Don't Marry the Enemy: A Sweet Romance (The Debutante Rules Book 2)

by Emily Childs

  “Insulted? How was that an insult asking about laundry?”

  Zac motions for me to follow him outside. “Maggie hasn’t updated this place in forty years, she thinks it’s fine how it is. Don’t take it too personal, I was here working on her furnace when a guest asked why the pool wasn’t filled—she about pulled her shotgun out on the poor guy, shouting the pool area is fine as is.”

  This place is a twisty, humid, Twilight Zone. “I was told there’d be laundry. I didn’t pack for four weeks.”

  Zac sighs. “Like Maggie said, there’s a laundromat in town.”

  “Oh, and I suppose I’m supposed to walk with all my clothes the ten miles it is into town? I wasn’t given a car if you remember. Do they really think I’m a flight risk?”

  I’m embarrassed by the crack in my voice as I cross my arms over my body. Zac pauses at a door, he seems to be considering something, but opens the door instead. At least it’s clean inside and smells like a meadow after a rainstorm. Well, this is my home for four weeks. The idea of it knots in the back of my throat. Zac blows out a long breath as I drop to the corner of the queen-sized bed. I note the way he drags his fingers through his hair, he does that a lot, and I take it as a signal that he’s uncomfortable.

  “Listen,” Zac says. “I live right next door to the shop. You’re . . . welcome to use my washer and dryer any time, all right?”

  My initial reaction is to say something snarky about the state of his washer and dryer in his bachelor pad, but he’s being sincere.

  “Thank you.” My voice is cold, but it’s the best I can muster right now.

  “No problem,” he says and there is a twitch of a grin on his mouth. “Crisis averted. All right, here’s the room key. We work one Saturday a month, and tomorrow is the lucky day. It’s not far up the road, hardly a walk.”

  I nod mutely, fearing my voice will break again when I ask, “What time do you start work?”

  “Eight on weekdays, nine on Saturdays.” Zac backs out of the room. He clears his throat and taps the doorjamb a few times. “Josephine, we aren’t so bad here. I know you’re angry at me, but I . . . I’m not planning on making you miserable while you’re here. Okay?”

  My jaw tightens. I’m ashamed the tears are coming despite my best efforts. There is no way on this green earth that I’m crying in front of Zac Dawson. “Okay,” I manage to croak.

  Zac holds his position for a moment, maybe so he can say something else, but after a few breaths, he closes the door.

  I dart across the room and bolt the door before sliding down the carpeted wall and hug my knees against my chest. I learned long ago to cry silently, and for the next hour that is exactly what I do.

  4

  Zac

  I don’t release a breath until I’m back in the truck. All day I’ve played out exactly how seeing her again would go. She’d be snarky and rude, like the night she’d smashed into the pump. Josephine would call me a hick or an idiot a few times. Then I’d dump her at Maggie’s place, make sure she was uncomfortable every day at the shop by blasting music too loud, telling the guys to skip deodorant. The basics. But I hadn’t anticipated the catch in her voice, or the flush to her face as she fought to hide how she really felt.

  I don’t like it, leaving her all somber and broken like that.

  For the first time, I consider snobby Josephine might be afraid. The woman had no criminal history. Judge McKinnon filled me in on everything even though I’d never asked. Not even a speeding ticket marred Jo’s record, now she’d been arrested and tossed into a work release program like she’d done hard time and was making it up to society. And it’s partly my fault. I’m man enough to admit when I called the police, I’d done it simply to stick it to her haughty attitude.

  I shake my head and pull out of the hotel, mulling over the thoughts until I pull up into the drive not two miles down the road. When I honk, my mom jumps and nearly drops the grocery sack in her hand.

  I laugh and hop out of the truck, only to get whacked on the shoulder by her hand.

  “Boy, you know better than to sneak up on me.”

  “I thought you’d hear a diesel coming down the road. Get your ears checked, Mama.”

  She snorts and hands one of the paper bags to me. Agatha Dawson doesn’t look old enough to have a twenty-four-year-old son. Her shoulder-length blonde hair didn’t have a spot of gray, and she’s lean and tall. Only three inches shorter than me. I took my job as the man of the house seriously as a kid and grew rather protective of this woman. Doubly so when I got old enough to realize all those ‘nice guys’ we’d run into in town, at the supermarket, at the beach, were after more than a smile and idle chit-chat.

  “Come on in,” she says. “Nice of you to come over, honey, even if it’s for your uncle, not me.”

  I laugh. “Mama, it’s always for you. What single, highly desirable guy doesn’t want to spend Friday night with his mother?”

  “Highly desirable, huh?” She shoves my shoulder as I place the grocery bag on the dark countertop. The house is small, but growing up we didn’t need a lot of room. Not after my dad died. Truth be told, if Mama ever sold the place, I’d probably buy it simply to keep the memories. This place was the one place where most of my dad lived. In the bathroom tile, the ugly cowboy wallpaper in the den my mom compromised on, in the bronze cabinet knobs. I helped him put those on. I’m not sentimental unless you ask about this house. Then I gush over everything.

  Uncle Kent rounds out of the hallway, we nod our typical greeting. My daddy’s brother never married or had kids of his own, but after the accident, he stepped in as a father figure for me. He looked after us, was Mama’s best friend, mine too. We still are in a lot of ways. The man taught me how to drive a clutch, to throw a ball. He’d taught me about the birds and the bees when he caught me rounding to second base with Mallory Stock in eighth grade. I could’ve done without that talk.

