Married to the Enemy: A Small Town Enemies-to-Lovers Romance (Bliss River Book 2)

by Lili Valente

  Nash rubbing my back. The thought is way more exciting than something so innocent should be.

  I clear my throat. “That’s a very sweet offer, but—”

  “No buts,” he cuts in. “It’s okay to ask for help, you know. Or to accept it when it’s freely offered.”

  “I really don’t want to put you out.”

  “Put me out. It’ll make me feel useful. Men like to feel useful.”

  “Not all men,” I mutter, thinking of Liam’s pinched expression every time I asked him to watch the baby so I could take a quick shower. Even that was an inconvenience to my ex, let alone helping feed or change the baby or, God forbid, get up with her in the night.

  “Well, I’m not all men,” Nash says in a soft drawl that makes it feel like someone is brushing a feather down the hollow of my spine. “Come on, let me help out. What do you have to lose?”

  I peer up at him through my lashes, but he seems sincere. Sincere and…hopeful that I’ll let him be part of my support system. “All right,” I say, feeling like I’m making another dangerous bargain, but unable to help myself. I know it isn’t smart to lean on Nash, but I’m in desperate need of a full night’s sleep.

  And I’m so curious to know what it feels like to have an ally by my side for a long night of parenting, to see if it’s as nice as I’ve always thought it would be.

  “We’ll try it,” I add, “but only on one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You let me help you with something while we’re here, too. I don’t like to take without giving.”

  He nods. “All right. Assuming I need help, I’ll ask for it.”

  “But you probably shouldn’t let me cook,” I say, holding up a finger. “Except things that contain sugar.”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t know how to cook.”

  “I know how to cook,” I say, adding in a mumble, “Foods that contain sugar.”

  He grins. “But you work for a catering business.”

  “I’m the pastry chef and baker. I paste and bake and put icing on things in a pretty way, I don’t cook-cook.”

  “No home-cooked meals,” he says, shaking his head with a sigh of mock disappointment. “What kind of fake wife are you?”

  “The fake kind,” I tease in a voice that’s far too flirty for my own good.

  But Nash doesn’t seem to mind.

  “But I can help you put on ten to fifteen pounds of cupcake and homemade cherry pie weight,” I add. “If you’re interested.”

  “I’m very interested.” His gaze locks with mine, making me keenly aware of the less than one foot of space that separates us, and how nice it feels to be teasing instead of fighting.

  It’s only our first night, and already it’s clear how easy it would be to get used to this. To get used to him.

  I’m going to have to start going to bed when Felicity does and limiting my Nash exposure as much as possible, or I’m going to be in big trouble.

  “Worrying again?” he murmurs.

  “How can you tell?”

  “Your eyes get cloudy and sad. Which is a shame. You have beautiful eyes, the prettiest I’ve ever seen.”

  I glance down at the counter, my cheeks heating. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” Nash says before draining his beer with one final swallow and pushing away from the counter. “We should get some sleep so we’ll be ready when Felicity is. I’ll grab my toothbrush from the master and use the half bath for now.”

  “Okay,” I say, sad that our grown-up time is ending so soon, though I know it’s for the best. “Should I come wake you when Felicity gets up?”

  “I’ll wake up on my own,” he says as he circles around me and heads toward the bedroom. “I’m a light sleeper.”

  I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, doubting I’ll be sleeping much at all, not with half-dressed Nash just a room away, waiting to get up and rub my back when Felicity starts crying.

  I wonder if he meant that back rubbing thing literally…

  “Guess I’ll find out in a few hours,” I whisper as I flick off the kitchen light and go to get ready for my first night’s sleep as Mrs. Nash Geary.

  I’m exhausted by the stress of the day and a restless night last night, but still, I lie awake for hours in Nash’s enormous bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if this is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.

  Or maybe…the smartest.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nash

  It’s all fun and games until a screaming banshee keeps you awake for several days straight.

