The Enemy: A Novel

Chapter 1

June

It’s been twelve years since I’ve seen him.

Twelve years since his smug face leaned down to kiss me, stopped just before our mouths met, smirked, and then turned and walked out of my life forever. That day, I stood stunned and awestruck. I wish I had smashed his toes. Instead, I closed my eyes as he went in for the kill. I cringe, remembering how I tilted my chin up, feeling a chill trickle across my spine at the thought of him kissing me after spending our whole high school experience trying to kill each other. I acknowledged defeat the moment my eyes fluttered shut. I hate that he won our war back then.

But tonight…tonight, I resurrect the battle.

And victory will be mine.

No longer am I that naïve little graduate, excited for a kiss from the enemy. I’m now thirty years old and majority owner of Darlin’ Donuts—one of Charleston’s top hot spots. My best friend, Stacy, and I opened the bakery three years ago, and we have been enjoying a nice bit of success ever since.

Not only am I the southern queen of the gourmet donut business, but I’m turning down men calling me up nightly for a date. Okay…nightly is a stretch. But it’s definitely somewhere around three times a week. Twice a week. Once a week. Above average, okay?

Point is, I’ve got a lot going for me now. Career success. Tons of friends—because family makes the best friends, am I right? And I’m at least four inches taller than I was in high school (read: two inches). Best of all, I’ve perfected a killer winged eyeliner and paired it with a little black dress that has had men eyeballing me from across the bar all night long.

Sorry, boys. You can look, but you can’t touch.

In short, I’ve made sure that tonight—the night I come face-to-face again with my archnemesis—I look the best I’ve looked in my adult life. Because mark the words coming out of my red lips: Tonight, I will crush Ryan Henderson under my black stilettoed feet.

He will see all that he has missed out on and weep on the floor, clutching my legs, begging me to give him the kiss he left behind all those years ago.

And FINALLY, I hear the door squeak open. I wait, measuring the seconds passing by, the click, click, click of a woman’s high heels drawing nearer.

Just a little closer.

Ugh. She passed me, choosing the far end of the row like a normal person. Why did I have to choose the middle?

Hey there! I call out. Why don’t you take the one beside me?

Her clicks come to an abrupt halt, and suddenly, I’m aware of how creepy I sounded.

Because…yeah, currently, I’m sitting on a toilet with my fancy little cocktail dress hiked up to my hips and the telltale prickles of a woman who has had no choice but to sit on a toilet seat for far too long shooting down my legs.

Uh, I think I’m okay with this stall. The woman is undoubtedly shooting off a frantic text to her date saying if she’s not out of here in five minutes, it was the woman in the middle stall who killed her.

I laugh, trying to sound as little like a serial killer as possible, because any minute now, Ryan Henderson will be arriving at the party, and I need to be out there to see his ugly face first. (I’m assuming he’s ugly because it helps me sleep easier at night.)

Sorry, didn’t mean to freak you out! I’m normal, I swear. Just out of toilet paper over here and was hoping you could slip me a roll.

Oh. Her voice is still far away. She’s not convinced I won’t do something creepy if she comes near my stall.

Meanwhile, I’m sitting over here, air-drying on the porcelain throne, worrying I’ll never feel my feet again, while Miss Barbie Heels makes up her mind.

I sweeten the pot because, apparently, I’m a black-market toilet paper dealer now. There’s five bucks and a half-used tube of red lipstick in it for you.

That got her moving. Moving right on out the bathroom door. Apparently, red isn’t Barbie’s lipstick color of choice, and she’s decided she would rather risk a bladder infection than get near me. If I hadn’t left my phone on the table like a potato, I could have texted Stacy and asked her to come bail me out. But noooo, I had to prove that I’m not obsessed with my phone like the rest of the world and leave it on the table.

Still, Stacy should be receiving my telepathic BFF distress signals. I’ve been in here forever. She should be worried that I’ve either been kidnapped or am suffering from some serious stomach trouble. Both of which would warrant an appearance from someone who claims to love me like a sister.

