Flirting with the Frenemy

by Grant, Pippa

  He’s still holding his eye while he finishes wiping me off.

  “Are you sure your eye’s okay?”

  “Yes. Go on. You can’t keep going on no sleep.”

  “I can clean this—”

  He stands, plants his fists on his hips, spreading those shoulders even wider and holy banana pudding, the man could probably crack a walnut with those ab muscles.

  He clears his throat. Oh, right.

  He’s glaring at me. “I’m aware you’re perfectly capable. And I’m going to clean this, including the banana pudding, and you’re going to go to sleep anyway. Say thank you, Wyatt.”

  I glance over and realize there is, in fact, banana pudding spilled all over the comforter.

  “Thank you, Wyatt,” I mutter with a sigh as I silently mourn the lost dessert.

  “Are we done arguing now?”

  “Are we ever?”

  His lips twitch again, and dammit, now I’m on the verge of smiling too, despite the pain still radiating out of my nose.

  “Make you a trade,” he says suddenly.

  “Why do I not trust you?”

  “I’ll let you clean this up tomorrow if you show me that notebook you took away from Tucker this morning.”

  I scurry out of the bed as fast as my leg will let me go. “Fine. I’m going. But if this swells up and bruises, I’m telling people I tripped while saving Tucker from a rabid coyote.”

  “And I’ll tell them you threw a log at me when I tried to help.”

  “Perfect.”

  Before I can limp out of the room, he snags one of my hands. I glance up at him, suddenly aware that I’m standing here in nothing but my bare breasts, soaked panties, and the mangled scar on my left leg.

  But he doesn’t look down.

  Nope, not Wyatt.

  He simply presses a kiss to my forehead. “Friends?”

  “Can I still tell you not to tell me how to do things?”

  “And definitely give me your wrong opinions when I’m doing something not your way.”

  I ignore the sarcasm. “Only if you agree to do the same.”

  He snorts softly, and I’m pretty sure it’s a snort of laughter and not utter and complete frustration. “You’re one of a kind.”

  “And thank god for that. Beck would never keep up if there were two of me.”

  I swear he’s smiling when I leave the room.

  Mostly because I’m not sure my ego could take the hit if he was vehemently agreeing with my awful attempt at a joke.

  Thirteen

  Wyatt

  The sound of the house alarm buttons being pushed wakes me from a dead sleep at 4:30.

  Someone’s breaking in.

  I fly out of the bed and land on soft feet, and I don’t bother pulling on a shirt, because it’s not going to be any protection against an intruder. I hit the bottom of the stairs when the lights flicker on, blinding me.

  “Freeze, asshole!” Ellie barks. Something whizzes past me and thuds against the door.

  The dark figure next to the alarm panel sighs. “A guy drives all night to answer a distress call, and what does he get? He gets a dildo launched at his face. Nice, Ellie. Real nice.”

  “Davis?” she shrieks.

  The slender, man-bun-wearing, bearded intruder bends over and grabs the massive purple thing from the floor. It’s longer than his tatted-up arm. “Fucking hell, does that even fit? Put your fists down, Wyatt, it’s not about her honor. You see the size of this thing?”

  Ellie snatches it back, but once she has it, she grabs it by the base with her other hand and wipes the first one on her shirt.

  “Go put pants on,” I hiss at her.

  “It’s like a swimsuit, Morgan,” she snaps back. “And this isn’t mine. It was in the drawer in the guest bedroom.”

  All three of us momentarily stare at the two-foot-long, six-inch-thick dildo dangling from her fingers. I try not to look at the mangled, leathery scar on her thigh, but my stomach still dips thinking about what she’s been through.

  “You should mount it,” Davis says, nodding to the dildo.

  Ellie goes stiff like she’s going to beat him with it, and I’m about to slug him when his lips twist in a familiar smirk.

  “On Beck’s bedroom wall,” he finishes.

  His dark eyes flit between us. “And you two should be more careful when you’re having sex. Looks like you had a threesome with a boxer.”

  Ellie’s eyes bug out.

