Page 21 of The Enemy: Extended Edition

He doesn’t look offended like I had hoped. He chuckles and gently folds down my birds until his big hands are covering mine. “I think you need some coffee.”

Why is he doing this? Being so touchy-feely? And doing that strange thing with his face? On most people, it’s called a smile. But on Ryan, I don’t trust that it’s something so nice.

I consider telling Ryan I gave coffee up just to spite him, but he’s right. I do need coffee. I need it funneling into my mouth from one of those beer hats at all times.

A grunt is the only snarky reply I can think of until I get a hit of that aforementioned coffee. I jerk my hands out of his hold and head toward the kitchen, wishing I didn’t feel so annoying. I’ve never treated anyone like I treat Ryan. Even when I broke things off with Ben, I never acted snarky and disagreeable.

I turn my head and find Ryan opening my fridge.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Making eggs.” He reaches in and pulls out the carton.

“No, you are not.” I cross the kitchen and take the eggs from him and put the carton back in the fridge. “I don’t eat breakfast.”

It’s true. I don’t even sneak one of our own donuts until after lunch.

He shakes his head at me and reaches in for the eggs again. “You should. Maybe you’d be less angry all the time.” I grind my teeth into dust as Ryan sets the eggs on the counter and starts looking in all my cabinets. He pauses with his hands on the handles of the open upper cabinets and looks at me over his large shoulder. “Do you not own a mixing bowl?”

I roll my eyes. “Of course I do.” I push him out of the way with my hip. I won’t let my hands touch him. They have a mind of their own, and I’m afraid that if they feel his hard body, I won’t be able to pull them back off. From then on, I would have to go with him everywhere, my hands plastered to the six-pack that, no doubt, lives under his shirt. “But I’m not a million feet tall like you, so I keep everything down here.” I open a lower cabinet and wave my hands in front of it, making the classic ta-da gesture.

Once the mixing bowl situation is settled, I pour my cup of coffee and hop up onto the counter to watch closely (because I’m keeping a steady eye on the enemy, not because I think he’s sexy) as Ryan goes to work making us breakfast. He takes out an egg, taps it on the counter, and cracks it open with one hand. He does this with five eggs before washing his hands and going back to my fridge to pull out a bell pepper and cheese. My eyes follow him around like the head of the CIA has assigned me to investigate his every move. Like they are suddenly concerned chefs making morning omelets might be starting a nuclear war.

Ryan makes himself at home. He’s forgotten I exist and that this is my kitchen he’s taking over. I sip my coffee while Ryan pulls out a knife I’ve only ever used to wield as a weapon and starts chopping the bell pepper at a frightening speed. He’s humming, and his tan forearms are flexing as the knife continues to slice and dice. Finally, he lays down the knife and scoops the veggies up to pour into the egg mixture and dumps it all into the hot skillet on the stove.

Now he’s got a hand towel draped over his shoulder and is flipping an omelet, and the veins down his arms are popping, and my mouth is watering, but it has absolutely nothing to do with breakfast.

After Ryan tosses our omelets onto plates, it occurs to me that I have a three-star Michelin chef making me breakfast in my kitchen. “What are you really doing here, Ryan?”

He hasn’t spoken to me or even glanced in my direction since he started cooking, so I sort of just thought he forgot I was here. But when his eyes find me right away, I realize he never lost track of me once. He’s been just as aware of me as I am of him.

“Making you breakfast before we plan the menu for Friday night.”

I shake my head and set down my coffee beside me. “You don’t need me for that. You’re a chef.”

He folds his arms and leans back against the counter, keeping his eyes fixed on me. “You’re right.”

“So, why then? I want the truth. Is this some kind of trap or way for you to mess with me like you used to?”

He gives me a sad tilted smile and shakes his head. “After all this time, you still don’t see the real reason I messed with you back then?” The string connecting us pulls tight.

I force myself to swallow. “Because you hated me.”

He pushes off the counter and walks toward me, one slow agonizing step at a time, until he’s close enough to pin me in. His hands land on the counter beside my hips, and I forget how to breathe. “Has it never occurred to you that the only reason I picked on you in high school is because I was into you? Or that messing with you was the only way I could get you to look at me?”

My heart is beating so hard right now I’m afraid if I open my mouth, it will leap right out. I settle with slowly shaking my head.

He smiles, and his eyes fall and settle on my mouth. “June, I’m not your enemy.” Those dark eyes hold my mouth for five heartbeats before they pop back up to meet my gaze. “I never was.”

For a minute, I think we’re going to kiss. But then he pulls away, picks up our plates, and carries them to the table.

I, however, can’t move. I’m numb—inside and out.

His words seep into me like a dry, brittle sponge slowly being dipped in water.

I’m not your enemy. I never was.

But that can’t be. What he just said can’t be true. Because if it is . . . that means, all this time, I thought he hated me, and he thought I hated him, but really we were both into each other. It means we could have been kissing in high school instead of biting at each other like wild dogs. We could have gone to prom together. He could have brought me milkshakes after my tonsillectomy. I could have held him when his mom died.

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