Still Not Yours: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

by Snow, Nicole

  I’m just saying, I’ve really got this whole morning thing down now.

  Riker doesn’t even have to help me with breakfast anymore. I’m up before either him or Em, stealing an hour to jot down some more words each day before the sound of Riker’s bedroom door opening prompts me to start the coffee brewing and figure out what I want to make. I’ve been tearing through online 'cooking for beginners' blogs, and it’s fun to figure out what I can make with the ingredients on hand.

  This morning it’s crepes in warm strawberry compote. My crepes aren’t exactly gourmet, and I can’t really get them as fluffy and smooth as they should be, but I’m a little distracted from cooking anyway by the sounds from downstairs.

  By now, those rhythmic thuds that scared me so much the first time are commonplace, something I almost anticipate.

  Because they mean Riker’s downstairs in the basement he’s converted into a gym, working himself into a sweat, straining every muscle in his feral, inked body against that punching bag.

  I shouldn’t enjoy those glimpses I get every day so much.

  I shouldn't, but I do.

  He goes running or takes his frustrations out on the punching bag, then comes up shirtless and drenched in glistening lines that make his entire bronzed, weathered body glow.

  Pure wild. Pure heat. Pure man.

  I’m not used to feeling this way.

  I can't lie, I haven’t really dated. Or kissed. Or anything.

  Daddy kept me so sheltered. I never really had a chance to go out with boys or even let anyone get close to me. It wasn’t long before I realized that anyone who tried was more interested in either Daddy’s money or Milah’s fame than me.

  Once, I let this skeezy blogger with boyish good looks buy me a couple dinners in Seattle. It lasted three whole dates before I wanted to gag myself with a spoon. Our last date was nothing but him feeling me out about my sister's antics. Oh, and he didn't even pick up the tab on the way out.

  Disappointing. Humiliating. Typical.

  Is it really so surprising, this silly crush on Riker?

  That I'd turn to a grown man? Not another little boy.

  Here I am, the eternally wistful virgin, in way over my head. Lost sneaking peeks at a man twice my age and wondering if I’d ever be brave enough to let him break me the way I know he could.

  I just...

  I just want to know what he tastes like.

  All that ink and muscle and darkness.

  Just one taste of his skin when he’s a mess like I know he is right now, like I can visualize in my mind’s eye. Just to find out if his skin feels as rough as it looks, with that taut, weathered texture stretched so tight over hard muscle.

  If his body would burn my lips with its heat.

  If I’d like the taste of sweat licked from the chiseled edge of his pecs, heady and dark and hot and wild, and maybe then he’d catch my chin in his hand and tip me up into a kiss that says, fuck yes, sweetheart.

  “Smells good,” Riker actually says from the doorway, and I jump, nearly screaming out loud.

  My face goes volcanic with heat, realizing the very man I’d been fantasizing about is standing over my shoulder, the tart scent of the very sweat I’d wanted to taste invading my senses.

  If I were the heroine in my book, Eden in Alaska, this is the moment when I’d take a risk.

  I’d lean back into him, like scripted characters do.

  Close that distance between us, let myself feel the fire of him soaking through my robe, the dampness of sweat filming us together until we fuse in skin-on-seething-skin.

  I’d say something soft and flirty, because I can’t even lie that I’ve been writing Riker into that damn book and trying to turn Eden into everything I’d want real life to be. Now’s my chance to take those daydreams from paper to reality.

  Now’s my chance to ask Riker if he could ever see me as more than a client, a job, a burden. Now’s my chance to say something.

  Too freaking bad this is real life, where nothing goes according to plan.

  “Uh.” I get out one mushy syllable.

  Real smooth. And then the smell of burning crepes hits me.

  Oh, crud, the crepes! I’ve left them sizzling too long, and I hastily flip them out onto a plate and flash him a sheepish smile.

