Hate You Not: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

by Ella James

  She reminds me of Sutton, which is pretty weird. And then I start thinking about Asher. He never said much about Sutton’s family, and I wonder why. There’s so much to say.

  I’m talking to Mary Helen and her friend, tracking June as she stuffs wrapping paper into trash bags, when someone’s hand covers my shoulder. Shawn.

  “Come over here…” He waves me toward the porch, where I find all four dogs—and a guy with bleached blond hair.

  “Remember him from last time?” Shawn asks me, jerking his thumb at the guy as we walk up to him. “Marcus?”

  “Yeah,” I lie. “Good to see you again, man.”

  Shawn dips inside the living room, but he’s right back out. He’s holding a glass pitcher filled with something I can smell when he’s still three feet away.

  His face lights up just as the door opens and his dad steps out onto the little porch behind him. At the exact same moment, they say, “Moonshine.”

  Chapter 23

  June

  When I was still with Lambert, my high school boyfriend, who had moved up to Atlanta for college, Lambert brought a guy named Penn home for Thanksgiving break. Penn was from somewhere up north—I think maybe New Hampshire. He wore loafers, skinny jeans, and big sweaters. I remember I thought he was hot in that nerdy kind of way.

  When they first rolled into town for the break, Shawn was watching movies at my house with me. I remember he took one look at Penn and told me he could turn Penn redneck in one weekend.

  It turned out to be true. Penn was stuffing his face with dumplins and fried bacon and biscuits and guzzling down sweet tea like it was his last meal. At some point, Shawn and his friends brought moonshine to my house, where Penn and Lambert were camped out—Mama had just passed the year before—and Penn got so drunk, I thought we might have to take him to the ER. The next day, Shawn had him smoking cigars on the porch swing, drinking Dickel Barrel Select straight out of the bottle.

  It’s the same damn thing with Burke, or that’s the look of it. Shawn has set his sights on Mr. Sly, and he’s not giving up until Burke passes out cold on the porch swing or swears he’ll live and die a Dawgs fan.

  I can tell they’re drinking moonshine because when I pass through with a swarm of kids, headed for the back porch via the kitchen so they can do a pinata I set up back there, Shawn and Burke hold their Solo cups behind their backs and sit up straighter on the swing, both smiling too big for the occasion. Also, No-Good Marcus is around. That guy’s a drug dealer, I swear, but Shawn thinks he’s just a nice dude from Albany.

  It irks me that Burke is hanging out with them. Even though I guess I should be grateful. If Shawn hadn’t taken such a shine to Sly, he might be staying with me here. And I don’t know if I could keep my hands to myself then.

  He does have the body of a god. It’s not my fault he’s ripped and lean and got those graceful, muscle-flexing movements like the Instagram models. Also, when he smiles, I feel like I just took a shot of moonshine. He’s temptation on two legs, and I’m a girl who’s got a broken vibrator and no extra money to spend on another one.

  So it’s better that Shawn gets Burke shitfaced and hauls him off. Makes my life a little easier. In fact, to ensure that very outcome, I take to avoiding Mr. Sly and that whole front porch region.

  I take the kids to the pens behind the house, and we play with the critters. It’s our own little petting zoo. Then we go inside and change into dry clothes, have popsicles in the kitchen, and everybody slowly starts to go home.

  I stay inside while people wander in and out, “cleaning up the kitchen.” When Shawn saunters inside, smelling like the inside of a bottle, I dart off to the bathroom, where I stay while I can hear Sly’s voice coming from the den.

  Leah’s in there; she’ll be here with me tonight, so we can catch up and use these collagen masks she ordered. I can hear her laughing at everything he says. And he sounds like he might be tipsy—voice a little lower, his low laugh a little richer.

  Leah’s liked my boyfriends since we were in first grade. My cheeks blaze bright red as I scrub my hands in the sink. Not like Burke is mine. That’s crazy. It’s so crazy I laugh, giving myself a look in the mirror.

