Hate You Not: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

by Ella James

  Finally, her hand leaves me. I hear her murmur to herself and feel her straighten my covers. Then she’s sitting on the bed with me again. I crack my good eye open, bracing myself for blurriness, and find I’m pretty sure she’s looking at me. I can’t make out the expression on her face, but I can feel the warmth of her attention.

  My throat cinches and my chest aches because I know I don’t deserve it. I wait for some comment, for the accusations she should be launching at me.

  I’m still waiting for her disappointment or upset when I feel June stretch out beside me. Her hand drifts over my chest, covered by a gown, before she shifts her hips slightly away, seeking to put distance between us even as she lies beside me.

  She makes a sound—a sort of small sigh. I sink my teeth into the inside of my lip until I taste copper and put a hand up to my throbbing forehead, mostly to shield my face from her eyes.

  “Are you hurting? I’ll help you get medicine, okay?”

  I feel her hands tucking blankets around me again. She rearranges wires and strokes my shoulder—maybe by accident. Her shampoo smell fills my nose and head, making my hands long to reach for her.

  “We can’t give the typical painkillers because of his concussion,” I hear someone say some time later.

  June’s voice. Soft voice. Soft hands. Soft voice. Sometimes she’s lying beside me. Once, I hear her say, “You’re gonna be okay. Did you know that?”

  When the surgeon stops by, uncovers my eye, and does something that makes pain shoot through my whole head, I feel June’s hand on my leg and hear her soft voice saying, “I’m so sorry.”

  The eye hurts like hell, and my head throbs with each small movement. You deserve it, don’t you, though?

  “Little bitches have to toughen up.”

  I wake from the dream of my dad with a loud gasp, and I smell her again—June. Her palm smooths my hair back. “Just hang in there, okay?”

  JUNE

  I’m not sure what I expected, but it wasn’t this. From the moment I got the call, I imagined that when I got here, he would want to see me. What I wanted was to be seen…to be wanted, if I’m being honest. Now I’m here, and he’s not really even interacting with me.

  When I first arrived, he barely even opened his eye—the one that’s not bandaged. He seems so out of it, I just assumed he was on pain meds. But when I cornered his nurse in the hall to get more information, the guy told me that he can’t take pain meds at all.

  “He had a hard fall. Notes from the paramedics said it took them a little while to wake him up. The area where he hit his head is one that can knock some screws loose with your vision. Not forever,” he says quickly. “But he’s gonna be disoriented and sleepy for a few days. Might have some coordination trouble, memory trouble; that’s all normal. We scanned him two times because the fall was more than fifteen feet, and it’s not more than a concussion. He got lucky. Those construction workers, sometimes we see lots worse.”

  My stomach jerks into a knot when he says that. Construction workers? “So he was working at a…building?”

  The nurse frowns like he thinks I’ve got a few screws loose, so I nod as if it makes sense to me.

  If I was worried and upset before I got here, nighttime only makes me feel worse. Burke seems barely conscious, murmuring in his sleep and tossing and turning. I guess when he moves, it hurts his head or maybe his eye, because each time he shifts around, he groans.

  I ended up standing right beside his bed for what feels like eternity—twice even climbing into bed beside him because he’s having so many nightmares. When his good eye does blink open and he looks up at me, I’m not sure if he can see me. He whispers my name a few times, but doesn’t hug me, grab for my hand, or address me in any other way.

  It seems too soon when they say we can leave the next morning. He doesn’t seem well at all.

  “He’ll be seen by the ophthalmologist in two days. We made the appointment.” The day nurse gives me the details for it and warns me, “He can’t go to work at a construction site—not for a few weeks.”

  I nearly laugh but manage to nod. “I’ll be sure.”

  I step out of his room to get a snack, and when I get back, find him sitting on the hard recliner in the clothes I guess he must have had on when he fell—Carhart-type tan work pants and a black T-shirt, plus gray steel-toed boots. I notice the boots look somewhat new, and also that they aren’t laced.