Stacy is also the reason I am having to be reunited with the man I hate more than menstrual cramps. She and her fiancé, Logan, were high school sweethearts, and after over fifteen years in a relationship (yep, you heard me right) they are finally tying the knot. I would be over-the-moon excited for Stacy if Logan hadn’t gone and asked Ryan to be his best man.

Although I think it’s debatable, Stacy says it’s customary for the best man to attend the groom’s bachelor party—which is what is happening tonight. Actually, it’s a joint bachelor and bachelorette party, because Stacy and Logan are one of those annoyingly in love couples who do everything together. They share a Facebook profile, order the dinner portion of every meal so they can split it, and even book overlapping doctors’ appointments. So it was really no surprise when they announced they were joining their parties together. We’re all having one fancy bar crawl, and I can think of at least one hundred things that could go wrong tonight. But all of them happen to Ryan.

I slip a laxative into his drink.

I squirt superglue on his seat before he sits down.

I set his car on fire. (Don’t worry, I’ll wait until he’s out of it…maybe.)

I could go on and on, but you get the picture.

I can’t, for the life of me, understand why Logan and Ryan have stayed close friends even after graduating and living in different states. Sometimes I wonder what Ryan has been up to this whole time, but I don’t dare ask Stacy because I implemented a strict no mention of the devil rule a long time ago, and I refuse to break it. Both Stacy and Logan know that even the slightest slip of Ryan’s name gets them put in the friendship doghouse for an entire week. Am I being petty? Yes. Absolutely. But I’m okay with it.

I’ve had twelve blissful years of Ryan-lessness. Well, almost blissful. That time, five years ago, when my fiancé cheated on me and I had to cancel my wedding sucked. Other than that, though, it’s been twelve years of success without worrying that Ryan will somehow swoop in and overshadow me. And if I could ever get off this toilet, I could go rub all my newfound success in Ryan’s face.

Thankfully, I hear the door open again, and I sit up straighter, determined not to mess up my lines this time. Fate is on my side as the woman chooses the stall beside me. Deciding not to risk it with chitchat, I cut right to the chase. Umm. Hi. I don’t mean to startle you…but the thing is, I’ve been in here for a while, and I was wondering if—

I cut myself off when a hand shoots under the stall wall, clutching a bouquet of toilet paper. Yeah, yeah, here you go.

Yes! Finally! See, now this is a woman I can appreciate. Soul sisters. Women who understand each other! I briefly consider giving her my tube of red lipstick and asking her to exchange numbers, but I decide against it.

Once all my business is complete, I emerge from the bathroom like I’ve been lost at sea for ten years. It’s good to be back in the world. Are the Kardashians still famous?

I make my way down the dark, slender hallway toward the bar. The music pulses through my chest, and my heels pound the floor with the sure strides of a six-foot-tall Vogue model on the catwalk rather than the five-foot-two southern peach I am.

Right now, I am all confidence—high on my own determination as I step out of the hallway into the trendy sports bar. I have no time to scan the room before I’m grabbed hard by the arm and yanked to the side.

Ow! What the—

He’s here, Stacy whispers loudly into my face. And WOW has she already had a lot to drink or what? I’m going to need to slip her a Tic Tac.

Who’s here? But I know who she’s talking about. I’m just getting into character with my false disinterest.

Didn’t you get all my texts? She sounds frantic. It makes me laugh a little because I know that even though this is our first stop of the night, she’s already a little tipsy. Stacy is a lightweight. And when Stacy gets tipsy, she turns into the star of a reality TV show. Which reality show? It doesn’t really matter. A drunk person is the driving force in all of them.

No, I left my phone on the table.

Stacy looks appalled. Why’d you do that?

Because I was proving that I— It doesn’t matter. How long has he been here?

About five minutes. He’s standing over at the bar.

Nerves zing through me because this is it. After twelve years, my archnemesis is once again standing in the same room as me, and I fully intend to squash him.

