Page 14 of A Very Merry Enemy
I turn on my phone’s flashlight and keep walking, ignoring the way my feet already hurt, ignoring the cold seeping through my sweater.
Five minutes later, headlights appear in front of me.
His truck slows, and he rolls down the passenger window.
“What are you doing?” His voice is flat, annoyed.
“Walking home.”
“Why?”
“I dunno. Thought I’d get some exercise after working eighteen hours. It’s such a beautiful night.” I keep walking, picking up my pace even though my legs are screaming.
He sighs. “Get in.”
“No.”
“Holiday—”
“Hell. No.” I stop at his window, glaring at him through the open space. “No way I’m going to owe you one.”
He gives me that fake, bitter laugh that’s always pissed me off. “It’s dark, you’re exhausted, and you have to be back here in seven hours. Get in the truck.”
“Not happening.”
“You’re being stubborn.”
“And you’re being an asshole. Nothing new.”
“I’m gonna give you ten seconds, then I’m leaving your ass here.” He starts counting. “Ten.”
“You’re so predictable,” I snap.
“Nine. All you want to do is push my buttons.”
“Eight,” I say before he can. “And all you want to do is be rude.”
He puts the truck in park and stares at me. “Get in. Last thing you need is to get sick. Who’d be your replacement? You’re it. That’s the last thing Emma needs.”
The wind blows harder, tossing my hair across my face. A shiver runs through me.
“Fine. But know it’s not because I want to, but because of Emma.”
He rolls his eyes as I yank open the door and climb in. I’m hit by the smell of him. Pine and sawdust and that cologne he’s always worn, the one that used to make me dizzy when we were pressed together in the dark.
He doesn’t speak. Just drives back to the parking lot in silence.
The truck cab feels too small, and the air nearly chokes me. It’s so thick. I stare out the window, hyperaware of every breath he takes, every shift of his hands on the wheel.
Being this close to him, remembering how it used to feel is pure torture.
He pulls up next to my car and gets out without a word, grabbing jumper cables from the back seat. I watch through the windshield as he pops both hoods, his movements efficient and familiar. He’s helped people with dead batteries, fixed broken equipment, and kept this farm running.
He holds his palm open, and I hand him my key through the window. He climbs into my driver’s seat, door open, and presses the start button. The engine struggles, then catches.
I get out of the truck and move toward him. “Thank you.”
He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even look atme as he slides out of my car. He unhooks the cables, drops my hood with more force than necessary, and walks back to his truck.