  By Tuesday morning I have dark circles under my eyes, by Wednesday I’m yawning through my morning staff meeting, and by Thursday I’m second-guessing the Mee-maw method, sleep-training in general, and every parenting instinct earned through years of helping take care of babies.

  Felicity is not a normal infant.

  She’s as determined as a beagle after table scraps, filled with an unholy midnight hunger, and every bit as stubborn as her mother. By day, she’s sweet-tempered and charming, but by night she’s a hellion with an eardrum-piercing wail that I’m betting has every dead person within a ten-mile radius rolling over in their graves.

  Aria wasn’t kidding about her daughter’s cry. It is blood-curdling, and back-rubbing does nothing to calm her down. In fact, it only seems to enrage her even more.

  For the past five nights, Aria and I have spent the better part of the witching hours wincing and cringing as we stand guard by Felicity’s crib, taking turns rubbing the baby’s back as she wails and moans and cusses us in a baby-language all her own.

  Raleigh—who is both thrilled and outraged that I not only eloped, but also refuse to bring my new wife over to meet the family until we have her daughter sleeping through the night—said to give it seven full nights before throwing in the towel, but I’m on the verge of sending up the white flag of surrender.

  Listening to Felicity cry until her tiny face turns purple with rage night after night is hard on my head, and even harder on my heart.

  As for Aria…

  Well, the poor woman is a wreck. Her skin looks bruised beneath her eyes, she’s lost at least five pounds she couldn’t afford to lose, and her hands shake as she bustles around the kitchen making coffee in the mornings.

  Thankfully, she hasn’t had much baking to do for the catering company this week—just a few dozen batches of cookies and muffins for business brunches in town—but I know she’s worried about Sunday, when she’ll have a five-tier cake to cover in iced cherry blossoms for a bridal shower. If her hands aren’t steady by then, her work is going to suffer.

  If she was my wife in more than name, I’d check her into a hotel and insist she let me handle sleep training solo for a night. But she isn’t my wife, and Skeeter isn’t my daughter, and I feel helpless to do anything to protect Aria from the soul-mangling experience of trying to get her baby to sleep through the night.

  I can’t spare her.

  I can’t even comfort her with the freedom I’d like.

  I can’t draw her into my arms and hold her, can’t promise her we’ll get through this together, and I certainly can’t carry her into our bedroom and give her some pleasure to make up for the pain.

  I think about that final, off-limits option way more often than I should, considering she’s “just a friend.”

  This entire experience has me frustrated—in more ways than one—and feeling lonelier than I have in a long time. Aria’s so close, but she might as well be a thousand miles away. She isn’t mine to help or comfort.

  And yes, I knew that going into this arrangement, but I never imagined it would be this hard to keep my distance, emotionally or physically.

  “Just need to get some damned sleep,” I mutter to myself, chalking my crazy thoughts up to sleep deprivation.

  Which is apparently my new normal since Felicity shows no sign of adapting to the Mee-maw method.

  By the time I collapse onto the couch in an
exhausted heap on Thursday night, I’ve decided to abandon the fight. When Skeeter starts crying, I’ll sneak in and give her a bottle, rock her for an hour, tell her half a dozen stories, whatever it takes to get her back to sleep without another battle of wills. The baby has been napping away her weariness during the day, but Aria and I are going to be too beaten down to function if this goes on for much longer.

  Despite my keen awareness of Aria sleeping down the hall and my conflicted feelings about my fake wife, I’m too tired to dwell on anything for too long tonight. Within seconds of my head hitting the pillow, unconsciousness sucks me under and I sleep.

  Deeply.

  Dreamlessly.

  A sleep so hard that, when a gentle shake on my arm wakes me the next morning, for a moment I have no idea where I am.

  It takes me a beat to remember why Aria is in my house, and another to guess why she’s beaming at me like we just won the lottery.

  It’s the sun. The sun is shining in through the window behind her, transforming her hair into a halo of red fire. It’s morning, and I can’t recall hearing Felicity cry a single time during the night.