My little black dress is hugging my curves, and my loose-wave, honey-brown hair is tickling my spine. I’ve been saving this dress for exactly this occasion. It has a high neckline but low-cut open back, making it the perfect combination of sexy and sweet. The mullet of dresses, if you will. Business in the front, party in the back. Even better, the slender long sleeves cover almost all of my shoulder tattoo, leaving only the tiniest sliver of pale-yellow sunflower petals to peek out over my shoulder blade.

I take in one deep breath before turning around and scanning each man at the bar. I search. I search again. I search one more time because…He’s not here.

Yes, he is, Stacy says in a matter-of-fact way that gives me a sinking feeling. He’s right there. She points toward the bar, and I whip my head around to her.

No. He’s. Not, I say through my teeth. I don’t see any ugly men with greasy hair and rotting teeth! I’m doing that thing where I’m yelling in whisper form with a smile still plastered to my face. It’s scary.

Stacy doesn’t back down from my intensity. She gives a look that says this ends here and now. That’s because Ryan is not ugly or greasy.

But you said he was! I sound so desperate now. I’m seconds away from breathing into a paper bag.

Stacy shakes her blond head, and if I wasn’t completely freaking out right now, I would tell her how pretty her new highlights look. "Nope. You always assumed he was, and I just never corrected you."

Why! That’s the kind of thing that you correct a girl about.

Her eyes go wide, and her mouth falls open. You’ve got to be kidding me! The last time I tried to mention anything remotely complimentary about Ryan, you took my fifteen-dollar glass of wine and poured it into the restaurant’s ficus!

I did do that. And I stand by it.

Now! Like it or not, Ryan is here, and he’s not ugly, greasy, or unhygienic, so it’s time to put on your big girl panties and woman up.

Right. She’s right. This pep talk was good. I nod my head in agreement, trying to get hyped like those football players before they run out of the tunnel. I feel a new adrenaline coursing through me—an electric shock to my system that triggers my brain to switch into high alert. Because suddenly, the game—or rather, the opponent—has changed.

Which one is he? I go shoulder to shoulder with Stacy as my eyes cut fire across the bar.

The navy suit with Miss USA draped over him.

Of course.

Of freakin’ course.

Chapter 2

June

As if he can feel my eyes on him, Ryan chooses that exact moment to look over his shoulder. The room tunnels as his gaze locks with mine. I inhale sharply, feeling punched in the gut. Gone is the boyishness of his face. Gone are the lanky arms and legs. It’s still Ryan staring me down, but Ryan the man. Ryan 2.0. Ryan maple glazed and covered in sprinkles.

When he realizes it’s me, he turns his body out to face me, leaning one elbow against the mahogany bar. The jacket of his slim navy suit protests at the strain and pulls tightly against his broad shoulders. He’s wearing a white dress shirt with the top button undone, showing a small triangle of skin that whispers he spends a good amount of time in the sun. His dark brown hair is mussed and wavy like tides in the ocean. Confidence drips off him and zaps all mine away.

Suddenly, my dress is too small. Too noticeable. I’m worried that the stick-on bra cups I’m wearing are going to peel off from all this sweat and plop down on the floor between my legs like I birthed them. Is red even my lip color? This was supposed to be my power outfit. My Trojan horse. If I looked hot and powerful, I’d feel hot and powerful inside. It’s not working, though, so I have no choice but to fake it.

I shoot out an invisible SOS to all the boss babes of the world and beg them to telepathically send me their strength. When Ryan’s mouth tips into a smirk, I don’t smile. When his dark eyes skim over me, I don’t flinch. And when he straightens to his full height, refastens the middle button of his suit jacket, and begins stalking toward me, I don’t drop to the floor and hide under the table. But I really, really want to.

Oh, shoot! He’s coming over, says Stacy. Listen, there’s a lot you should know—

Shhhh, I hiss back at her. I have to use all my energy to look confident and irresistible. I haven’t broken eye contact with Ryan yet, and although I don’t like that he just saw the frantic exchange between Stacy and me, I’m glad he knows I’m not running from him.