  “Sorry, caught me off guard, but I don’t think I burned them too bad,” I rattle off a little too quickly – like I’m trying to talk fast enough, loud enough, so my thoughts can’t seep out on their own and go arrowing off into that way too perceptive brain of his. “Still trying to get the fluffiness right, but they should taste okay even if they’re flat and probably too thick.”

  “It’ll be fine. You did good, Liv.”

  Oh, but I want to do so much more.

  He’s already moving around me, reaching up to open the cabinet over my head, and my stomach drops out and does a few backflips when he’s barely an inch away, his raw heat radiating, my entire vision filled with the hard stretch of muscle flowing down his arm to his shoulder to his chest and waist and then those jackhammer hips as he pulls down plates and cups.

  I can’t remember to move until he’s pulling away with a stack of dishes and moving to set the kitchen table. God.

  Then I steal a glance over my shoulder at him, holding my breath because I’m afraid if I let these sharp, shallow things out, he’ll hear me panting. My toes are tingling, too. I feel so stupid right now because he has no idea all he has to do is stand close to me to turn me into this trembling inexperienced mess of want.

  When he speaks again, though, it jerks me from my reverie.

  I whip around quickly to face the stove again and gather up the plate of stacked flat crepe wraps, the bubbling pot of strawberry compote, and the tubs of whipped cream and cottage cheese.

  “So,” he says, moving around me with an almost familiar fluidity as I start arranging breakfast on plates and pouring out compote and cottage cheese, “I don’t have to go into the office today.”

  “Oh?”

  I glance over my shoulder at him. He’s spooning sugar into coffee cups.

  It makes me bite my lip at how he remembers I like mine with a whole six spoonfuls of sugar, and a hefty dash of milk. He finishes splashing in the milk and retrieves the Moka pot, catching my eye once again as he works.

  “We’re between jobs right now, other than you. Landon’s out scouting some new contracts and everyone else is either doing field work or taking downtime.” He finishes pouring the coffee and then opens the fridge to retrieve a bottle of orange juice. “That includes me. Everyone’s up on their firearms certifications and we’re not due for a mandatory refresh day at the range. I can’t go scouting with Landon because we can’t risk the Pilgrims spotting me and tracing me back to you. So he told me to stay home. Keep an eye on you. Once we drop Em off at school, it’s just you and me for the day.”

  “Oh,” I say again, more faintly.

  Just him and me.

  I don’t know what to do with that. I'm not sure if he wants me to do anything. I'm not even sure how to survive it.

  Riker’s such an enigma, this calm wall of withdrawal who only occasionally demonstrates mild irritation and allows nothing through but his love for Em.

  He’s occasionally given me a moment of gentleness, of softness, when I needed it most – but right now I can’t tell at all how he feels about spending an entire day alone with me when I’m about to spin apart into a thousand showering threads of nervousness.

  I can't decide if this is an invitation or a warning.

  He might just feel like he’s babysitting. Might even disappear into his workshop and leave me alone to write all day, both of us lingering in our separate corners.

  How did I ever get this emotionally invested?

  One day, I was frustrated at being in this situation, and the next I'm somehow blending into this house until it feels so right and wonderful and easy and simple for the two of us to move around each other. We're here in the kitchen in p
erfect sync, as if we’ve been living together our whole lives and know each other so well we can read each other's minds. Like we’re the front and back covers of a love story without all the chapters in between.

  I don’t know when I started wanting those chapters.

  I don’t know when I started wanting this act to be real, but that wanting builds inside me with such intensity, it takes up all the space I need to breathe.

  And I can’t help but wonder if this is infatuation, damsel-in-distress syndrome. Something.

  Something about falling for the man protecting me, the man taking the place of my father in my life to become my shield.

  Or is it just that there’s something about Riker? And I’d be helplessly drawn to his quiet, stony magnetism even if I’d met him on the street somewhere on a normal, idle day?

  He glances up from pouring orange juice. Intensely sharp, green eyes capture mine, blazing into me, and I realize I’ve stopped moving. Ducking my head, ears burning, I start ladling compote onto the crepes I’ve laid out on each plate.