  “She did it?” I ask, rubbing the sleep from my eyes with a fist.

  “She did it!” Aria confirms in an excited whisper. “She slept through the night. I slept through the night. Oh my God, Nash, I slept through the night!” she finishes with a giddy squeal that makes me laugh. “I’m so excited I can’t stand it.”

  She throws her arms around my neck, and I pull her into a celebratory bear hug, crushing her against my bare chest. She squeezes me back, her breath hot against my neck as she continues to laugh, a hysterical giggle that’s completely contagious.

  Soon we’re both laughing so hard we slide off the couch, Aria first and me tumbling after, landing on top of her with a rush of breath.

  “Shit, are you okay?” I ask, my elbows pushing into the carpet on either side of her face.

  Damn, she’s pretty this morning, in just a red camisole top and a pair of red-and-white-striped sleep shorts.

  Who knew casual PJs could be so sexy?

  I’ve seen her in sleep clothes before, of course, but it was dark and we were both too miserable tending to a screaming baby for me to pay much attention to the fact that she doesn’t wear anything under these flimsy little shirts.

  Now, I can’t stop paying attention. Attention to the way her small, perfectly shaped breasts tip up toward me, her nipples pulled into points that strain against the thin fabric.

  The sight summons an old memory to the surface of my mind, a memory of Aria naked in the moonlight, of kissing up her ribs, letting my lips trail along the soft underside of her breasts before taking her nipple in my mouth. I can still remember the way she moaned and tangled her fingers in my hair, calling my name like a prayer.

  My body responds to the memory without my permission, my erection pressing against the front of my pajama pants, making me grateful that we fell in such a way that my hips are resting on the floor, instead of between Aria’s thighs. If she could feel me now, there would be no denying the way she affects me.

  “Nash?” she asks in a husky voice that draws my attention back to her mouth.

  “Yeah?”

  “I said I was fine,” she says, her eyes narrowing. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m good,” I lie, fighting to regain control before I stand up, a part of me wishing I didn’t have to move an inch.

  I like having Aria under me, her lips only a few inches from mine. I like it way too much.

  I want to kiss her so badly, need claws at my insides. I want to claim her mouth the way I did in the beer tent that first night. I want to feel her moving beneath me, her back arching and her breasts pressed against my chest as her legs wrap around my waist.

  I want it so much that I’m leaning closer—morning breath and our bargain be damned—when Felicity calls out, “Mama, Mama!” from her room and Aria flinches like she’s been caught shoplifting.

  “I should go get her,” she says. “I want to make a big deal about what a good girl she is for staying in her bed all night.”

  “Right. Good idea.” I shift onto my side, setting Aria free, waiting until she’s disappeared into Felicity’s room before I make a beeline for my closet to grab running clothes and talk myself down from the ridiculous state I’m in.

  I was a hot second away from making a fool of myself and endangering our bargain before either of us get what we need from the arrangement. The hearing with Aria’s ex is still weeks away and we’ve been too beat to venture out in public where we might run into my ex, or at least encounter gossips willing to carry the news of our happy coupledom to Rachael’s ears. I can’t risk screwing this up, for Felicity’s sake if nothing else.

  Aria and I agreed to be friends in private. The lovey-dovey stuff is for the benefit of others, when we’re out in public.

  Then you’d better find an excuse to get her out in public. Stat.

  The inner voice is right.

  And brilliant.

  A night out to celebrate Skeeter’s first successful brush with sleep training and a chance to get close to Aria—it sounds like a little piece of heaven. I promised to bring Aria and Felicity over to Raleigh’s house tomorrow to meet part of the family—easing Aria into the Geary experience a few sisters at a time—but there’s nothing on the agenda for tonight.

  Wheels turning, I head out of the bedroom.

  I find Aria and Felicity in the kitchen, Skeeter balanced on her mama’s hip as Aria warms up the baby’s bottle in the microwave.