  I feel relieved when I glance up to find his gaze on my face.

  “You want me to tie them?” He looks down at his lap, and my heart falls. “I can.”

  I kneel in front of him and remind myself it’s just basic kindness—this between us right now. It’s strange tying such big shoes. It takes me a minute longer than it should because my hands are trembling just slightly. Finally, I’m finished. As I start to stand, his hand closes around my shoulder.

  “June?”

  I look at him. His face is a mess—pale and bruised in places, and partly covered by the gauze that’s taped over his eye—and he looks thinner than he did when I last saw him last in Heat Springs. He just looks at me for a minute, his shoulders rising and falling a few times, like he’s breathing maybe just a little quickly. His jaw tightens.

  “You can leave,” he whispers.

  “You want me to go?” I have to swallow to draw more air into my lungs.

  Chapter 29

  June

  “I said you can,” he rasps. “Not that you have to.” He swallows then, wincing as if maybe his throat is sore.

  “Do you want me to? Because if you do, I’ll just…” I trail off because his gaze on me feels focused for the first time since I got here.

  “I don’t remember asking them to call you,” he says, rubbing his forehead. He looks at me again. “They said I said it when I woke up.”

  “You fell through a building and then gave someone my phone number?”

  “I don’t know.” His lips press together, and he looks down at his lap again. He seems so tired and hurt—even sitting in the chair, it’s like he’s drawn into himself in some way that’s hard to describe.

  “If you want me to stay, can you just tell me you do?” I don’t mean to tear up, but my hormones and the stress have been wreaking havoc on my emotions.

  I can see shock hit his face—shock, or maybe it’s concern. “Don’t cry, June.” He wraps an arm around my shoulder, pulling me against his legs. “Whatever you do,” he says roughly, “don’t cry. Do you want to go home?”

  I wipe my eyes, shake my head.

  Burke’s palm cups my head. I feel his fingers in my hair, and then he’s standing. I take his hand, and together we walk to the nurses’ station, where a wheelchair and someone to push it are just rolling up.

  When we get in my rental car, he gives me an address to put into my GPS and then reclines his chair and shuts his eyes. He stays like that—quiet and still, seeming either tired or in pain—as I drive us to an area of San Francisco that’s clean-looking, urban, and obviously monied.

  There are big trees on every corner, fancy street lamps, sidewalks made of cement that look freshly poured, and houses in a lot of different styles of architecture. Some are more like townhouses, others small and angular and modern. All the yards are professionally landscaped with lush green grass, and all the streets feel homey. But there are also wider boulevards lined with sleek office buildings, shopping centers with a bunch of fancy stores I’ve never heard of, and nice, wide bike lanes that run along the city bus routes.

  Down toward the eastern end of some side streets, I catch glimpses of the Golden Gate Bridge, which makes me feel like I’m in a movie. Actually, a TV show: Full House.

  After driving through the area for a while, turning here and there, moving toward the houses and away from commercial buildings, we come to a block of houses that are identical white two-stories, with porches on the side, big, grassy yards, and red, Spanish-style roofs. They remind me of beach houses.

  I park in front of
the one with a “For Sale” sign on the lawn, and Burke sits his seat up. He rolls his shoulder—the one I thought looked bruised and swollen through his gown—and glances out his window before staring down at his lap.

  Can he see the house?

  I nudge his elbow lightly. “This look like the place? I know you can maybe only see the—”

  “Yes.”

  He glances at me and then shuts his eye again, and lets a breath out, like my talking was annoying. I take a deep breath and ask him, “Do you have a key?”

  “There’s a realtor passcode thing on the door,” he says quietly.

  “Okay. I’ll come around, and we can walk up to the door together.”

  He nods, tight-jawed and angry-looking again.

  I don’t know what the deal is, but he definitely seems pissy as we walk the short path to the front door, my arm threaded through his. He tells me the passcode, and I punch it into a small box attached to the door handle; it swings open, revealing a key. As I unlock the door, I feel a shudder move through his big body.