  He remains silent for long moments, then asks, “You want to go somewhere, after we drop Em off?”

  I almost drop the pot.

  I do drop the spoon in the pot, and scramble to catch it before the handle slips down into the sweet-smelling strawberry goo. “Go somewhere?”

  “Yeah.” He slides past me, his body almost brushing mine, and my toes curl. Completely oblivious, he starts sorting utensils out of the drawer. “You’ve been stuck in this house day in, day out. Thought you might want to get out for something other than Em’s classes. With an escort, naturally.”

  “S-sure.” Act natural, I tell myself.

  Act natural, don't turn into a flustered, giggling dork...

  I put all my focus into the crepes. Cottage cheese, strawberry, fold, more strawberry, whipped cream. Keep it together. “Where did you have in mind?” I ask coolly.

  “Don’t know, sweetheart.” Powerful shoulders shrug, muscles rippling in tanned, ink marked lines. “Coffee shop. Do you need to do any shopping?”

  I bite my lip. I've been biting it since hearing that rough edge in his voice when he says sweetheart.

  “Maybe. I kind of want a new notebook and some colored pens so I can make some color-coded plot charts.”

  “For your book?”

  “Yeah.”

  “There’s a little strip mall about a mile from Em’s school.” He sets the orange juice down, folds his arms over his chest, and leans one angular hip against the table, watching me while I focus obsessively, almost manically, on a stiff repetition of cheese-strawberry-fold-strawberry-cream. “There’s a café and an office supply store. We could stop by.”

  “Sounds good!” I flash a smile that feels almost plastic. My eyes feel too wide, my lips stretched. “You going to put a shirt on first?”

  “Eh?” He glances down, as if he has no clue what he's doing to me. “Oh. I was waiting for Em to finish her shower.”

  I glance up. I can hear the water shutting off, the squeal of the faucet, pipes draining. “Sounds like it’s your turn. Hope she left you some hot water.”

  Not even a half-smile. He just gives me another of those penetrating, unreadable looks, then pushes away from the table. “Yeah.”

  I have no idea what to say to yeah, but I don’t have to.

  He’s already walking away, ducking out into the living room and toward the stairs. And I’m left standing there, clutching a pot of warm strawberry compote to my chest like it’s a life preserver that can stop me from sinking deeper and deeper into this wild, breathless feeling I get around him.

  I’m going to spend the day alone with Riker. Oh.

  Oh, crap, I think I’m going to hyperventilate.

  * * *

  This is not a date.

  It's nothing, just a simple shopping trip out.

  So why did I go out of my way to look pretty?

  Like, I even spent half an hour on my makeup to get that natural, wet-dewed look that most guys can’t tell is makeup at all, pairing it with “windswept” hair courtesy of the cool setting on my blow dryer. It's all wrapped up with a double-layered sleeveless slip dress, one sheer sheath of gauzy white over a pale-blue linen underlayer. Add in strappy cork wedge heels with flowers on the ankle ties, and I look like I should be lighter than air.

  Instead I feel heavier than a stone, as I sink down in the passenger’s seat and watch Em disappear into the school with one last wave over her shoulder.

  I know I’m making too much of this.

  Riker’s completely calm in the driver’s seat, eyes locked on the road, as he drives the Wrangler out of the school’s lot. I’m trying to remember the last time I felt like this.

  All I remember is being seventeen. Going to junior prom at my academy alone and standing against the wall watching Matt Anderson dance with Milah because I was too afraid to ask him out and Milah was never afraid of anything at all.

  She’d already graduated and yet she’d somehow still managed to upstage me without even trying.

  I never resented her for it. I’ve always admired how brave and messy and wild and open and free Milah is, even if it gets her into a lot of trouble

  That night, she’d spent hours making me look so pretty, in a soft white silk dress that poured all the way to the floor and made me look like mist when I walked. She’d dusted my shoulders in sweet pearl shimmer and taught me how to purse my lips until just by breathing, I looked like I wanted a kiss.

