to answer. His thumbs flew as he typed something—probably buying an island, or whatever it was rich people did on their phones.

  “You’re not my friend.”

  He looked up and grinned again, his perfectly tousled red-brown hair falling across his forehead. Stupid Alex and that stupid, bone-melting smile. “So mean. We’ve known each other for...what? Six years now?”

  “Five and a half. That does not make us friends. It just means I had the misfortune of majoring in journalism at the same time you did. I’d have avoided it if I could.”

  “Miss! The line?” The woman behind Alex was scowling at her over his shoulder.

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  Alex flashed a smile at the woman. “That’s my fault. I’m distracting her.”

  The woman scowled at him, too. Well, at least there was one other female in New York who was immune to Alex Drake’s gold-plated charm. He turned back to Jess, still grinning. Ugh. It was unfair for anyone to be so attractive. He was tall and beautifully built, his body half the result of good genetics and half the result of years on the college swim team. His high, angular cheekbones, chiseled chin and jaw, sculpted lips, flawless teeth, and aquiline nose looked like they belonged on a Renaissance statue. And his bright green eyes scrunched up in the most disarming way when he smiled.

  That smile could fool you. It made him seem like a wholesome boy-next-door, when really, Alex Drake had been born into a kind of privilege few could imagine. His father, Daniel Drake, owned Drake Media and had his fingers in every form of modern media, including a string of cable networks, several magazines, and a sizable collection of major websites. She’d heard he’d recently acquired the “news” website ClickNews, and it wasn’t until now that she made the connection. ClickNews had just moved their headquarters to a brand-new architectural atrocity here in Williamsburg.

  Right across the street from the historic landmark housing the Brooklyn Daily Post.

  She thought she’d finally left him behind at graduation, but here he was, popping up in her life again. How could it be so hard to avoid one arrogant rich boy in a city of eight million people?

  In her hand, her phone buzzed with an alert. Peabody had replied to her again!

  Peabody: I’ll be shouldering the weight of the world’s expectations this morning. Good luck slaying that dragon, PaperGirl.

  Charmed beyond reason, she bit her lip to hold back a sappy smile. Would it be weird to swoon over an anonymous guy’s post in the middle of this coffee shop? Probably.

  “Good news?”

  Alex was still lurking behind her. It would be just like him to try to read her phone over her shoulder. So entitled.

  Clapping her phone to her chest, she shot him a glare. “That’s none of your business.”

  Alex held up his hands in defense. “Okay. So what brings you here?”

  “Same as you. A mortgage and some overpriced coffee.”

  “No, I meant Williamsburg. Don’t you live in Carroll Gardens?”

  Alex remembered where she lived? He even knew that in the first place? She opened her mouth to reply, but the woman behind Alex poked her angry face over his shoulder again.

  “Miss! You’re up!”

  “Right. Sorry. Again.”

  When she had her coffees—one for her and one for Lina—she moved down the counter to doctor hers. Now that she was out of line, she assumed Alex would wander off to his own corner to wait, but annoyingly, once he’d retrieved his coffee, he followed her to the end of the counter where she was emptying two packets of organic, fair-trade, raw sugar into her cup.

  “So you didn’t tell me what you’re doing in Williamsburg,” he said conversationally.

  “I didn’t?”

  “Nope. I’m a trained journalist. I make note of stuff like that. You definitely didn’t tell me what you’re doing here.”

  “Huh. So I didn’t.”

  His face when she left him standing at the counter was priceless, worth enduring all his earlier teasing. But her glee was short-lived, because with a few long strides, he’d caught up to her out on the sidewalk.

  “Ugh, you’re still here.”

  “Because you haven’t answered my question.”

  “Don’t plan to, either. Guess you’ll die never knowing.”

  “Jess, you’re going to walk into one of these buildings soon, which is going to give away your super-secret destination. You might as well just tell me.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “I want to be there to gloat when I find out you’re applying for a job at ClickNews.”

  She stopped abruptly. Alex was several feet past her before he noticed and turned back. “Not a chance. I’m using my journalism degree to report the news, not shill half-baked stories with sleazy headlines on the internet.”

  “ClickNews has higher web traffic than the AP and CNN combined.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yes, because web traffic equates to respectable journalism. You know what? I changed my mind. I do want to congratulate you, Alex. That place is perfect for you. All flash and no substance.”

  Finally, she’d managed to wipe that smug grin off his face. As his eyes flashed with temper, Jess gave him a triumphant smile, even though what she’d said was a big fat lie. Perhaps the most annoying thing about Alex Drake was that he was flash and substance, just as smart and talented as he was gorgeous and rich. God had been in a really good mood the day He made Alex.

  “And what are you doing these days that’s so noble?” he challenged.

  “Reporting. And if you don’t mind, I need to go or I’ll be late.”

  She stepped off the curb to cut across the str
eet, but Alex’s bark of laughter stopped her.

  “Of course. I should have known.”

  “Known what?”

  “You’re working for that old dinosaur, the Daily Post.”

  A spark of righteous anger lit in her chest. “It’s the oldest newspaper in New York. We’ve been publishing since 1822.”

  Sure the Daily Post was small beans now, but once, it had been the voice of a young America. Its gloried history had been largely forgotten, and for decades it had been known as a sleepy little borough paper, covering neighborhood news. But that was all changing.

  Alex made a sound of mingled annoyance and boredom. “I suppose you followed your idol, Mariel Kemper, when she took over this relic.”

  She was speechless for a moment, caught between fury that he’d pegged her so easily, and mystification that he remembered her history with Mariel Kemper after all this time. As far as she could remember, she’d only mentioned it in front of him once. It was on the day they’d met, during that dustup in their first Exploring Journalism class.

  They’d gotten in an argument—naturally—about the role of journalists in society. Alex had stated, with the casual disregard of privilege, that a reporter’s job was to report facts, leaving the crusading to activists. Jess, burning up with righteous indignation, had slapped back, bringing up every “crusading” investigative journalist she could think of—Nellie Bly, Upton Sinclair, Randy Shilts, and finally Mariel Kemper, the woman who was now her boss—to make her point.

  Jess had seen up close and personal the power of a good investigative journalist. When her mother had been diagnosed with cancer, she’d been promptly dropped by her insurance company on a technicality. Mariel Kemper, answering a letter from ten-year-old Jess, had dug into the story and exposed the company’s shady practices to the light of day. The insurance company wound up under federal investigation and Mariel won a Pulitzer. They’d stayed in touch after that, and Jess had gone into journalism in large part due to Mariel’s guidance.

  “Yes,” she bit out through clenched teeth. “As soon as I heard that Mariel was taking over as Editor in Chief, I submitted my resume. I’m lucky she decided to give me a chance.”