Page 63 of The Enemy: Extended Edition

“A moooovie,” I say dramatically. “Right. Enjoy your MOVIE.”

I jump when the closet doors suddenly fly open. Ryan is standing there, staring down at me with his hands on his hips and brow quirked.

I raise my voice. “No, sorry! I don’t need any more phone books, sir, thank you!” I end the call with Stacy and smile up at Ryan, looking as innocent as a doe sipping from a stream.

“How’s Stacy?” he asks, completely unfazed by my overzealous act.

“Good. Sunburned.”

He reaches out and helps me to my feet. Once I’m closer to him, I smell his bodywash and take in his damp hair dangling over his dark eyebrows, and I let the truth that I just blurted to Stacy settle over me like a warm sunny day.

I love Ryan Henderson.

Now what am I going to do about it?

CHAPTER 25

Ryan

June is still sleeping in my arms. She set up camp in the guest room, so I thought that was where she was going to stay for the night. But somewhere around midnight, I heard my door squeak open followed by June’s voice. “Don’t get any funny ideas. I’m just coming to snuggle.”

She slipped under my covers and burrowed into my side like a little bunny making a new home. And let me tell you, it’s ridiculously hard to sleep next to a woman like June and not let one funny idea slip by. I was good, though. I rubbed her back until I was lulled into blissful sleep by the scent of her orange shampoo. HA, just kidding!

I lay awake the entire night, smelling that freaking shampoo and convincing myself to keep my hands to myself. Just call me Funny Guy, because I’ve been so funny all night that I want to die just to be put out of my misery. June, however, was the very picture of a sweet Hallmark movie. Her body almost immediately softened, and her breath went heavy with the telltale signs of sleep—completely unfazed by the way our bodies were pressed together and hot under those covers.

Women are a mystery.

Now, it’s morning, and I haven’t slept a wink. June will sleep all day, I think. Her hair is fanned out around her, her lips perfectly pouty, and that sunflower peeking out from under her tank top is smirking at me. It occurs to me that maybe June’s playing the torture game again.

She wins. Easily.

I wanted to be here when she wakes up, but now, I don’t trust myself. I’m sleep deprived, funnier than I’ve ever been before, and her skin is like a furnace. I would try to slip out of bed quietly so I don’t disturb her, but by now, I’ve learned that June sleeps like a coma patient and I can slide my arm out from under her and toss the covers off without her so much as twitching.

Once I’m in the kitchen and done making coffee, I check the notifications on my phone, and one in particular stands out.

NOAH PRESCOTT: Going to the restaurant this morning. Come by and see it. I guarantee you any hesitations you have will go out the window.

Noah knows I’m in Chicago, because I very ignorantly responded to one of his emails last night, saying that I was back in town and would meet with him sometime before my Saturday deadline. I don’t want to go see the restaurant site, though. What I want to do is turn down the job offer and spend the rest of the morning packing my stuff out of this sterile apartment and moving it all to Charleston. Being in here after spending the week at June’s house is a massive disappointment. Crushing. A physical manifestation of the gaping, echoey hole in my life the past ten years.

I never thought to compare my couch to a giant yellow marshmallow, which is what June’s is, but now I’m about to pour kerosene all over this leather brick and let the flames dance in my eyes as I watch it burn. The vaulted ceilings are oppressive. They take the clinking sounds of my spoon tapping against my mug and reflect them back in subtle mockery. Emptiness surrounds me, and I think it’s funny how a place I once felt proud of now seems repugnant.

I want yellow. Ruffled pillows. Nick Lachey’s face on everything. Family-filled picture frames. Nosy siblings and parents popping in when you don’t want them to.

These tall walls grow like giants around me, and I have the strongest urge to run from them.

So why don’t I just turn Noah down and start assembling moving boxes? Because June is still a wild card. I’m all in, but she’s still holding her chips. I feel like I have a wild fox in my apartment. It’s sleeping now. She’ll probably eat if I carefully set out a nice breakfast and back away with my hands held up in surrender, but if she senses any sudden movement, she’ll bolt.

I hope I’m not killing any chance of our relationship before it even gets going by keeping Bask as a plan B. There’s a real chance, though, that after our date, June will walk away. I don’t really care to be left loveless and careerless. Because if I go back to working in my old kitchen, it will kill my career. In this industry, you’re either moving up or down. There’s no such thing as stagnant success.

Suddenly, a scream pierces the silence, and I smile. I smile because it’s June screaming, and I know exactly what has brought it on. Thundering footsteps rumble down the hall, and I carefully set down my coffee in preparation. Turning, I find June in her PJs, arms folded and anger jumping from her eyes like sparks.

My gaze dips down just below her eyes to the curly little mustache I drew across her lip while she was sleeping. She can’t play the torture game and not expect retaliation.

“Morning, Sunflower. Coffee?”

“You. Drew. On. My. Face.” She’s practically shaking with rage.

I have to bite my cheeks to keep from laughing. “I wanted to see how sound a sleeper you are.” And I’ll be honest, I needed something to help me find this woman less attractive. It didn’t work. Now she just looks angry and adorable.

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