My stomach jumps into my throat as he gets close, and I think I might be sick. I hate that I was expecting Elmer Fudd, and instead, I’m getting Adonis. He’s closing in on me now, and so is the music, and the rapid pounding of my heart, and Stacy’s French manicure. I rip my arm from her dramatic grip and break eye contact with Ryan only long enough to give Stacy a look that says Don’t embarrass me! She recognizes the warning, because she’s given it to me often. It’s how we keep each other from becoming the next meme circulating the internet.

I turn back to find Ryan right in front of me, hands in his pockets, smirk dialed up to one thousand, and his gaze burning a hole through my face.

Mistake number one was looking away from Ryan.

Mistake number two was ever underestimating my greatest opponent.

Ryan’s eyes used to be the color of mud. Now, they are deep pools of hazelnut spread rimmed in 90 percent dark chocolate piping.

June Bug, his voice rumbles at me—southern drawl a little less than it used to be, but somehow sexier and…NO! No. No. No.

This is not how this was supposed to play out. I am the successful one. The one who fought tooth and nail to become an entrepreneurial success. The one who had to jump in the air while squeezing myself into the highest-powered shaping underwear I could find so I could stun my nemesis with my faux smooth form. How am I supposed to crush him under my stilettos if he’s towering over me like that?

Don’t call me that name. My hands fist at my side.

We are engaging in a standoff now. We might as well be outside of a saloon in the middle of a dust storm, because both of us have our hands on our pistols, just daring the other to flinch.

Soooo, says Stacy with an uncomfortable chuckle, looking between us. Ryan, you obviously remember June.

Neither one of us says anything. Neither of us smiles. Well, I should say, I don’t smile. Ryan still has that wolfish smirk etched on his mouth. I hate him so much. It’s like he’s reading my mind and laughing at me because he thinks he’s already won.

Okay, well, I’m just going to go…somewhere far away from here. Stacy shuffles off toward the bar where Logan and the rest of the party is gathered.

And now it’s just me and Ryan all alone in the corner of this dark, loud bar. The perfect place to murder someone and get away with it.

Listen, June—

Nope! No way does he get to start this conversation and claim the upper hand right out of the gate. I learned to never let Ryan be the first one to speak during our junior debates. He might have won most of those, but he’s not winning this one. Trojan horse, here I come.

I inch closer to him, square my shoulders, and poke his firm chest. No, you listen, Ryan Henderson. I can see it in your eyes that you still think you’re better than me. But guess what? You’re wrong, buddy! I really wish I hadn’t said buddy, but I do like my enthusiasm. I am not that same little girl from high school who let you push her around and didn’t push back.

Ryan interrupts my epic monologue with a chuckle, trying to steal my thunder. In what world did you not push back?

I ignore him, resisting the urge to settle the sharp point of my heel on the top of his shoe and press down, and instead, continue on, thunder unstolen. I might’ve tipped my chin up for you back then, but not anymore. I am a grown woman who has scraped and worked my ass off to open my own bakery and establish a brand that is recognized across all South Carolina. I am a force of nature, so don’t mess with me this week unless you want me to cancel your birth certificate. I take a step back and finally let a smirk touch my lips. But who knows? Maybe if you’re nice enough, I can give you a position scrubbing dishes in my kitchen.

I’m on fire right now. Somewhere in the world, Taylor Swift is feeling a tingle down her spine because of this Bad Blood reenactment. I feel like I could run a marathon or lift a truck from all the adrenaline coursing through my veins.

That is, until Alex, one of Logan’s other groomsmen, walks up and claps Ryan on the shoulder and says the words that make my blood run cold. There you are, Mr. Big-time Chef! I’m surprised to see you here. Thought you’d be too much of a hotshot now to give us common folk a week of your time.

I’m sorry, what?

