Page 2 of The Enemy Plot

Yes, I’m a hopeless romantic. But is that so surprising? I own a romance bookstoreandI’m French. It’s what we’re known for, after all. Most fairy tales were written by French authors. Romance is in our blood. It’s our legacy. Even my hockey player brother, who pursued Hayley relentlessly, started reading romance books for her sake and painted her favorite quote above our cashier’s desk downstairs.

Unfortunately, he might be one of the last romantic guys on the planet, because all the men I’ve dated—no matter their nationality—are the complete opposite. Okay, I haven’t datedeveryguy on earth, but I’m getting close. As a firm believer in true love, I know I have to kiss a lot of frogs before finding my prince. At least, that’s what books and movies have taught me. I just wish I knew how manygrenouillesI’d have to kiss and how many bad dates I’d have to endure before I find my match.

My true love is out there. He has to be. I can’t accept that the best we can do is book boyfriends. As much as I love them—and collect them; you should see my sticker collection—I want the real deal for myself.

As I close my eyes, the narrator’s voice soothes me. His deep timbre is sweet, like it’s coated with sugar, and gravelly, as if he’s a former country music artist. I also love the way he pronounces the “r” all rumbly and—

Thud.

C’est quoi ce bordel?As I tear off my headphones, my blood is already boiling in my veins. Another thud, louder this time, followed by blasting metal music. Oh, heck no. He’s not doing this again. I jump to my feet, put my shoes on, and hurry to the front door of the upstairs apartment. I tromp down the steps and onto the street. A few strides later, I’m jabbing my finger on my neighbor’s doorbell.

By some magic, he hears it over the ruckus and opens the door. Clenching my jaw, I refrain from checking him out. One thing even more annoying than Deacon’s lack of consideration for others? His incredibly unfair body—and abs. Dang it. I looked. Why does he have to exercise so much? It’s not like he needs it. His body is toned, sculpted, and looks like it belongs to an athlete, not a bar owner.

“Can I help you?” he rumbles, an eyebrow arched.

Shaking my head, I bring my eyes back to his face. Unfortunately, it’s as unfair as his body. Chiseled jaw, deep blue eyes, a short-trimmed beard, and swept-back brown hair with a dash of gray, which instantly makes me curious about his age again. He’s clearly older than me and my friends. We tried to give him an age but failed. Since he moved in with his teenage daughter, we decided he’s anywhere between thirty and forty, which is quite a large range. But whatever his age, that dash of salt-and-pepper hair works annoyingly well on him. What is it with men looking more attractive as they grow older? Really, the only unattractive feature on this man’s face is his perpetual frown.

I put a hand on my hip. “The music. Can you turn it down? We’ve been over this. If I can hear the lyrics of some poor guy waiting for the day the world finally ends, it’s definitely not ‘down’ enough.”

He reaches his large hand above his head, leaning on the doorframe. “It’s down already.”

I swallow hard, trying to block the effect of his sexy accent. Because, yes, in addition to being as hot as he is infuriating, Deacon Collier has a voice worthy of an audiobook narrator. Prime quality. I’m dying to know where it’s from—American for sure, and not from the South, Ithink—but I’ll die before I engage in a friendly conversation with this man about his hometown.

“Ever heard of headphones?” I snap, shaking mine off. “I’m trying to read, and I can’t hear anything over your music.”

His frown deepens as his eyes sweep over me, stopping on the“I like big books and I cannot lie”brooch pinned to my patchwork dress. I instinctively cross my arms over my chest. I know he wasn’t checking me out, but the way he gazes at me always feels intrusive. Like he can see right through me.

He scoffs, assessing me with those midnight-blue eyes. “I don’t know how it is in France, but in the US, you need a book to read, not a pair of headphones.”

My chest starts heaving fast, and I’m pretty sure my ears are turning tomato red. “Ever heard of an audiobook?”

“That’s still not reading, Frenchie.” His mouth tilts into a smirk. “The word you’re looking for islistening.”

My eyes widen. I open my mouth to retort, but nothing comes out. The audacity! Of course listening to an audiobook is reading. I’m trying to find a smart comeback, but nothing comes to mind. The words get jumbled up on my tongue in a mix of French and English, and I can’t put them in order.

Instead of speaking, I raise my phone and shove it into his face so he can read the sticker on the back that says “All books count” with an open book and a pair of headphones. Then, an incoherent sentence in French slips out—including at least three swear words—and I spin on my heel back to my place.

I release a growl as I march back. Why does he have to be so infuriating? I hate that guy. And I hate that he figured out I was French during our first conversation. I thought I was getting better at my American accent, but it took him only a few sentences to unmask me. I don’t do well with imperfection, especially when it comes to me. After a year living here, I should be able to blend in more. That would give my infuriating neighbor less ammunition to get under my skin, not to mention wiping that smirk off his face.

As soon as I return to my room, the music starts blasting again—possibly a little quieter—and I throw myself on my bed face-first. I will not let Deacon Collier break me. I’ll take that man down if it’s the last thing I do.

2

Rocky Start

Deacon

Cheery people are exasperating. They suck my energy. And lucky for me, Alice Beaumont is the queen in that department. Everything about her is cute. And by cute, I mean completely irritating. From her colorful clothes to her dorky brooches—who even wears brooches these days?—to the perpetual smile that brightens her face. Except when she talks to me. Her sunny grin vanishes completely, but weirdly, that somehow makes her even more intriguing. More human. Like there’s a realperson underneath that unhealthy dose of happiness. After all, no one can be that cheerful all the time. Life isn’t that great. There’s nothing to be ecstatic about.

Glancing at my watch, I groan. With Alice’s little visit, I barely had time to exercise before my therapist appointment. Another reminder of how messed up life is.

I hop in the shower, get dressed, and march downstairs. A creaking sound beneath me makes me stop halfway down. I’ve checked these stairs countless times since buying the place a few months ago. Made sure they were completely secure before we moved in, but the creaking hasn’t stopped. I walk back up, then down a few times, until I identify the creaking step. I’ll check it again when I get back.

As I’m approaching the front door, something catches my attention through the window facing my new bar. A cat is walking on the counter. Not just any cat. Mr. Larcy, or whatever his name is, from next door. I really need to fix the screen on the back window, or at least remember to keep it closed.

With a sigh, I step into the room, and he meows loudly. I walk to the counter to pick him up, and as usual, he starts purring. I’ve never met another cat who purrs the moment you touch him, but then again, I never was a big animalperson. It’s like he has a button somewhere on him that activates the purring when you pick him up.

Rolling my eyes, I stroke him for a little while, taking comfort in his warm body against my chest. Remembering I have an appointment to get to, I carry him outside and drop him on the sidewalk carefully.

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