Page 31 of Beachside Kisses With My Enemy

His dad looked him up and down with that exacting way he had. Finally, he nodded. “Good. Because a girl like that isn’t a good fit for the kind of future you’ve got ahead of you.”

“Don’t I know it,” Blake murmured—soft enough that his father didn’t seem to hear, but loud enough to break my little teenage heart.

Because I’d been wrong. Blake hadn’t been flirting with me all year. He hadn’t almost kissed me. He thought I was an annoying child. A pest. Pathetic.

And not good enough for a guy like him.

I blink away the memory, and realize my fists are clenched.

It was more than a decade ago, and yet, here I stand, in the same kitchen where they once stood. Why am I letting those words affect me? They don’t.

And clearly Blake doesn’t remember them anyway.

“What?” he finally says.

Ugh, whatever. This isn’t worth hashing out. “Nothing. I’m going to bed. Enjoy your popcorn.” I pivot toward the counter where my computer sits, flip the lid closed, pick it up, and take a step toward the hallway.

“You could have some if you wanted. Popcorn, I mean.”

I halt. Turn on my heel. Raise an eyebrow. “I told you. I’ll never eat something you make ever again.”

“Technically, the popcorn company made it.” He runs a hand through his hair, and I can’t help but follow the motion, as if my gaze and his fingers are magnets. The way his muscles still pop with the casual movement is completely unfair. “I just unwrapped the plastic and put the bag into the microwave.” Then he offers me a small smile.

It’s a jolt to my heart.

What’s going on with him? Why is he being so…pleasant? “I’m good, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” He pulls the bag from the microwave, dumps the contents into a large bowl, and shrugs. My treacherous nose can’t help but notice how buttery the popcorn smells. And my growling stomach can’t help but reveal the fact that I forgot to eat dinner.

Without a word, Blake pushes the bowl across the counter toward me, then opens a cabinet, pulls down another bag of popcorn, and unwraps it, the cellophane crinkling as he tosses it into the garbage. Sticking the bag into the microwave, he hits the Popcorn button.

Me, on the other hand? I stand here like a lunatic, just watching him in silence. I blame the tired. It’s all the tired’s fault. But sweet macaroni, he looks downright deliciously domestic.

And that smile earlier…it almost seemed like a white flag of sorts. Like he was choosing to lay aside the fact I’ve been doing my level best to tank his business. Like I haven’t spent the last two weeks firing all sorts of potshots his way.

Analyzing his behavior is nearly as exhausting as being mad at him—especially since anger is an emotion I almost never give free reign.

I’m too tired to analyze anymore. I just want answers. “Why are you being nice to me?” I hug my laptop to my chest. My hand wants to reach for the popcorn he sent my way, but that feels like surrender. To what, I’m not sure.

“Well.” He takes a step toward me, then another. They’re slow steps, as if he’s afraid of spooking me. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you. And this seems as good a time as any.”

“Okay.” I glance down at the popcorn. Can practically taste the salt on my tongue. Nope. My gaze pulls back to his face. Not sure that’s better. “Talk.”

“Marilee’s upset we don’t get along.” Sighing, he runs a hand down his jaw. “So I was wondering if we could try for a truce. For her sake.”

Oy. The last thing I want to do is hurt my friend. Still. A truce? Isn’t that a bit…extreme? “I think ignoring each other and occupying the house at different times has worked just fine.” Yep. Totally fine.

“Yeah, sure. That definitely sounds doable for the two more months I’m going to be here.” He snorts.

“Two months?” I can’t help the way my voice squeaks. It’s finally confirmed—he will be here a long while. Not only will that be very bad for the Robin, but also for me. I’m honestly not sure I can do this for two more months. Eight weeks. Thirteen hundred and something hours. I’m drained just thinking about it. But I can’t let him know that. “Oh, is that all?” Hopefully he’s fooled by my nonchalance.

He doesn’t react to my tone, just shrugs and says, “Yep. Have to be back in L.A. to work on a new restaurant opening at the beginning of August.” The microwave beeps again, and he fishes the new bag of popcorn from inside. “And I think the next few months would go a lot smoother if we put aside our differences. Not just because it’s exhausting.” Blake eyes me, as if he can hear my thoughts. Disturbing. “But also because of Mare.”

He shakes the popcorn into a new bowl. “She told me on Friday that her biggest wish is for us to be friends again.”

I lift an eyebrow. “Don’t think that’s ever going to happen in this lifetime.” Not only because I despise him, but because I don’t think I could ever just be friends with Blake Moffitt.

“Didn’t figure so. But how about housemates who at least tolerate each other?” He throws the popcorn bag away. “Do you think you could manage that much?” There’s a sort of eagerness in his gaze, almost like he’s asking me this for himself, not for his sister.

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