  And then she’d been my prom partner and shone so bright in her slinky gold dress she’d completely eclipsed me. I don’t think Matt even saw me when he came over to ask her if she’d like to dance.

  I’ve never envied how brightly Milah burns. She’s the sun, and I’m a tiny star.

  I just want to meet someone who thinks the quiet and distant stars are beautiful, too.

  “Something on your mind?” Riker asks.

  I jerk from my thoughts and bite my tongue on the obvious answer.

  You.

  Because Riker, quiet as he is, seems like someone made for secret starlit nights, not bright and blazing days.

  I clear my throat, straightening in my seat, and glance at him. He’s as crisp as always in that mix of dress-up and casual that suits him so well; a tailored shirt in palest blue with darker gray pinstripes outlines the power and elegance of his frame, the collar open, the sleeves cuffed to let those burly forearms bristle free. Even on a day off he’s wearing slacks, his shirt neatly tucked in and belted, long muscled legs spread beneath the steering wheel. But rather than dress shoes, he’s paired them with a pair of biker boots that makes me wonder if he rides, or if it’s just a style thing.

  Maybe because my brain cannot handle the idea of him straddling a motorcycle with his thighs spread wide and taut with all that power quivering between his legs.

  Okay, Liv. Out of fantasy-land. You’re supposed to be talking like a normal human being.

  “Just stuck on a plot point, I guess,” I tell him. “I’ve been trying to work it out for days.”

  “You need to whiteboard with someone?”

  Not with him, I think. Not with the way he looked at me when I talked about the kind of stories I write.

  Not when that brutal, unanswered question about Em’s mom is still there, and it feels like it would be cruel to ask Riker, of all people, whether or not I should kill my characters off for some tragic effect when happily-never-after must be very real for him.

  “Maybe later,” I deflect with a smile. “I don’t think my thoughts are organized enough for that right now.”

  “Okay. Fair enough.”

  And that’s it.

  We don’t say another word to each other, not even when he pulls in to park not far away at this charming little collection of shops that’s less a strip mall and more a small village of uniquely designed stores clustered around each other. Even in the coffee shop – a warm-toned place in different shades of wood and amber cooled by tall
, leafy ferns everywhere – we’re silent, standing next to each other stiffly.

  We look up at the menu while the sounds of brewing coffee bubble around us and we’re wrapped in the thick, heady scents of coffee beans and sweet things.

  The only time we speak is to place our orders – a minty frappe for me, a strong dark black Arabica for him – and he stops me when I reach for my debit card, his hand electric and rough on my wrist.

  “I've got it, sweetheart. Sit.”

  My heart skips a beat, my pulse spikes, but he only shakes his head subtly and lets his hand fall away before fishing out his own card from his wallet and paying for us both.

  Such a simple gesture, and not a dull kindness.

  He may have just saved my life.

  Right. I can’t use my card. Because we don’t know how sophisticated the Pilgrims’ tracking is, and God only knows if they might ping me using my card somewhere.

  Right then and there, I vow I’m going to track down every penny Riker spends on me and pay it back in full.

  I sneak a peek at the receipt as he pockets it. $4.63 for my frappe. I make a mental note.

  I feel numb. And not just because his simple generosity reminds me of the danger I'm in.

  The energy is different. Every breath, every second, every glance. I'm staring at this beautiful, broken man holding up my whole world and losing my mind.

  It's gutting.

  It's extreme.

  Heck yes, it's even kinda ridiculous.

  But it's one of those things where my only choice is react. Feel. Savor.

  While we wait for our drinks, milling around, not looking at each other, I take advantage of his inattention and dig out the pocket scratch pad I keep in my little purse and jot down that amount.

  Come to think of it...shouldn’t I be thinking about what it’s costing for Riker to feed an extra mouth, too? I haven’t been going with him on the grocery trips he’s started making since I’ve started cooking, and if I’m being honest, I’ve never been grocery shopping in my life.

  Google, I decide firmly. I’m going to Google how much food costs and work out an average of what I owe him.