My rapid breathing left over from my heroic speech is dying out now and is replaced with a ringing in my ears. I hesitantly meet Ryan’s gaze. There’s a quiet smile on his lips. A knowing smile. It’s no big deal. I was due a little time off.

Ha! Alex looks at me with a big dopey smile like I’m in on the joke. Since when is becoming a Michelin chef not a big deal?

Ryan still hasn’t looked at Alex. His eyes are locked on me, a predatory glint sparking in his dark-chocolate orbs.

Michelin chef? I ask, legs wobbling.

Alex squeezes Ryan’s shoulder. I’m happy for you, man! Logan was just telling us how you’re the youngest chef to earn three stars. That’s ridiculous.

Just bury me now.

Ryan is a chef?! Of course he is. I just made a complete fool of myself telling the man how successful I am, and here he is, brazen with three of the most prestigious culinary stars in the industry. Isn’t that fun? How do I always seem to come in second place to this man?

Alex’s smile dies when he notices the homicidal look I’m giving Ryan, and without saying a word, he just backs away. Smart man. It’s high school all over again where Ryan and I stuck to our own sides of the hallway, and people stared anytime we had to pass each other because there was always a chance of someone drawing blood when we got too close.

Except Ryan isn’t sticking to his side. He steps forward—invading my personal space—and leans in close to my ear while resting his hand on the side of my bicep, creating a romantic illusion to anyone looking on. Even though I don’t want to, I drag in a deep breath of his heady scent, which is both cool and spicy. I stay frozen like an animal in the wild that knows it’s being hunted. His breath grazes the side of my face, and I hate the way I still feel affected by him.

I will not tip my chin up.

Thanks for the job offer, June Bug, but I think I’m good. Oh, and by the way—his voice drops into a gentle whisper—you have toilet paper stuck to the bottom of your heel.

I cut my gaze down just in time to see Ryan use his fancy leather dress shoe to pull the toilet paper out from beneath the stiletto I was supposed to crush him under.

Chapter 3

Ryan

What did you say? asks Noah Prescott, the restaurateur on the other end of my phone who’s trying to get me to sell my soul for the next three years.I can’t hear you over all that noise. Where are you?

Hold on. Going outside. It’s amazing and frightening how fast an accent rushes back to a person when they go home.

I push my way through the crowded sports bar to the front door, disliking how people keep bumping into me, sloshing their drinks onto my shoes. It’s around 1:30 a.m., and we are at our fourth (and last) bar of the night. The air smells like sweat, tequila, and regret. And let’s just say that everyone in our party is less than sober, but none less sober than June Broaden.

To be honest, I had come into town with the full intention of making a fresh start with her. I planned to bury that hatchet and put the water under the bridge. We haven’t spoken since high school, which I thought would have been plenty of time to let our old animosity fade.

I was wrong.

When June’s green eyes locked on me, I saw her hatred burn brighter. Nothing has faded. It’s somehow intensified. And just like that, I was eighteen again, faced with the woman who makes my skin crawl—but mostly from how much I want her. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes narrowed, and I could see she had no intention of burying the hatchet. Nope, she threw down the gauntlet. This old flame between us is still kindling, and I want to kiss her now more than ever.

After our high school commencement ceremony, I almost did. I came within an inch of June’s perfect lips before reality crashed over me. I couldn’t kiss her on graduation day—not after all our years of dueling. Not when I knew I would pack up later that night and catch a red-eye flight to France, beginning my stint at Le Cordon Bleu. It would have been a cruel form of torture finally tasting June’s lips and having to leave them behind for good.

It was better to leave things as they were and part as enemies rather than lovers.

What sucks about all this is that, even after all these years, my situation hasn’t really changed that much. June still hates me, and I’m still only in town temporarily. After this wedding, I’ll head back to Chicago and either sign a contract to be the executive chef in the new gourmet restaurant Noah is opening, or I’ll go bury myself in the other ritzy kitchen I’ve already been working in for the past four years.

Can you hear me now? I ask