Truce?: Hating Elijah Monroe

by Amelia Kingston

  “Guilty as charged. What else do you know about me?” He prods, obviously intrigued.

  I tsk. “I’m not giving away free intel. Knowledge is power, buddy.”

  He leans on his elbow against the kitchen counter. “Power, huh? I know you better than anyone else alive. Does that mean you’re under my power?”

  “You wish.” I storm off into the living room. If Elijah only knew the power he’s always welded over my heart.

  He calls out, “Want to make a bet?” His voice and footsteps are quick behind me.

  “Bet?”

  “Yeah. I bet I know you better than you know me.”

  “And how exactly do you intend to prove that blatantly false claim?”

  He plops his large frame down on the couch, all confidence and ease. “Simple. We take turns asking each other questions. First one to get one wrong loses.”

  I plop down on the other end of the couch. “Hmmm. And what do I get when I mop the floor with you?”

  “I promise to keep my hands off your goodies.” He winks, throwing my heart into a blender and setting it to crush. “That is, unless you decide to share.”

  “No way. I’m not betting you to get you to do something a decent person would do anyway. Keep your grubby hands off and your bet to yourself.”

  He looks me up and down. “Fine. I’ll sweeten the pot.” His smile fades and his voice deepens. “If you win, I’ll leave.”

  That’s not much of an incentive. I swallow down the lump in my throat. I don’t want to spend the night with Elijah. But I want to spend the night in this house by myself even less. I can’t exactly admit that to my nemesis. I’m trapped.

  I cross my arms and ask, “In the remote possibility that by some freak accident you win, what’s in it for you?”

  His pink lips curl into a sexy smirk and he leans forward to say, “You have to be nice to me.”

  “I’m always nice to you,” I quip. “When you deserve it.”

  He scoffs. “And not just tonight. All weekend. And I mean really nice. You have to smile and say thank you. Give me compliments and say sweet things to me.”

  I make a gagging noise. “Sorry, I just threw up in my mouth a little.”

  He chuckles and I can’t help but smile. Silence fills the room like fog rolling in across the bay. He sits there watching me. Waiting for my answer. What do I really have to lose?

  “Fine. You’re going down, Monroe.”

  He laughs again. “We’ll see about that. Call it,” he says as he flips the coin he pulled out of his pocket.

  “Heads.” I lean across the small gap of the couch separating us to see. He covers the coin with his hand. He leans in too, the gap between us almost non-existent now.

  He shakes his head. “Tails. Not off to a great start, Short Stack.”

  I pull back and sulk in the corner of the cushions. “Shut up and ask a question.”

  “What’s my birthday?”

  “Seriously? That’s your opening move? Please. Like Beverly hasn’t burned October twentieth into our brains. The proudest day in her life. When she became a mother. Too bad for the rest of the world that baby was you.”

  He leans back, laying his long arms across the back of the couch. “I’m going to love hearing compliments pour out of that surly mouth of yours when I win this.”

  I push forward, undaunted by his confidence. “Not likely. What’s my best friend’s name?”

  “Alisha. Too easy. What’s my favorite time of year?”

  “Duh. Spring. Baseball season.” I know I’m right, but I can’t tell why that makes him smile. He’s going to lose. He should be scowling, but every right answer I give makes him glow a little brighter. He’s enjoying this. Time to get serious. “What’s my favorite movie?”

  “You want me to say Moneyball, but we both know that’s wrong.” He’s testing me. Trying to get me to give away a hint. My poker face is rock-solid. “You’re killin’ me, Smalls. The Sandlot. A classic. One of the few things we can agree on.”

  I grunt my displeasure and cross my arms. He’s right. Again. He knows me better than I ever would’ve imagined.

  He pulls up the right leg of his jeans to reveal a jagged scar on his shin, asking, “How’d I get this?”

  I quirk an eyebrow at him. “How you really got it or the story you fed Beverly?”

  “Both.”

  “You crashed your truck into a dumpster on Park Avenue racing Jake senior year, like an idiot. But you claimed to have swerved into a tree trying not to hit a dog that darted into the road. And poor sweet Beverly, willfully ignorant of the true nefariousness of her offspring, actually believed you.”