  As soon as Felicity sees me she lets out a happy squeal, grinning her gap-toothed grin.

  “You did it, Skeeter!” I reach for the baby, who comes to me with outstretched arms. I lift her high in the air and spin her around the kitchen, making her giggle. “You did it! You slept in your bed all night! What a big girl you are!”

  “She is a big girl,” Aria says, laughter in her voice. “I told her Mama was so proud.”

  “Me, too.” I blow on Felicity’s belly, while she laughs and kicks her legs. “So proud that I think we should celebrate,” I add, holding Skeeter against my chest with one arm as I turn back to Aria.

  “Celebrate how?” she asks, smiling as she twists the top on the bottle and gives it a good shake.

  In her PJs, with her hair wild and not a drop of makeup on her face, she looks so young, closer to the girl she was when we first met, back when I looked across the camp, locked eyes with the redhead watching me from the other registration line, and had to go introduce myself. That very second.

  There was just something about her.

  There still is.

  It’s a dangerous thought, but it doesn’t stop me from saying, “Dinner out tonight.” The baby reaches for her milk and I guide her back into Aria’s arms, staying close as I add. “On me. At David’s downtown.”

  Aria’s eyebrows lift, and her smile widens. “David’s, huh? That’s fancy.”

  “Fancy ladies deserve fancy food.”

  “Did you hear that, Felicity?” she asks, kissing the baby’s head as Skeeter tips her bottle back and begins to drink. “Want to get pretty tonight and go out for a fancy dinner with Nash?”

  “You’ll be the prettiest girls there, even in your PJs.”

  Aria glances up, pleasure and uncertainty mixing in her expression. “That’s a sweet thing to say.”

  “It’s not sweet, just the truth,” I say, fighting the urge to draw Aria and Felicity both in for a hug. This feels like a warm, family moment, but it isn’t, not really, and it will be bad for all of us in the long run if we let the line between real and pretend blur too much.

  But that doesn’t mean we can’t celebrate together tonight, that I can’t take them out to dinner and sit a little too close to Aria while we order. That I can’t put an arm around her and steal a kiss while we’re lingering over coffee and dessert.

  Just the thought of it is enough to make me unreasonably happy.

&
nbsp; It must be the good night’s sleep. It’s clearly gone to my head.

  But I know it isn’t the sleep, it’s the redhead smiling at me over her baby’s head as I back toward the door, needing to put some space between us before I say something I shouldn’t. “I’m going for a run. Be back in a little bit.”

  “Are you going to lift after?” Aria asks, having lived here long enough to get a feel for my schedule.

  “Yeah, but only for thirty minutes or so.” I glance at the clock above the stove. “I won’t have time for a full circuit today. I’ve got to grab a shower and hit the road by seven forty-five.”

  “Then I’ll have an egg and cheese bagel ready for you then,” she says as she crosses to the kitchen table, settling Felicity in her highchair. “You want your eggs scrambled or fried?”

  I pause in the archway leading into the living room. “I thought you said you couldn’t cook.”

  Aria casts an amused look over her shoulder as she adjusts the baby’s tray. “I can cook a thing or two. Eggs included. So, fried or scrambled?”

  “Scrambled,” I say, oddly touched.

  It’s just breakfast, I remind myself, not a grand gesture. But when I breeze through the kitchen an hour later on my way out the door and Aria hands me a foil-wrapped sandwich and a to-go mug of coffee, it feels like more.

  It feels like affection and caring and…home in a way it never did when Rachael lived here. Or even when I lived here alone.

  I’m beginning to suspect I’m in trouble—deep trouble—but I’m too high on that first good night’s sleep in days to care.

  “Have a good day,” I say as I start down the front porch steps. “I’ll call as soon as I get a reservation and let you two know what time to be ready.”

  Aria stops in the doorway, crossing her arms as she leans against the frame, one bare foot propped on top of the other, looking so comfortable it’s hard to believe we’ve been living together for less than a week.