  Then I go into the den, and it’s just Leah and the kids, all snug on the couch, and I forget about Burke. I’m sure he’s partying it up at Shawn’s. My brother throws big, stupid parties where everyone in the county shows up with a cooler full of beer. Super classy. That’s the Lawlers.

  Burke is used to a party bachelor lifestyle, no doubt. Maybe he’ll fit right in.

  The kids are so zonked, they go to bed early, leaving Leah and me in the den to shoot the shit and watch You on Netflix.

  I’m not sure if I should tell her what I saw between my dad and her mom. I think I won’t until she brings out some wine and sprawls out on the couch under my big, fuzzy throw blanket and tells me she’s afraid her mom is dating Ryan, her fifteen-years-younger lawn landscaping guy.

  “I thought Ryan was into Russell who runs that Conoco down near Albany, so that’s just weird,” she laments.

  And I just blurt it out. “NoIsawyourmomandmydadkissinginthelaundryroominfrontofthepuppies.”

  Leah gasps and shoots up off the couch.

  “My mom is such a hussy! And your dad! June, eww. I’m sorry, but your dad’s moustache is not my favorite situation.”

  “Lord, Leah. That’s not very nice. My dad is still a catch.”

  “This is so weird.” She paces the floor. “I just can’t!”

  She’s so scandalized, she says she doesn’t want to do the collagen masks. Despite her upset, Leah tends to crash as hard as she works and plays. In half an hour, she’s asleep, looking like a Disney princess with her pretty dyed hair flowing over my couch pillow.

  I’m not tired at all, so I decide to take Mario and Peach out for a tinkle. That’s how I come to be out in my front yard under the full moon, tapping my toes while the pups take care of business. I turn a few slow circles underneath the stars, hoping to feel something besides weary and a little annoyed—though at who, I’m not exactly sure.

  I hear a coyote somewhere, sounding lonely and restless. I hear that, sister. I strain to listen for her howl again, over the song of crickets. And that’s how I hear the splash.

  At first, the only thing I can think of is an animal. Or snake. Snakes do love the water. Maybe it’s a squirrel, fell in. My mind races as I take the puppies inside. I steal back onto the porch, lock the screen door as a safety measure, and spend a minute listening to the pattern of the splashes.

  That’s somebody. Gotta be. Somebody came and took a dip in my pool! Somebody or some animal. But what could get in? It’s so high up off the ground.

  I step back inside and use a stool to reach the cabinets over my refrigerator. There’s a gun up there—a little .22 my mama used to carry if she ever had to drive somewhere at night. I check that it’s loaded and take off the safety. Then I slip onto the porch and creep down the stairs.

  It’s a quiet enough night. I mean, the crickets are doing their thing, but it’s not windy, and there’s no other noise, like from someone driving by. I can’t even hear the faint sound of county road traffic I can hear sometimes in winter, when some of the trees have lost their leaves.

  When I was little, Mama used to watch those USA Network murder movies. I think about them as I creep toward the pool. There’s that one big boulder in the front yard, and a few trees, but no good place to hide. Moonlight spills over the lawn in silvery swaths, fading into skinny pine tree shadows and seeping into wet spots in the grass around the pool.

  I stop maybe fifteen feet away from it, and I’m sure it’s a person. Someone big. Their movements aren’t erratic, and it also doesn’t sound like they’re trying to be quiet.

  I’m aware, as I move slowly toward the pool, of what I want it to be. Who I want it to be. I’ve read my share of Danielle Steel and Nora Roberts. I like those plots better than the Mary Higgins Clark. I like happily ever afters, and a li
ttle strangeness. Some surprise and pitter-patters of the heart, and that sweet roller coaster feeling.

  I feel all of that and more as I climb up the ladder that leads over the pool’s side, and I see it’s him.

  It’s Burke in the pool, treading water on his back with his head tipped toward the moon, the contours of his gorgeous face outlined in pearly light. Each time he moves, the muscles of his chest flex, making white light and shadows sluice over him.

  “Burke.”

  I don’t mean to say it. His name rolls off my tongue like a marble. When he hears it, he paddles around to face me, and he smiles a little crooked smile.