  He chuckles. “Nefariousness?”

  “What has two thumbs and an English degree?” I point at myself with both hands. “This chick.” His laugh lights up his eyes and I’m lost in how beautiful he is when he’s happy.

  “I knew that. Just for the record.”

  I roll my eyes, but lose my struggle not to smile.

  “How did you even find out about the crash? Did you stalk me in high school?”

  “As if. I had way better things to do with my time.” I didn’t. When you sleep in the room next to the guy you’re in love with, you’re kind of a stalker by default. “Everyone at school knew. You lost, so Liam wouldn’t shut up about it.”

  Elijah shakes his head and lets out a sigh. “Liam loves to make other people’s business his business. What’s my question?”

  I search my mind for something good. Something he wouldn’t know in a million years.

  “What’s my favorite color?”

  “Cotton candy pink.”

  I make a phlegmy yuck sound and he laughs again. I don’t even fight the smile this time.

  “Kidding. Orange. Giants’ orange, much to my constant horror.”

  He’s wrong. I like orange. It takes up a decent chunk of my non-teacher wardrobe. But it’s not my favorite. It’s green. Deep emerald green. Too bad I can’t rub his nose in my victory. No way am I going to try and explain why my favorite color is the exact shade of Elijah’s eyes.

  I cough into my hand as my eyes dart around the room. “Yep. You got it. Your turn.”

  He rubs his chin and runs his fingers through his hair. He takes a deep breath and holds it in for a moment. “Have I ever been in love?”

  The question sends me reeling. I have absolutely no idea. I know he lost his virginity sophomore year to Melissa Stoker. I know his first serious girlfriend was Jennifer Hamner. I know he’s dated. A lot. But, in love? I can’t picture it.

  “No. Not with anyone except yourself.”

  “Wrong. I win.” He jumps up off the couch and struts back into the kitchen.

  My treacherous heart silently breaks inside my chest.

  I shoot off the couch and yell across the house to him, “I don’t believe you.”

  “Scout’s honor. Truly. Madly. Deeply. In love,” he answers as another one of my chocolate chip cookies disappears beyond those beautiful lips.

  He’s been in love. Of course he has. And it wasn’t with me.

  “With who? When?” I ask, my jealousy masked with disbelief.

  “Aren’t you a curious little cat. Wouldn’t you love to know. Careful, Short Stack. I might think you’re jealous.”

  I grab the tin of cookies out of his hand before he can steal another. “Gross. For the sake of this bet, and only for the sake of this bet, yes. I would like to know who this mystery woman is who tamed the shrew.”

  He licks his fingers with a loud popping before demanding, “Admit you’re desperate to know and I’ll tell you.”

  “Admit you’re lying and I won’t let the door hit you in the ass when I kick you out for losing your own stupid bet.”

  He shrugs his shoulders, completely unfazed. “Not lying.”

  “I call shenanigans. You can’t win a bet off some make-believe shit. If you were so in love, then tell me what it was like.”

  “What do you mean?”


  I throw my hands up in the air and shout, “I mean tell me what you felt. What was it like, being in love with this mystery woman?”

  His voice is softer when he asks, “What’s wrong, never been in love, Short Stack?”

  “That’s none of your damn business,” I stutter as my heart skids to a stop. “Stop stalling. You can’t describe it, can you? Because you’ve never been in love. Just admit you’re lying.”

  “Fine, if this is what it’s going to take to have you be so sugary sweet for the next forty-eight hours I get diabetes…” He runs his hands through his hair and interlocks his fingers behind his head. He stares up at the ceiling and lets out a sigh that almost makes me think he’s in pain. “It’s somehow both comforting and terrifying. All I want to do is just be with”—he hesitates, glances at me for half a heartbeat, swallows hard, and continues—“with her. But, when I’m near her, I can’t seem to say the right thing. Do the right thing.” He shuts his eyes and tenses his shoulders. “It’s torture not being around her. And it’s a different kind of torture to have her close. She doesn’t see me. I can’t get her to realize we’re meant to be together.”

