Love, Utley (Love Letters #1)

The curtains framing the window. The many pairs of kid-sized shoes at the front door. The abundance of comfortable furniture in the living room behind me.

These three live here together.

I’d bet my savings on it.

Because everyone who loves us dies.

Something desolate settles in my stomach next to the sesame chicken.

Hannah reaches over and pats my forearm, probably trying to snap me out of my mental spiral. “Don’t worry, Maddox, you can’t catch it from proximity.”

I swallow through the tightness building in my throat. “You sure about that?”

Hannah nods. “It’s one of the rules.”

Ruth huffs. “Since when have you cared about the rules?”

When I met Hannah, I thought she was a bit of a Goody Two-Shoes. But I’m starting to think that’s not true.

Maybe it’s her quick comebacks that started to change my mind. Or maybe it was fucking her over her desk last night during the employee party that gave me the hint.

“And who did I learn that behavior from?” Hannah looks at her mom.

“No idea what you’re talking about.” Ruth takes another bite of her food.

“Plus,” Hannah tells the table, “we’re not getting married. We’re not even dating.” She holds up a hand. “I mean, we won’t date. We can’t. Not that we would. But even if we wanted to, he’s my boss.” She points her finger between us. “And we don’t want to.”

Everyone stares at Hannah.

She’s adorable when she’s flustered.

“Well, technically.” I lift an egg roll to punctuate my point. “I’m not your boss. I just own the company.”

FORTY-ONE

HANNAH

Maddox sits back in his chair with a groan, and I don’t know if it’s from eating that second cinnamon roll or from losing the last round of poker to Chelsea.

We don’t actually play for anything, just bragging rights, but I don’t think Maddox has lost at cards to a twelve-year-old before.

“I concede defeat.” Maddox lifts his hands.

“How gracious of you.” Chelsea snickers as she stacks her chips.

Tonight has been… nice.

Surprisingly nice.

Devastatingly nice.

Maddox came here to talk.

Talking could mean a lot of things, but no matter which way this conversation goes, I don’t expect I’ll enjoy it.

“Welp, I think it’s time for some reality TV therapy.” Mom pushes her chair back from the table. “We’ll clean up later. You two”— she points to me and Maddox— “can go talk in Hannah’s room.”

“If I have a boy over, will you let us talk in my room?” Chelsea asks as she heads toward the couch.