  “Hey there, June.”

  His voice is soft and slow, almost a drawl in this one moment. My chest gives a little kick, like meeting his gaze sent electric current into me. I have the sense that he’s been waiting for me.

  His eyes hold mine, and I’d bet the whole world that he has been.

  He tilts his face toward the sky again, shuts his eyes.

  “What’re you doing?” It’s a murmur.

  “Nothing,” I say. “Are you drunk in my pool?”

  He opens his eyes again, gives me a smirk. “I didn’t drink it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Didn’t have much of the mountain dew, as he called it. Your brother didn’t notice.”

  “Why not?”

  I think he shrugs. He sinks deeper into the water a little on one side, then paddles more to get himself back up. “Just had some work stuff to take care of.”

  “Where is Shawn?”

  “He’s at his house with some friends.”

  “Oh you mean the whole town and their lady friends?” I roll my eyes.

  He grins, but he doesn’t comment. “I wanted to unwind a little.”

  “So you came to my house.”

  His lips twitch into a smile—smug or abashed?

  He strokes closer to me and looks up, dark hair falling over his temple. “Yes. I came to your house.”

  I hear myself rasp, “I guess my house is happy to have you. If not happy,” I add, climbing over the pool’s side and perching on the top rung, “at least accepting of your presence.”

  He chuckles. It’s a nice, rich sound that finds its way into my bones and warms them up like whiskey.

  “Is that right?”

  I nod. “Nobody was in the pool, and I guess it is sort of yours.”

  He gives a shake of his head. “Nah. It’s yours now.”

  “Mr. Moneybags.” I roll my eyes, mostly to pry them off his bulky shoulders, where they’re lingering.

  He swims little closer still.

  “Is that how you see me?”

  I shrug. “Waddles like a duck, quacks like a duck, floats like a duck…”

  That makes him snicker. “Ducks float better than me.”

  He shifts onto his back, and I watch him sink until all I see is his straight nose and edible lips.

  “You have a low percentage of body fat. Others”—I gesture at myself like Vanna White—“float more easily.”

  He grabs one of the ladder’s rungs and holds his hand out. “Come show me.”

  I’m still in my swimsuit. Never got in the pool at the party, never took my cover-up off. Now I have no excuse for why I can’t get in with him. And I find I don’t want one.

  I sigh, so he doesn’t think I’m overeager. No reason to reveal all my cards. Then I peel my jumper down. “Lest you judge me for bad guardian-ing, know that Leah’s in the house with the kids.”

  “I know you’re good to them, June.”

  I drape my cover-up over the pool’s side. Then, aiming away from his shadowy form, I hop down off the ladder, cutting feet first into the water. It’s warm—not bath warm, but like a bath you’ve sat in too long—and surprisingly deep. My pointed toes hit the smooth bottom, and I push up toward the surface, breaking through to find him grinning.

  I tread water, staring at him and his almost-silly grin. “That was quite an entrance.”

  I swipe my hair out of my eyes. “Shut up.”

  “No, it really was graceful.”

  I want to make an offhanded comment. Something like, There’s a word not commonly used to describe me. But I can’t find my voice. I swim a circle around him, loving how my muscles feel. Like most Southern girls, I’ve always loved to swim.

  “When I was in tenth grade,” I manage, when I come to a stop near him, “we had cheer tryouts at school, to go from JV to varsity. I was already on the team. But we had judges come in from Atlanta. There were twelve varsity spots.” I laugh, shaking my head. “Twelve girls tried out, right? I found out from our cheer coach—in private—that they only recommended eleven. They thought the squad would be better with eleven than a twelfth one—a current cheerleader. Me.”

  Even now, the memory strikes me as hilarious—maybe especially now that time has dulled my shame. I shift onto my back, kicking and spreading my arms as I belly laugh. When my giggle-fest loses steam, I stare up at the trees as swaths of moonlight beam down through pine needles. Then I shift so I can see him, and I find his eyes are trained on me.