  His words pierce my soul. He knows love and heartbreak. He describes loving another woman the way I love him. So close and forever out of reach. In one quick motion he pops his eyes open, drops his hands, and slumps back against the kitchen counter. He looks exhausted.

  I turn away to blink back my tears.

  “Good enough?” The sadness in his voice twists my stomach. I want to hug him. Hold him. It’s the most vulnerable and honest he’s ever been.

  I stutter, “I…I…”

  “Still don’t believe me? Call Liam.” He slaps his phone down on the counter next to me. I stare at him, wanting to apologize, but the words won’t come out. “Go ahead. I’ll even dial for you.”

  He picks up the phone, hits a few buttons, and ringing echoes in the empty kitchen. He holds the phone out to me and I take it, not knowing what else to do.

  “Eli, what’s up? Harper kick you out already?” Liam asks.

  “It’s Harper actually.”

  Liam’s warm laugh fills my ear. “Shit. You kill him? Calling for help disposing of the body?”

  “Not yet, but glad to know the offer is there if I need it. I’m actually calling to settle a bet.”

  Liam’s voice gets cold, weirdly defensive. “What bet?”

  “A bet between Elijah and me. About who knows who best.”

  “Oh. Sure. How can I help?” he asks, his tone returning to its normal easy lilt.

  “Well, I need to know…” I lock eyes with Elijah, who’s leaning back against the counter, shoulders slumped. “Has Elijah ever been in love?”

  Laughter erupts on the other end of the line loud enough I have to pull the phone away from my ear. Elijah groans, muttering obscenities.

  “Wait. Wait. Wait. Let me get this straight. You bet Elijah that he’s never been in love. And he had you call me to confirm he has? This is priceless.”

  I don’t get the joke.

  “Basically, yeah. So, what’s the verdict?” I hold my breath, hoping Liam gives me the answer I know he can’t. A sliver of my optimistic heart still wants to think Elijah Monroe couldn’t love anyone but me.

  “Oh yeah. He’s been in love. Still is. He’s been totally lost on the same girl for as long as I can remember.”

  Still? I stare at Elijah in disbelief. He shrugs his shoulders as if Liam just confirmed water is wet and fire burns. He’s completely unfazed. How is it possible he’s in love with someone and I never knew? Why isn’t he with her? He could have anyone in town he wanted. Anyone. He’s Famine. He’s Elijah Monroe.

  I’m desperate to know. “Who is she?”

  Elijah jerks up, reaching for the phone. I anticipated his reaction and for once, I’m faster. I manage to slip around the kitchen island and out of his reach.

  “Who is she?” Liam laughs again on the other end of the line. He raises his voice, calling out, “Hey, babe. Harper wants to know who Eli’s in love with. Should I tell her?” Marcus’ voice is too distant for me to hear the actual words, but he sounds annoyed. “Looks like I’m not allowed to say. Apparently, it’s not my place. Besides, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  What the hell does that mean? Does everyone know who this woman is except me?

  I’m too confused by Liam’s answer to notice Elijah stalking around the kitchen island until he is right behind me. He grabs my waist to keep me from slipping away again and snatches the phone from my ear.

  “Thanks, dick. Gotta go.” Elijah hangs up the phone without waiting for Liam to answer. “Satisfied?” he hums into my ear.

  The sensation of his chest pressed up against my back and his hand on my waist has stolen my ability to form words. I manage a nod.

  “Good. I win.” He spins me around, gripping my hips with both of his strong hands. “Now for my prize. Say something nice to me. Something true.”

  I stare up at the familiar lines of his beautiful face. I know each curve by heart. I could write volumes on Elijah Monroe, yet finding one thing I want to admit to him out loud is terrifying. I cop out with, “You’re tall.”

  “More of a fact than a compliment, but it’s a start. This weekend’s going to be fun.” His hands slide off my sides and he saunters out of the kitchen. Over his shoulder he adds, “Bring the cookies.”

  Being nice to Elijah isn’t as hard as I thought it would be. I think he’s trying not to provoke me. It’s a truce. I love these moments. We’re huddled on the couch sharing a blanket, the tin of cookies between us.

