Page 7 of The Enemy of My Enemy Is… My Fake Boyfriend?

It hit me suddenly. How on earth couldhesee? I had put my blind trust inthisman?

Why couldn't he have just gotten a car instead of subjecting us to this crazy ride in the rain?

Through the safety of my helmet, I watched the familiar shops and restaurants pass by in a blur, people oblivious to this wrecked girl on the back of a motorcycle whose life had just been shattered, who'd been forced into this wild ride home.

Lights and sounds all blended together as the tears came out, probably getting Ethan's stupid helmet wet inside. I sniffled loudly in a vain attempt to keep it together. But it was impossible. Nothing could stop this torrent of emotions from erupting.

Ethan pulled off to one side, finding space between two cars, and shut off the engine. Glancing up, I saw my building and scrambled off the bike.

Removing the helmet, I thrust it at him. "How do you know where I live?" I asked, swiping at my nose and eyes.

"The whole world knows where you live."

He did have a point. Earlier this evening, paparazzi had been camped out to capture our exit, but thankfully, they were long gone now, scared off by the rain and the late hour.

The pull to be inside urged me to step away, hastily muttering a thank you. The last thing I ever expected was to have to show gratitude toward Ethan Locke, but hehadmanaged to get me home safely, so I had to at least say something.

Putting the helmet down, he stepped off the bike and took my elbow again.

"What are you doing?" I huffed.

"Making sure you get inside."

"I'm fine." I pointed at the lit-up doorway. "See? The doorman's literally right there."

His features set in stone, he didn't say anything, so I did my best to stomp away once more, not bothering to look at him. But I sensed him behind me, following me.

Ever the professional, Paul at the front of my building didn't react to the mess of a person I'd become. "Good evening, Miss Stratton," he said, holding the door open.

At least he still recognized me.

He didn't question Ethan coming inside with me, and I bit my tongue from arguing more, not wanting to make a scene. Was some weird, insane part of me okay with him coming upstairs?

No, of course not.

The elevator opened right as we walked up to it, and I stepped inside, jabbing at the top floor button repeatedly. The door closed, the shiny metal giving me a glimpse of my hideous reflection. I jerked my head up, instead focusing on the numbers above as they lit up one by one.

The doors slid open and I exited, turning right to our place—myplace now.

"There are other apartments on your penthouse level?" Ethan asked.

"Three total."

I punched in the code on my door, wondering how on earth I could change it. Chase would never, ever be allowed in my space again. I deeply regretted inviting him in to live with me several months ago when he'd proposed.

Holding the door open with my hip, I pressed some buttons on the lock, hoping something would come up that would make sense to me. But it was useless. I couldn't see straight, my ankle was killing me, and all I wanted to do was collapse into a heap and cry my eyes out.

"Go inside," Ethan said. "I'll change it."

"What? How do you know how to do that?"

He raised a brow at me. "Do you even know what I do for a living?"

I almost blurted out something inappropriate, something that would probably make him slam the door shut in my face and take off. And oddly enough, I needed his help with this at the moment. So instead, I gave him a nod, deciding to go inside.

Flinging my ruined shoes off, I headed for the huge closet Chase and I shared—hadshared—and reached for my favoriterobe. It was crammed in there, like all my clothes really, in my attempt to make space for Chase's wardrobe.

Eyeing all his suits, rage shot through me, remembering how I'd so lovingly moved my clothes around and rearranged everything, how I'd helped him color coordinate his shirts and folded his vintage t-shirt collection in the new dresser I'd bought him. I'd even crawled around on my hands and knees to arrange his shoes perfectly.

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