  “We weren’t—” I start, yanking my hand away from where it instinctively went to test the tender skin around my eye, but Davis pops a rare full grin and turns to the door to the basement.

  “What’d you do to fuck up Frogger? And where’s the coffee? If I’m gonna fix this, I need fuel.”

  “Screen went out, so we pulled the plug to reboot.” I jerk my head back at Ellie. “Please go put pants on before Tucker comes down here and sees you walking around like that, because he’ll tell his mother and I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  I can deal with the guilt of seeing her scars.

  But I really don’t want Tucker thinking about women in underwear any younger than hormones finally make him.

  “And don’t forget my coffee, wench,” Davis calls.

  “Oh, go cut your hair,” she replies good-naturedly with a smile.

  She heads to the kitchen, swinging the dildo of indeterminate source, and I’m pretty sure she’s going to at least wrap it in a garbage bag, if not take it all the way out to the trash herself.

  I follow Davis into the basement. He was the youngest in our group growing up—of the guys, so excluding Ellie—the slowest to warm up to people, and he was the first to want to call it quits on the boy band thing. I don’t know exactly what he does for a job now, but I know it involves computers, coding, and the nuclear reactor a couple hours south of here.

  “Should’ve told us you were coming. We would’ve left the light on.”

  “Three calls in an hour, and you thought I wouldn’t come?”

  “Three?”

  He smirks again. “I don’t know what you told Beck, but he wanted photographic proof that his score’s still the highest.”

  “I kissed Ellie. On video call with him.”

  “About fucking time, dude.”

  “Shove it, Remington. Not going there.”

  He flips on Frogger and whistles low. “You wiped it.”

  “Can you write a new high score on it?”

  He gives me a don’t be a dumbass, of course I can look. “Gonna take donuts and coffee. Wouldn’t mind pretty company.”

  I spread my arms. “I’m free until my kid’s up.”

  “How’d Ellie break it?”

  “Maybe I did it.”

  “Dude. If it was your kid, you would’ve just told Beck. If it was you, you would’ve just told Beck. If you’re calling me to fix it, it was Ellie. Man up and do something about it already.”

  Easy for him to say.

  He has a career—and a bank account—that mean he doesn’t move every one to four years unless he wants to. He doesn’t have an ex-wife and a son to take care of, and no idea what he’s going to do to support them if he has to leave the military next summer because of orders anywhere but Copper Valley. And he doesn’t have a clue how ill-prepared I feel to be a good partner to anyone, let alone my best friend’s sister.

  Help her heal?

  Yeah. I’m in.

  Anything more than that?

  I’m not the man for the job.

  Fourteen

  Ellie

  “Oh my god, what happened?” A human-size tropical bird—I mean, Monica rushes to join me outside The Muted Parrot, Shipwreck’s bright, cheerful coffee shop, four hours after Davis made his unexpected appearance Wednesday morning.

  “One of Beck’s friends showed up in the middle of the night,” I tell her. “I didn’t get much sleep.”

  “Because he gave you two black eyes?”

  “Oh! Oh. That. No, tha
t was me walking into a cabinet door.”

  “You had sex with Wyatt!” Monica whisper-shrieks like I didn’t just give her a perfectly reasonable explanation that had nothing to do with having sex with Wyatt. She claps her hands, and her fake red, yellow, and blue feathers all flap up and down with her as she bounces. “I knew it. I knew you weren’t fake-dating him just to make Patrick quit acting all superior.”

  Oh, shit, I’m totally transparent.

  “Of course I’m not,” I whisper back. “I sneezed right as I hit the big O and we knocked heads and I can never have sex with him again.”

  She looks around.

  I do the same.

  Because I really, really shouldn’t have said that.

  However…it will be a great reason to break up with Wyatt at the end of the week. No blame. Just the simple truth that it’s dangerous for us to be together.

  There’s no sign of Patrick anywhere—yes, I continue to worry he’ll realize I’m a loser who’s still not dating—which probably means he’s on a work call. I wonder if Sloane’s bored out of her mind, or if she’s taken to mindlessly playing Treasure Hunter on her phone like I used to when I was waiting on Patrick to end one of his important work calls so we could go somewhere.