  Halfway through streaming my favorite movie he stretches his long body out. His legs are propped up on the coffee table, brushing against my knee. His arm stretches behind me on the couch, tickling the back of my neck. I let myself sink farther into the couch. Inch by inch, we come together, slipping into each other's arms. His body is warm and solid next to me. I let my eyes close, focusing on this feeling, searing it into the most sacred place in my memory.

  I wake up with a stiff neck to Elijah’s snoring. I groan as I sit up and stretch my aching muscles. It’s late enough it’s actually early. I peer down at the snoring pile of man next to me. He looks angelic in his sleep, aside from the grizzly bear noise he’s making.

  I rub his shoulder, trying to wake him up gently with, “Elijah, it’s time to go to sleep.”

  “I was asleep,” he grumbles.

  I squeeze his shoulder a little harder and add, “To sleep in an actual bed.”

  His arm off the back of the couch drapes over my shoulders and pulls me into his chest as he pleads, “Five more minutes.”

  I laugh. “You’ll be back asleep in two.”

  “Exactly.”

  I push against his solid chest and he lets me go with a sad moan. I stand between his legs and hold out my hands. He takes both of them in his giant mitts and I help him up. I keep his fingers intertwined with mine while I pick up the bat with my free hand. I lead him around the house, turning off lights in the strategic pattern I developed years ago to minimize the time I spend in the dark.

  He holds my hand as we walk through the kitchen, up the stairs, and into my room. I only let go when I flick on my bedside lamp. We’re alone in my bedroom, the silence of the late hour surrounding us in the near darkness. The desire to touch him, hold him, is overwhelming. He shoves his hands in his pockets and stares down at me with tired eyes.

  I gesture to the closet, hold up the bat, and joke, “Monster check?”

  The right side of his lips ticks up in a half smile. He takes the bat from me and stalks over to the closet, making a show of it, knocking my clothes around. I laugh and sit down on the edge of my bed to watch.

  He turns back with a smirk, affirming, “All clear.”

  “Under the bed?”

  His eyes capture mine as they flash with a heat I’ve never seen before. He walks over, sinking to his knees in front of me. His hand trails down my l
eg to the pink frilly bed skirt. My skin burns in its wake, my heart racing from the lazy touch.

  He leans over and gasps. “Don’t tell Beverly, but it’s a disaster under there. You know, most people use a hamper for dirty clothes.”

  I slap him on the shoulder, squealing, “Shut up. It’s not that bad. Not all of us can be the perfect kid.”

  “I’m far from perfect. As you frequently take pleasure in reminding me.” He sits up again, leaning back against his heels. I open my mouth to let out my standard snarky reply when he adds, “Careful, you’re supposed to be nice to me. Remember?”

  I roll my eyes. “I remember.” I mime locking my lips and throwing away the key. He pushes up to a stand and walks toward the bathroom that separates our rooms.

  He’s at the threshold when I call out, “Elijah?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks for tonight.” I smile.

  “Sure thing, Short Stack.” He gives me an easy smile and leaves the door open.

  I climb under the covers and listen to the sounds of him getting ready for bed. It’s comfortingly domestic. I leave my light on, but close my eyes. I’m almost asleep when I hear the sound of his soft feet crossing my room. He flicks off my light and I open my eyes in time to catch his hand as he turns away. He’s standing in front of me in only his boxers, sexy as hell. But my eyes are drawn up to the shadow of his face. I can’t see his features, but I know he’s watching me. I wonder if he has the same look in his eyes as he did in Alisha’s photo. I pull his hand, his body, down to me.

  He doesn’t ask any questions and I don’t offer any explanations as he climbs in bed next to me. I roll over and he pulls my body against his. I intertwine my fingers with his hand tucked against my heart. He nuzzles my hair with a soft sigh. I close my eyes and listen to his gentle even breathing. I’ve never felt as happy and safe as I do in this moment. I drift off to sleep knowing my heart isn’t calling me to San Francisco. It’s calling me to Elijah’s arms.

  Now…

  The smell of sweetness floods the whole downstairs. I rub the sleep out of my eyes, trying to figure out if I’m dreaming or not. Elijah’s standing in front of the stove in his pajama pants and a plain white T-shirt. Domestic and delectable.