Hate You Not: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

by Ella James

Oh, it’s okay. I’m leaving in a few days.

  Still want it.

  I see the bubble indicating he’s typing, then deleting, then typing again.

  C’mon, Sly. Don’t overthink this. The kids just want to do a Google street view.

  He sends the address.

  His typing bubble comes back as the kids pour from the schoolhouse doors and spill onto the lawn.

  How are they doing, he says.

  Fancy you should ask. I know I shouldn’t be snarky, but I can’t help myself. They’re doing great.

  I figured that. They like to call me when you’re in the shower.

  Well, they did once, I say.

  They do it almost every night.

  What?! Are you serious?? I gape down at the phone’s screen. How did I not know this?

  Do you ever look at your call log?

  Who does that!?

  Look at it now.

  I do—and I find…he’s right. How…creepy. I had no idea the little beasts were calling him. Looks like four nights out of the last six.

  How long have you been in Paris? Looks like they called the last four nights around 8 central time. Is that the middle of the night for you?

  Ha, kind of, he says.

  Wow. I’m really sorry. I guess it must wake you up.

  No it’s okay, I like to talk to them. I’m usually awake.

  Not tonight. You need your beauty sleep.

  Are you calling me pretty, Ms. Lawler?

  I don’t know who Ms. Lawler is, but *I* am absolutely not.

  I swallow hard. I’m such a liar.

  Get some rest, Sly. We’ll talk to you later.

  I turn my phone off until we get back to the house, where I dole out the pencil sharpeners and candy and bubbles. The kids rip into their candy, and after I snitch one of theirs, I open my own bag. It’s citrusy and tart and sweet all at once, and I wonder at how the French seem to have all the tasty things.

  Then the kids and I crowd around my little laptop and look at the Google street view. The building where he’s staying is made of orange brick, and it’s got cement-colored accents that are ornate, plus a lot of windows and a black roof with lots of small chimneys. I don’t know enough about architecture to know the name of the style, but it’s beautiful.

  “I wanna go there,” Margot murmurs.

  “Maybe one day we can.” The words roll right out of my mouth, but I find that I can’t take them back. Sutton wouldn’t mind if I used some of her money to take the kids to Paris, would she? I think she would love that.

  I ruffle Margot’s soft hair. “Uncle Burke isn’t feeling so well today. I’m going to have some soup delivered to him.”

  “All the way to Paris?”

  I smile. “Yep. I found a web site that can help me do it. Sort of like an app.” I wink.

  “He likes miso soup,” Oliver offers.

  “How do you know?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just remember.”

  I costs almost sixty dollars to have soup and tea delivered. I cringe at the total, but it’s something that I want to do. It’ll put us a little tight for the month, but that’s okay.

  The kids and I spend two hours outside playing with the pigs and goats, and then we head back in for dinner.

  “Oooh, chicken salad!”

  They sit at the table with the water bottles they use most of the time—stainless steel ones, the same brand Sutton has always bought for them—and I serve them chicken salad, crackers, and a big helping of grapes.

  “My friend Mia says she has to eat spinach for dinner! Spinach salad,” Margo says, scrunching her nose.

  “I’ll have to make a salad for you guys soon. What about a citrus salad, with almonds and some sesame dressing?”

  “Eghh.” Oliver shakes his head.

  “You know I’ve never fed y’all something bad yet.”

  “Yes you have!” Margot sits up straighter, waving her hand in front of her face as if to clear a nasty memory. “You made us eat gizzards!”

  “That wasn’t me. That was your Grandpop.”

  “At least he gave us Peppa and George.”

  I nod. “At least there’s that.”

  I say grace, hissing at Oliver to shut his eyes. The moment I say “amen,” the phone rings. A FaceTime call—from Burke.

  “Well, heck.”

  “Who is it?” both kids cry. I turn the phone around toward them, and Oliver grabs it and answers.

  “Hellooooo.” He makes a silly face, and Burke’s voice fills the kitchen.

  “Hey there, buddy.”

  “Aunt June said you’re sick!” Margot says, leaning over the phone so close he’s probably looking at the inside of her nostril.

  “I got some soup from you guys. Thank you.”

  “Miso soup,” Oliver says proudly.

  “You remembered that’s what I ordered.”

  Oliver sits up a little straighter.

  “Thank you, dude. And you, dudette.”

  “I miss you,” Margot says.

  “Did you climb up the Eiffel Tower?” Oliver asks.

  Burke laughs. “Not this time. Maybe we can come over sometime together. Would you like that?”

