Page 18 of Beautiful Enemy

Of course, we did anyway, but we kept up appearances to fool our parents.

Since high school, I haven’t been close with my brothers or parents. Callie’s the nearest thing I have to family, and though we don’t hang out on the regular, she’s the one person who’s stood by me since I was a kid when I needed it.

I picture her in the West LA apartment she shares with a roommate as I press the phone to my ear to pick up more sounds around her, clues as to her well-being. “Are you working this week?”

“Um, I’m not sure.” More noises, as if she’s moving around.

My cousin is normally upbeat and inquisitive. Her response makes me pull up, stepping away from the route so we don’t get trampled by runners or tourists. “Listen. I’m calling because I might not have the money this month.”

I hold my breath as I wait for her disappointment, or protest.

“It’s fine,” she says, her voice flat.

“You don’t need it?”

“We need way more. Something we were counting on fell through. I’m not sure we’ll make it this time.”

Alarm has my hand tightening on the phone. “How much are you short?”

She sighs. “Twenty thousand.”

Shit.

There’s no way I have that kind of free cash, evenwiththis contract.

“Can you get a loan?”

“I tried. We’ve just been served an eviction notice.”

The sunshine is every bit as bright, but as the dog tugs me down the path, my feet are heavy as bricks.

“Your landlord can’t kick you out, especially given the circumstances.”

“He doesn’t care. I’m going to be spending the next week packing.”

I’ve been trying to figure out how to leave Ibiza in one piece, but my chest aches when I think of Callie, the one person who’s always had my back.

When I help her, it’s because I want to and I can. Not because she asks.

“Don’t pack yet. Let me get back to you.”

* * *

When I return to the villa, I’m still trying to think of how to help Callie.

I step inside, the leash looped around my wrist. I stop to yank off a shoe.

Before I can, the dog bolts.

I trip each step as he drags me across the floor, up the stairs.

“Stop. Licorice! Costas! Siegfried! Roy! Bowie!”

He hesitates at the last word, and I manage to suck in a breath before he lunges again, nearly knocking me flat on my face.

He galumphs down the hall with me stumbling behind. The door at the end is cracked, and he sticks his nose in before shoving it wide and barreling into the room.

I barely notice the wood furniture and sunny orange walls of an office.

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