  Some days I get really pissed at myself for not seeing the signs sooner that he didn’t check the box for good husband material, even if his resume did. I like to think he changed while we were dating, that he wasn’t always a workaholic tool, but what does that say about my influence and our relationship?

  You drive men to work too hard so they can avoid you.

  Lovely.

  Monica pulls me into the coffee shop. She lifts two fingers for the barista, who doesn’t bat an eye at getting a sign language order from a parrot, and she points at the back table, then drags me around the seashell-themed room until we’re in the sun room at the rear of the restaurant.

  Cautiously, it should be noted, but she’s still dragging me over.

  We have to look crazy, even in Shipwreck. Me in a knee-length denim skirt and a different Jolly Roger T-shirt from yesterday, as requested, and her dressed like a five-and-a-half-foot-tall parrot. I’m pretty sure the costume is just to annoy Jason’s parents, but not completely sure.

  I’m also impressed that she went through with it. I thought she was kidding when she showed me the costume online.

  “Do we all get parrot costumes?” I ask as she pulls out a seat and points a wing, gesturing me to sit.

  “No, I got you a monkey costume. Explain to me exactly why you think you can’t have sex with Wyatt.”

  “We’ll both end up dead.”

  She makes a go on gesture, like being dead isn’t reason enough to not have sex. It also makes her beak flop around her head, and her brightly-colored feathers all dance with the motion.

  I lean in close and lower my voice. “The first time we had sex, I had my car accident. We…messed around a little two nights ago”—yes, yes, it was just a kiss, but I’m warming up to this story—“and Beck’s Frogger game died mere hours later. We were in the middle of you know last night, and I sneezed and gave us both black eyes. We are not supposed to have sex. I can take a hint from the universe.”

  “Wait. You said this happened mid-orgasm? Like, you got off, so the sex couldn’t have been bad.”

  Bad? It was so far the opposite of bad that I don’t have a word for it.

  And that was just his fingers.

  I might burst into flames if we ever went farther.

  “Ellie! You’re seeing someone? That’s fantastic.” Libby Rock, the middle-aged proprietress of The Muted Parrot, tucks her pirate wench skirts under her and pulls up a chair after setting a plate of scones on our table. “Who is it? Is it that handsome single dad from your lunch yesterday?”

  “I heard Pop’s going to play matchmaker for all your kids,” I tell her in a desperate bid to distract her.

  It doesn’t work. “Meh. He says that every couple months like clockwork. Tell me it’s the single dad. He’s a handsome one. And those muscles—mm-mmm. And so very polite and apologetic after the pizza mishap.”

  “The pizza mishap!” I say triumphantly. “He kissed me on the sidewalk, and then the pizza mishap happened too. This is not a coincidence.”

  “Ellie thinks she and Wyatt are cursed and should break up,” Monica tells Libby.

  “Ah. Fear of commitment. Natural, after what happened with the last one she dated.”

  “Monica’s marrying that last one I dated’s brother tomorrow,” I remind Libby.

  “But she’s not marrying that barnacle you escaped from, thank goodness. They’re brothers, not clones. Now, you explain to me what’s bothering you about committing to this nice young man.”

  “His name’s Wyatt,” Monica supplies. “The hot single dad. He’s in the military and flies experimental planes. Total badass with a big heart.”

  “Not helping,” I tell her.

  “You’re welcome,” she replies, lifting a scone. “Oh, white chocolate raspberry. Libby, you are a goddess.”

  “Come, come, tell us the problem,” Libby says. “Physical, emotional, or vaporal?

  “Vaporal?”

  “Pits, feet, or ass stinks?”

  Monica chokes on her scone.

  “He smells very nice,” I concede, because despite actually having a good excuse to fake break up with him—since we’re only fake dating—I am willing to be his friend.

  For Beck’s sake.

