Page 3 of My Enemy, My Obsession

“Are the ideas blasting through your head?” he asks about my design inspiration.

“Honestly, the designs were not very impressive,” I say, sitting at the desk in front of my sketchpad. “It’s a little confusing. I feel like what I presented was fresher.”

“Is there someone you can talk with? Maybe this was a test of some sort to find out your impressions.”

“Good idea. I’m going to be honest and tell them the general feel of the show was boring. Of course, I’ll put it nicer than that.” I look down to find myself scribbling Ethan’s name, and I know why. I want to ask my father what happened between them. I have to ask. “Dad, Ethan Dalton is here. Should I try to chat with him and see if I can spark new conversations for the business venturebetween you two?”

“You have to be kidding me,” he murmurs. “No. No, he’s a dick, Sofia. Stay away from him.”

Okay then,I think. That didn’t go as I’d hoped.

My father changes the subject and fast. Jeez. What happened between them?

We chat a bit more, and then it’s just me, alone in my hotel room. And Lord, help me, I’ve opened my MacBook and googled Ethan Dalton. I just can’t help it. Soon, I’m diving down the internet rabbit hole, and the man has a Wikipedia page. Thirty-six. Never married. A playboy. Of course, he is. He’s hot. He could have any woman he wants. The man is worth some ungodly figure. Interesting detail, too. He’s an active competitor in karate. As in, holds a title of some sort. He’s also known for being a cold-hearted businessman, per a USA Today article and several blog posts. I shut my MacBook. What am I doing? He’s so out of my league, and my father has already confirmed he’s not a nice guy.

My stomach growls, and I eye the clock. It’s eight o’clock, and I haven’t eaten. Not to mention, I’m in Hawaii and therefore, should be by the water, enjoying the glorious place, and since most of the event attendees left today, it probably won’t be hard to grab a seat. I’m still in my black skirt and blouse, plus heels, and I pull off my pantyhose, and slip on a pair of block-heeled sandals, then make my way downstairs.

A few minutes later, I’m sitting at a lovely outdoor table, sea salt in the ocean air, and a piña colada within reach. As if that isn’t amazing enough, my sketchpad is in front of me, ready for a new design to grace the page. I’m also enjoying delicious sweet bread and some sort of dipping sauce, and I’ve eaten so much I’m not sure I can order food. I’m just finishing up a dress design I’m pretty darn pleased with when a pair of powerful suit-clad legs appear in front of my table.

I glance up, and my lips part in shock.

Ethan Dalton is standing at my table. How is this possible?

“Hi,” he says, his voice as perfectly masculineas the rest of him.

“Hi,” I greet, afraid to say more. What is this? Does he know who my father is? Does he think I’m stalking him?

“I didn’t get a chance to say hello earlier. I thought I’d remedy that now.” He motions to the chair. “May I?”

Oh, God. He wants to sit? He really must think I’m here to ask for his money, and he’s about to put me in my place. “I—yes, of course.”

He pulls out the chair and claims the spot across from me. The table is small, and the scent of him, woodsy and masculine, mixes with the ocean air and drugs me. I have this full-body reaction. My breasts are heavy. My heart is beating wildly. My fingers are tingly. My nipples are, too. If I were Cara, this would be just peachy. I’d be elated and flirting up a storm right now, but I’m me, and I’m just staring at him.

And he’s staring at me with piercing green eyes that have some kind of hypnotic effect, because I can’t seem to look away. “Cara told me all about your store and the Zoey clothing line.” He motions to my pad. “Is that one of your designs?”

“Yes.” I close the cover of my pad. “But it’s incomplete. A draft.”

His eyes dance with amusement. “I can’t peek?”

“No. I don’t show anyone until I finish. Did you give Cara her interview?”

“She pushed hard, but I’m not big on the press. I get too much of it, and most of it isn’t good.”

“I saw that.” It’s out before I can stop myself.

He laughs, and it’s warm and friendly and so very unlike every description I’ve read and heard about him. “You looked me up,” he accuses. “What did you find out?”

My cheeks heat at my admission and his question, which I avoid, at least mostly. “Okay, I confess to googling you. Cara told me who you are, and that you’re an investor at Moore’s. And since I’m working to get my clothing line into their stores, I like to know who’s in charge and what might motivatethem.”

“I can’t speak for Moore’s in general, as I’m an investor, not a day-to-day manager. As for me, what motivates me is their profitability and of course, beautiful things.”

There is a zip of heat between us that I tell myself is all me and not him, but that comment feels a bit flirty. Maybe. Was he sayingI’m beautiful? Or is it my wishful thinking when it should not be? He and my father have a past now, and not a good one. Which makes me think of all the reasons he could be sitting with me. “I didn’t go up to you with Cara today because I didn’t want you to feel cornered.” I’m speaking of my father now, but also about me. “I want to win my place on the shelves with my designs. I’m on that path.”

He studies me for several beats. “I believe you are, Zoey. Are you going to order dinner?”

Zoey? He thinks my name is Zoey? I open my mouth to correct him, but something holds me back. Instead, I focus on his question, not his query over dinner. “I kind of stuffed my face with bread to the point of no longer being hungry,” I say. “It’s just so good.”

“Hawaiian sweet bread is hard to resist,” he agrees. “I take it you’ve never been here before?”

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