  Oliver nods.

  “Can I talk to Aunt June for a second?”

  Oliver hands the phone to me, and there he is. He’s so Burke, with messy, dark hair, stubble on his square jaw, and those piercing blue eyes. For a second, all my words are caught in my throat.

  “Hi,” he says.

  I fake a smile. “Hey.”

  “I can’t believe you did that.” He smiles. “How’d you manage the French?”

  “I’m fluent. Kidding. I ordered online with the help of a website. It only took about twenty minutes.”

  “That’s a while.” He rubs his hair then props his face in his palm.

  “You sound sick.”

  “I’m cool.”

  “You’re not cool,” I tease.

  He snorts.

  For a second, no one speaks. Then, in a low rasp, he says, “How are you?”

  “Fine.” It’s a chirp. “I’m good,” I tack on.

  Totally appreciated the oral you gave me right before you fixed my gutter and then disappeared like a thief in the night.

  “I have a working gutter that doesn’t leak. So that’s real nice.”

  Oh my God, I just said both “gutter” and “leak.” I can feel my face burn.

  “Good.”

  It’s all he says. His lips twitch slightly, and his head tilts just a little. I feel like he’s looking through me. So I do the most June thing imaginable. I step into the living room and whisper-hiss: “You were looking so hot. And you were such a jerk. And then you weren’t…I mean, you weren’t the whole time. But I had animosity. This was a pent-up animosity situation.”

  He laughs so loudly, I consider hanging up. He drops his phone, he’s laughing so much. Then he has a coughing fit that sounds like it hurts.

  When he picks the phone back up, his eyes are closed. The bastard is still grinning.

  “Pent-up animosity—” He breaks out into another coughing fit. “I think the term you’re looking for is lust.” He grins once more, and it’s a cocky grin. A grin with swagger.

  I decide to own it, though. I shrug. “Maybe it was. I’m a living, breathing woman. And you have abs with a capital A.”

  He chuckles.

  “It will never, ever happen again,” I say softly.

  “Oh yeah,” he says with a nod. “Never.”

  “It’s inappropriate, for one.” I lean against the living room wall, smirking as if my heart’s not pounding.

  “Oh yeah.”

  “I mean, you’re a douchey Slytherin, and I’m a noble Gryffindor. So that’s a basic compatibility issue.”

  “Noble is the first thing that comes to mind when I look at you.”

  “I know,” I say sharply, arching one eyebrow at my phone’s camera. “Beautiful and noble. Like a unicorn.”
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br />   “Oh yeah. Just like…a unicorn.” He mutters something I can’t hear, and I say, “Pervert.”

  “What?” he asks.

  “You know what.”

  He rolls his eyes.

  Awkwardness steamrolls over me. I try to fight it with more small talk. “What were you doing to get sick?”

  “Um, what?”

  “Like, were you out a lot or staying up late?”

  He frowns. “I’m not sure I understand the question.”

  “Well, I have a regimen. It involves elderberry, vitamin C, vitamin B, and D. All sorts of stuff. I don’t usually get sick unless there’s something special going on—like I forget one of those things or do some kind of weird all-nighter, like to help birth a calf.”

  He shakes his head.

  “You think I’m insane now?”

  “Did already.”

  I sigh dramatically and walk back toward the kitchen. “Well anyway. This was nice to check in. Re-establish how you’re a snake and I’m a magic unicorn.”

  “That’s my takeaway,” he says gamely.

  “Oh, and get well. Don’t forget you’re still the understudy.”

  He lets out a hoot of laughter when he realizes what I mean.

  I give him a bright smile.

  “Thank you for the soup, June.” Now he’s smiling brightly back at me.

  “Thank you for the candy, Burke Bug—I definitely did not already eat the whole bag—and the pencil sharpeners and bubbles and the T-shirt. Oh, and the bamillion dollar book.”

  He snorts.

  I turn the phone toward the kids, still eating at the kitchen table. “Say goodnight and get well, Uncle Burke.”

  They chant it after me. I make a kiss face at the phone’s screen and hang up.

  Chapter 19

  Burke

  Two pajama shirts, I text her from my office desk. Ravenclaw for me, and the extra one is perfect since I only fuck Slytherins.

  Did I go too far with that? I rub a hand back through my hair, pushing the base of my hand against my throbbing forehead. Shit, I think that sounded dickish.

  Those little dots are visible at the bottom of my screen—a sign she’s typing. When nothing comes, I know she’s typing and deleting as she struggles to decide how to reply.