  One day, my brother’s going to crack the wrong joke and need the rest of us to fall in line to get him out of trouble, and Wyatt and I sniping at each other won’t help.

  “Does he have performance issues?” Libby asks.

  “No matter how I answer that question, it won’t be three hours before everyone in town thinks they know everything there is to know about my sex life.”

  “Two lattes and an ice pack,” the barista says, setting coffees and a bag of ice with a dish towel on the table. “And this is why I recommend padded headboards.”

  “Your face does kinda speak for itself,” Libby tells me with a grave nod of her short graying curls.

  “I walked into an open cabinet door.”

  “I threw out my hip trying a new position once. Took me four days to walk again, but the memories last a lifetime. Ah, to be young and nimble again.”

  “Wyatt’s stationed in Georgia, and my job is in Copper Valley, okay?” I need something, or I’ll be hearing everyone’s opinions on my love life before we make it the two blocks to the town square to try our hand at digging up old Thorny Rock’s treasure. “Yes, we have attraction, but we have other things working against us.”

  “But only until his commitment with the military’s up,” Monica points out. “Less than two years, right?”

  “And he’s divorced.” I feel like a heel tossing out that tidbit, but anything to get them to think he’s not perfect. “You know the odds of divorce go up once you’ve done it the first time.” Isn’t that what they say?

  Libby and Monica share a look. “Cold feet,” Libby declares.

  “And some history,” Monica agrees. “Ellie. I don’t hang out with your brother’s crowd ever, and even I know Wyatt only got married because she was pregnant and he thought it was the right thing to do.”

  Libby frowns. “Boy didn’t know to use a condom?”

  “He hooked up with an old girlfriend after his mom’s funeral,” I whisper, because I feel like I’m cheating on Wyatt by telling other people his business, but I don’t want them thinking he goes around having unprotected sex with any woman who’ll have him. He used a condom with me at Christmas, and we didn’t get far enough to need one last night. “I haven’t asked, but you know those things break sometimes. Cut him some slack. And Tucker’s an awesome kid.”

  Monica smiles at me over her latte. She’s a smiling parrot bride, but she looks like a cat with a canary.

  Libby smiles too. “Well then. Clearly you’re right, and you tw
o aren’t meant for each other.”

  I’m being reverse psychologied. It won’t work. “Exactly.” I’m oddly deflated, like I do actually care that we could have a real chance. Or maybe I’m getting that good at subconsciously acting.

  Monica and Libby share another smile, and Libby pushes back from the table. “You two enjoy your coffee. Monica, hon, you let me know if there’s anything we can do to help with the wedding. Love your costume, by the way.”

  “Thanks, Libby.”

  “You bet.”

  “Where’s Jason?” I ask her when we’re alone again at the table.

  “Picking out our shovels,” she answers cheerfully. “Eat up, Ellie. We’re about to dig up gold.”

  Fifteen

  Wyatt

  Davis declines joining Tucker and me down in Shipwreck for the kick-off to the treasure dig, so it’s just the two of us walking along Blackbeard Avenue, heading for the center square. We haven’t yet figured out any of the clues to find the hidden peg leg around town, but neither of us cares. We’re having fun with everything else.

  “Dad, can I get a tattoo?” Tucker asks.

  “What? No. You’re seven.”

  “Motherfucker! Motherfucker!” a voice calls.

  I clap my hands over Tucker’s ears and look around at the various tourists joining us on the sidewalk, but they’re all just as confused as I am.

  Grady Rock pops his shaggy head out of the bakery. “Hush your craw, Long Beak Silver. There are kids around.”

  We all follow his gaze to the cannons sticking over the edge of the roof at Cannon Bowl next door, where old Pop’s parrot is perched. “Eat shit,” the parrot replies.

  “Ah, go walk the plank,” Grady says.

  The parrot waddles to the end of the cannon, lifts a foot, sways, and plummets toward the ground.

  Everyone gasps, but the bird flaps its wings at the last second and takes off across the street to perch on the movie theater’s marquee.

  “Asshole parrot,” Grady mutters as he ducks back into his shop.