  “You okay?”

  He nods once, his gaze on the ground—but I can see his jaw is ticking like he’s gritting his teeth.

  We step inside, into a spacious, beautiful foyer. His unpatched eye goes wide, and I can feel his breathing pick up. He gets a few deep breaths and then rasps, “Into living room…and down the hall. It’s the first room on the right.”

  “Okay.” Despite myself, I want to wrap an arm around him or say something soothing. I guess he really can’t see much at all, and he’s upset about it. I would be, too. Yeah, sure, it was shitty what he did—and I don’t have a lot of patience for people who just disregard others the way he did me—but I’m going to need to move past that, given our current and pending situation.

  Since I don’t feel comfortable wrapping an arm around him, but I want to be sure that he doesn’t trip or something, I put a hand on his lower back as we walk past a very formal dining room, beside a gleaming, curved staircase that leads upstairs.

  Everything about this place is super nice, with fancy, new hardwood, fresh, smooth paint, elegant modern chandeliers, and furniture that looks like it was arranged by a decorator.

  “This is your house?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  Between the dining/foyer area and the kitchen, there’s a little step-up, where the floor goes from hardwood to some kind of pale, slate-looing tile. I start to tell him, but he must be able to see it—or, more likely, this is his house, so he knows where it is—because he steps up at the right moment.

  Then we’re in the open living/kitchen area, a large square space dominated by a long, tan sectional couch and a fancy kitchen done up in stainless steel and pale green colors. Burke stops between living room and kitchen, his whole body tensing as he looks slowly around.

  “Is this your house?” I feel compelled to ask again. He just…does not seem relaxed. Also, it looks like a showroom. “Maybe are you thinking about buying it?” I shake my head at that dumb question, and realize, “You must have bought it already, huh? I’m not firing on all cylinders today.”

  Burke keeps moving, past the living room’s fireplace and down the sleek, hardwood hall. A few steps down it, he stops again and covers his eyes, breathing deeply. His eye must be hurting.

  “I think I see the door you mentioned. Can you see it with your eye that’s not hurt? Just a few more steps—like maybe ten or something—and we’re there and you can sit down.”

  He moves slowly, stiffly, and I’m sure his whole body is sore. I take his hand as we reach the closed door. Something about him just says he needs it. When my fingers fold around his, I can feel his palm is sweaty.

  “Let’s go lie down.” I push the door open, revealing a bedroom that’s done in navy, beige, and royal blue. It’s small—not the master—with a wall of bookshelves and a built-in desk, a wall of windows, and a queen-sized bed beside a deep wood armoire.

  Burke goes straight for the bed, shoves some pillows aside, jerks the covers down, and climbs in on his side, facing the window. I can see his chest and shoulder heaving as he breathes hard, but from where I’m standing behind him, his posture looks unwelcoming and rigid.

  Maybe he really doesn’t want me here…or maybe he just feels like total crap.

  “I’m sorry you’re feeling so bad.” I loosen his boot laces and slip them off, then lean against the mattress and pull the covers over him a little. “Are you hungry?” I ask. I inhale a new paint smell; I’ve always loved the smell of fresh paint. “I can order some delivery for us.”

  He shakes his head, then curls his long form into sort of a C shape.

  Damn.

  After just a second feeling unsure, I climb into bed with him and lie on my back beside him. There’s a little noise from him—maybe a groan—and my heart feels like somebody’s squeezing it.

  “June?” he rasps.

  I scoot closer to him…wrap my arm over his back so that I’m sort of, kind of hugging him.

  “Are you okay?” I whisper. “Is my arm okay here?”

  Waiting on his answer seems to take forever. Then he murmurs, “I like it.”

  I rub my hand over his broad back, lightly tickling. “Is your back hurt bad anywhere?” He shakes his head, so I press gently into the ridges of muscle around his spine.

  Burke lets out a little moan.

  “I’m still mad at you, but I hate seeing you hurt,” I confess.

