Page 1 of Damaged Enemy Next Door

CHAPTER 1

Olivia

"Idon'tneedyouto fuck him. I just need you to have dinner with him," she repeats, looking me straight in the eye. "Please, it's important, Olivia."

As soon as the words leave her lips, I know I am in for a strange request. My best friend, Sarah, has always been unpredictable, but this is taking things to a whole new level.

“Why do I have to wear this, though?” I’m holding a short dress in my hands. I haven’t tried it on yet, but I can already see that it’s more revealing than I want it to be. “I already said I would go, didn’t I, Sarah?” I say, rolling my eyes.

“Yes, yes, you did. And you know if I wasn’t sick …”

“I know,” I grumble. “You would have gone to this blind fundraiser dinner thing.” The charity Sarah and I volunteer at, Hope For Kids, is a part of twenty-five charities that are managed by a fundraising group that hosts quarterly blind dinners between donors and charity volunteers. During these dinners, donors are paired with representatives from one of the twenty-five charities and have no background on what we do or which charity we’re from prior to meeting us. It’s our job to bring them on board, and their chance to be educated about a problem they might not even know about. I’ve done it for years, and each year only gets more exciting than the last, but tonight I’m slightly wary since Sarah and my approach to fundraising is slightly different.

“Yup,” she says. “Wear it, please. I have no idea whom you’re meeting, but the charity people did give me a brief profile —wealthy 42-year-old man, new to Houston, Texas, stellar connections, single. If you leave a good impression, he might give you a big check. And you know there’s nothing more convincing than a pretty young woman … I mean, I don’t know when he last had dinner with a 23-year-old like yourself. Maybe if you look super-hot, he’d add an extra zero.”

“So, you’re saying I don’t usually look super-hot?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Nooo ... not at all. That’s not what I meant. Please, Olivia, just do it. Just wear the damn dress.”

I don’t bother arguing. It’s not like I ever win with Sarah. I reluctantly put on the dress. The dress is a deep shade of crimson, clinging to my curves in a way that makes me feel uncomfortably exposed. It has a low-cut neckline that shows off more cleavage than I am used to and a slit up the side that bares a tantalizing length of my thigh. I tug at the hem, trying to pull it lower, but then the dress moves down my breasts, exposing even more cleavage. I sigh and decide that shorter is better and pull it up.

“Good choice,” says Sarah. “You’ve got banging legs.”

Half an hour later, I park my car in the parking lot and walk into the private club’s six-table restaurant. Of those, five tables are full of couples, and just one remains with an empty chair. I find my heart skipping a beat as my eyes find his – my charity benefactor for the night. He gives me a slight smile, and I nod back. His eyes flicker to my legs so briefly that had I not been so observant, it may have gone unnoticed, and then he looks away, quickly, as though he’s trying not to stare. I knew this dress was too much, and I mentally tell Sarah off. Well, at least his gaze isn’t lingering, and I can safely say he’s not a creep.

I want to turn around and change into something more appropriate. I’m quite certain he thinks I look like a fool too! But it’s too late, and I stand my ground. I walk over to the table, confidently, and extend my hand. He stands, shakes it firmly, and walks over to my side to pull out my chair. It’s a gesture so endearing, I find it charming and cute.

I look at him and start giggling, “Did you just pull out the chair for me? Gosh, you are old-school. No one does this nowadays.”

“That’s a great way to get me to donate,” he says, shaking his head and raising an eyebrow in amusement. He sits across the table and gives a slight chuckle. “Thank you for calling me old,” he winks at me.

God, I think to myself.He is so fucking hot.I can see his perfectly sculpted arms through his shirt. His face is chiseled like a Greek God’s. His salt-and-pepper hair looks like it’s straight out of a GQ magazine cover. I have never found a 43-year-old man hot before. It feels sinful to even think about it. But I can’t let that be known.

Now, I feel stupid for saying the first thing that comes to my mind. I should just have thanked him for his chivalry, instead of giggling. Fuck. I clear my throat, looking into his sea-green eyes, and say, “I’m hoping that the work of the charity would be enough to get you to donate, and not my manners. I’m sorry, I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot.”

“I forgive you,” he says. “And I don’t blame you. Young men nowadays don’t really know how to treat a lady. It’s a sad change, I believe.”

Seriously? What century is this man from? This time, I don’t say what I think. Instead, I jump right into why I’m here, “I just want to thank you for meeting with me today. It’s because of donors like you that charities like mine, Hope For Kids, and others from our network are able to make a difference in the lives of those who need it most. At Hope For Kids, we aim to reduce the future educational divide by providing cutting-edge educational facilities for kids coming from single-parent low-income families and -”

“Waiter,” he says, raising his hand and motioning at the waiter to bring the menu. “What would you like to drink?” he asks, handing me the menu.

I hadn’t even finished talking, and he just cuts me off to ask for the menu? For a man who believes in chivalry, I’m also beginning to find him extremely rude.

“I’ll drink anything,” I say. “Whatever you want.”

He orders a bottle of Dom and pours me a glass.

I pick up the freshly poured glass and down it in one swig. He watches on, enthralled. “By the way,” he says, “I’m Adrian. But you call me Ade like everyone else does.”

“Olivia,” I mumble as he pours me another glass.

“So why do you need the money?”

“I don’t. Hope For Kids does.”

“Well, yes …” he drawls, looking at me like I am an idiot. Shit, I did what I didn’t want to. I made a fool of myself.

I take another sip, and he follows.

---