Page 72 of The Enemy: Extended Edition

But as I stare at the man of my dreams, elbows resting on his knees and hands in his hair, I can’t bring myself to deny my heart what it really wants. “I want to be with you more than anything, Ryan.”

His hands fall away, and he turns his face to me. “I don’t want to do long distance.”

“I don’t either.”

“And I think you should buy Stacy’s half of the bakery. And if you do, I want to be nearby to support you through it.”

“I am going to. I told her on the phone last night.”

“You are?” His voice is a mix of pride and hope.

“Yes. And I want you nearby when I take it over, too,” I say, feeling like the most selfish person in the world. He’s willing to give up his dreams so I can have mine.

He nods like we just finished conducting an important business deal. We should shake hands now. “Then I’m moving?”

I pause, breathing deeply and considerately before I say, “I guess you are. If you truly want to.” A tentative smile breaks over my mouth.

His face mirrors mine, and we both stay frozen—statues depicting two people who have made a life-changing decision, captured in the moment before they fully smile. It’s beautiful. A masterpiece to be marveled at and discussed in museums across the world.

“Okay, I’m moving.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

At the exact same moment, we both crack, and unhindered laughter spills through Ryan’s lofty apartment. He lunges at me, and I lunge at him, and we collide somewhere in the middle. I have so many more questions for him. I want to give him the third degree of Are you sure? But I don’t, because everything about this moment feels too perfect to disrupt with reality.

My head falls back against the cushion—ahem, brick—again, and Ryan hovers over me, the devilish smile that I never want to forget aimed down at me. His head dips, and I intertwine my fingers in his hair so we can properly lose ourselves in kisses. His mouth is hungry against mine, tasting and exploring in a way that has me feeling wild.

Nothing in life has ever felt more right than this moment on this brick of a couch with Ryan. After frantic whispers of consent, we peel each other’s clothes off and ensure we’ll be very late to the restaurant opening.

“Thirty minutes and then we’re out of here,” Ryan promises as we’re racing up the sidewalk to the restaurant. He’s practically dragging me.

Ryan tried to persuade me that we should skip the opening and spend the night in his apartment instead. He made a very convincing argument, and I’ll absolutely never look at his couch again (good gracious), but in the end, I held strong. If his friend is opening his own restaurant, Ryan should be there.

“Ah, Ryan! Slow down!”

“No. The sooner we get in there, the sooner we can get out.”

I’m laughing so hard that I can’t keep up now. I tear my hand away from him to bend over and adjust my high heel strap back onto my foot. “Go. Save yourself!” I say, waving a tired hand.

He turns back and scoops me up in his arms. “No woman left behind. Hold on, Broaden.”

I bury my head in the collar of Ryan’s dress shirt and laugh for the rest of the walk. He’s being ridiculous and dramatic. I love it. I love him and this happy bubble we are captured inside. I think the bubble is filled with laughing gas, because that’s pretty much all we’ve done since deciding Ryan will move to Charleston.

Once we approach the restaurant entrance, I make Ryan set me down. I eye the warmly lit awning over the dark-tinted glass door and watch a woman in a little red cocktail dress enter on the arm of a handsome gentleman. I send up a silent prayer of thanks that I had the forethought to pack my black cocktail dress. It’s not as fancy as the dresses I see entering the restaurant tonight, but it’s not too far off, either.

I lean in a little closer to Ryan as we walk under the awning and ask, “What exactly am I walking into here?”

He leans toward me, and his breath hits my ear. “A night of boring schmoozing. This is just a soft opening, meant to generate buzz. So, only those high up in the food industry have been invited.”

“High up? So, people like you?”

He smirks. “Yeah. And food bloggers and journalists. Other chefs and probably a few celebrities.”

“What! Like Beyoncé?”

Ryan reaches for the door and opens it. “I hope not, because I don’t trust that look on your face.”

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