  A little shiver jerks through his hard body. “Sorry.” It’s half-groaned.

  “We don’t need to talk about that right now. We’re good,” I lie.

  He covers his face, then shifts around a few times, seeming obviously uncomfortable.

  “How about some Advil? I’ve got water in this purse, too.”

  He pushes up on one elbow, still facing the windows, with me at his back, and I drop two pills into his outstretched palm. He swallows water from the bottle I hand him, and I take it from him, twisting the cap back on.

  Then I push my pride aside and snuggle up to him again. I shut my eyes and think about our baby, and I think about Burke falling through some warehouse ceiling, waking up confused and asking for me.

  Poor darlin’. I’ll be mad and demand answers just as soon as he feels better. It’s not like I’m over it, but I can’t not take care of him when he’s like this. I wrap an arm around his shoulder, hold his back against my chest, and lightly stroke his dark hair. Like we’re good friends. Like he’s my little baby’s daddy. Like he still has a piece of my heart.

  He’s asleep in minutes—so soundly that I order takeout food and get it from the door without so much as a twitch from him. I eat my sandwich, roll his bowl of soup and loaf of bread up in the paper bag, and lie back down, sending Leah a brief text so she won’t worry before my eyes shut, and I start drifting toward dreamland myself.

  Sometime seconds or hours later, Burke jerks up, breathing hard and murmuring about police.

  His eyes are peeled wide, and he looks afraid, so I touch his arm. “Hey, babe. You’re okay.”

  He wraps his arms around himself, looking pretty pitiful with that white bandage over his eye.

  “I got some soup delivered. Nice and warm. You want some?”

  BURKE

  I don’t know how, but when June spoons soup into my mouth, I manage to choke it down. I can’t stomach much. When I’m finished, I lie back on my side, facing the window, where I focus on vague shapes of light through the curtains. Everything’s still blurry. Less and less so all the time, but I hate being here when I can’t see well. So it’s best to focus on the window.

  June lies on her back beside me at first. She does something on her phone, I think, and then clicks the light off. After a while of us just breathing in the quiet room, she lets a breath out and she curls herself behind me.

  “Do you hate me?” I manage.

  She leans her forehead against my nape. “I could never hate you, Burke.”

  I take a few deep br
eaths, trying to steady my voice. “I owe you an explanation, June. That’s why I brought you here. But…I don’t want to give it to you.”

  When she doesn’t answer, I turn over so I’m facing her. I reach out and touch her face. “I have no right to…”

  Her thumb traces my jaw. It’s covered with two days of beard growth. She looks into my eyes—my eye—and I think I get a feel for her expression even though it’s sort of blurry.

  “When I’m with you, it doesn’t matter…common sense doesn’t, I mean. Do I hate that? Sort of.” Her voice quakes a little on that word. “But that’s just how some things are. I started thinking how some people just feel so familiar. When you meet them, it’s like they’re already yours. Happened when I first met Leah. Like we’d been best friends before, and there she was again; it was just natural. Sort of felt that way with you, too. As soon as I stopped wanting to slap you silly, I just…cared about you.” She squeezes her eyes shut, inhales, and then covers her face with one curved hand. “Certain people bring out certain things. Sometimes you can’t control it. Maybe it’s our duty to endure that kind of feeling. Price of having bonds with people we love.”

  “Dammit. I’m so sorry.” I squeeze my eyes shut—so hard that a bolt of pain strikes through the hurt one.

  “You don’t have to love me back, Burke.”

  She says that, and my heart starts to pound. I try to get my breath and calm myself down again, but… I can’t. I sit up. Then I get out of the bed. I walk over to the wall, touch it with my hand. My head is buzzing like I’m going to pass out. It’s like that day in the Floatin’ Bean ice cream place, but about a hundred thousand times worse. I step into the closet and let myself sink down to the floor.

  “You think you can hide in there?” He laughs, but it’s not funny. It’s a laugh that says he hates me.