  I’m aware that how I’m floating makes my breasts jut up out of the water. For a second, I’m going to sink back under. Then something in his eyes sparks, and I feel pinned in place. I inhale, the air in my lungs causing me to float a little better.

  “You’re right,” he says, grinning as he paddles closer. “You do float.”

  His eyes look dazed. His lips are parted slightly as he comes in close enough to kiss my cheek…close enough so I can feel the water moving with each smooth but forceful kick of his legs, stroke of his arms.

  “What about you?” I manage in a hoarse whisper. “Are you a California water baby?”

  “Grew up with a backyard pool.”

  He’s so close I feel his breath against my jaw, can almost smell the minty scent that I remember last time he was here. To give myself some space, I kick a few times, sending myself toward the side of the pool, where there’s a round flamingo float with a long, thick neck and two wings surrounding a flat spot in the middle. I drape my arm across its middle, and there’s a plop as something falls into the pool.

  “What the what?”

  He’s over to me in a second, so close that my pulse kicks up a notch. He grabs the dark thing bobbing in the water. “Wine cooler.” He grins at it. “Your sister must have left them.”

  “Oh my gosh, she left a bunch of booze in a float at a kids’ party?”

  He chuckles and then reaches over me to grab another one from the flamingo’s middle; there’s a small indention where a few more are propped up.

  “Peach,” he says, reading the label. I sigh.

  “Moonshine and wine coolers at a children’s birthday party. Welcome to southwest Georgia.” I let go of the flamingo as Burke twists the top off.

  I watch as he swallows some, pauses, then gulps more. He brings the bottle down from his mouth and gives me a crooked grin. “It’s kind of good.”

  “Yeah, I bet it’s good like sugar cereal. I got the kids some Trix the other day. Did you know they literally threw it away? Bad dyes and too much sugar in the morning. Did you know morning is the worst time of the day to eat a lot of sugar?”

  He’s grinning. Just grinning. Saying nothing. And I’m rambling.

  He holds the drink out to me, and I take it, sinking down into the water as one of my hands stops paddling to hold onto it. As I take a swallow, the crickets seem to buzz more loudly. His eyes look like molten silver in the moonlight. Chills sweep up my arms, and my heartbeat seems to stutter. I smack my lips to break the spell of the moment and shake my head.

  “Better hot than cold, I think.” Burke grabs the flamingo float, pulling it back toward me. “Hold onto this and you can hold your drink with your other hand.”

  I snort. “Classy.” But I do it.

  He’s smiling like we’re sharing some fun secret as he twists open another bottle.

  I watch h
im drink it with one hand while treading water with his other. I can feel the water bend where his legs kick under the surface, but he doesn’t look off-balance with just one arm treading.

  “You must work out like a maniac.”

  He shrugs a shoulder. “Just average.”

  “Average for a millionaire.” I’d wager nothing about Burke Masterson is “average.”

  He frowns deeply, shaking his head. “I wish you wouldn’t say that.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know.” He shakes his head again and has another swallow of the drink. When he lowers it from his mouth, he looks angry…or maybe that’s a contemplative face. The fact that I’m not sure just underscores how little I know him. In this moment, I wish I knew him better.

  “I guess it’s not fair for me to have objections,” he says, clearly thinking aloud. “Not with how I treated you.”

  How did he treat me? “You mean like…you put me in a box or something? And now you feel like I’m putting you in one?”

  He presses his lips into a firm line, still looking troubled. “Yeah. I guess so.”

  Empathy wells in me, fierce and unexpected. “I’ve been making you pay for that ever since. I’m sorry.” I take a swig of my drink, chewing on it. “I think part of it is that I like to pick on you, like back in kindergarten. Tease you.”

  He gives me a small smile. Then he grabs hold of the flamingo. We’re side by side, and so at first, we almost tip the float over. But Burke swims around so he’s across from me and lays his big, muscular arm across the middle. He reaches his fingers out, as if he wants me to grab on, and I grab his hand.

  Our legs brush beneath the water as he seems to look right through me. Heat blooms up my arm, and then my face is burning. I wait for him to let go of my hand. Instead, he threads his fingers through mine.