  He left me the shop when he retired. I owe him a lot, but he’ll never ask for any of it.

  Kent claps me on the shoulder and plucks a grape from the new pack Mama bought.

  “Kent, I haven’t even washed ’em,” she scolds with a swat to his hand.

  “Aggie, I’ve been eating grapes unwashed for fifty-one years. If something were going to happen, it would have happened by now.” Kent faces me and points with his thumb down the hallway. “Toilet’s ready for you. I’m learning real quick I can’t lift as well as I used to. I’m feeling my age.”

  “You can still jack a car faster than me—so there’s that bit of hope to hold on to.”

  “Oh, honey,” Mama gasps, and pauses halfway to the fridge with a rotisserie chicken in hand. “How did the pick-up go? I nearly forgot.”

  “That’s right,” Kent sneers. “I wasn’t sure we’d see you alive, boy.”

  I shrug and pop a few unwashed grapes into my mouth, too. “Fine, I guess. I don’t expect we’ll be best friends anytime soon.”

  “Is she gonna do the work?” Kent asks.

  I think of her meek voice and swallow a bit of guilt. “I think so.”

  “You behaved?” Mama presses.

  “That depends on what you consider good behavior.”

  She narrows her eyes, hands on her hips. “Zachariah, I don’t care if this woman tore down the entire shop, I expect my son to be decent.”

  I sigh. “We might have had a few sharp words, but I was respectful, I promise. I even offered my washer and dryer, because Maggie nearly ripped out her heart when Jo asked about a laundry room at the motel.”

  Kent snorts. “Sounds like Maggie.”

  “Well, maybe I’ll bring her something to eat—I imagine she’s feeling a little out of her element all the way from New York and all.”

  I don’t like the idea of Jo meeting my family. If Jo was as snippy with my mom as she was with me, then I might end up losing my temper, and that wouldn’t do anyone any good. “I think she’s keen to be alone, Mama.”

  “Now, you know how I feel
about people wanting to wallow alone—even those who don’t like others too much need to eat. I’ll give it some thought and send you with something sweet for the girl. Heaven knows she’ll need sweetness being around all you dirty men all day.”

  I chuckle and follow my uncle toward the plumbing issue. Seems Jo will be getting friendship from my mom whether she wants it or not.

  For the next three hours, we tear apart pipes and toilet insides. Kent might’ve owned an auto shop, but he’s a jack of all trades, and in turn, taught me. By the time the toilet is a glistening throne again, Mama made three batches of molasses cookies for us, but also with instructions to take them to the shop for Miss Josephine. That isn’t going to be awkward or anything.

  I yawn and scrub my face as I drive back home. Morning isn’t far, and I have a sinking feeling that my shop is about to change.

  And I don’t like that idea at all.

  5

  Jo

  I rest my cell phone on the narrow bathroom counter and apply a few layers of mascara to my lashes while Emmitt tells me about his night at the clinic.

  “How was the first night?” he asks after a minute.

  “It’s terrible, Emmitt. The motel is a dive, and the woman who owns it seems like she wants to kill me.”

  He laughs, but then he thinks this entire thing is hilarious. “Sweetie, keep your head down and plow through. It’s not like anyone will be able to hold a decent conversation with you, Jo. You’re an intellectual.”

  My nose wrinkles. That was a bit snide, and I can’t help but think of the mellower side of Zac Dawson yesterday. I’m not blind to see I’ve shot him with more than his fair share of insults since we met, but he clenched that strong jaw and bit his tongue when Emmitt probably would’ve topped anything I said until I had tears in my eyes. Doubtless, Zac wanted to rise to the occasion, but somehow he kept his cool.

  I’ve played the southern hick card too much back home and now, obviously, Emmitt is running with it.

  “I don’t know if anyone would want to have a conversation with me anyway. I think I’m the plague to these people.” I sigh, wanting to change the subject. “I miss you, and I want to come home.”

  “Come on, Jo. I can’t go four weeks hearing how bad it is. It’s draining babe, and I need a clear head, you know that. Just try to find something good.”

  My chest tightens. Emmitt is a good boyfriend. Handsome, successful, driven. He encouraged me in my career, but there is one thing Emmitt doesn’t excel at—the shoulder to cry on. Even during darker days at the start of our relationship, I took note of how Emmitt didn’t like to hear any dreariness. I’ve learned to keep struggles to myself, but I thought he’d want to hear I missed him.

  “You’re right,” is all I say.

  “You’ve got this, babe,” he says, though the words are shallow. “I’ve got to go, okay?”

  “Go save the world.”

  “Call me tonight.”

  “How about you call me when you get off?”

  Emmitt pauses. “Well, I don’t know when you get off your little secretary shift. What’s the big deal? Just call me Jo, and if I don’t answer you know I’m at the clinic.”

  “I’ll wait for your call, babe,” I say, and at that I know we won’t be speaking tonight. Emmitt won’t call on principle since he asked me to call first, and I won’t call because I’m stubborn and sometimes a girl wants her man to make the first move. “Love you, bye.”

  “You too,” he mutters. “Bye.”

  I straighten my T-shirt over the waist of my jeans, unsure what sort of dress code Zac expects from me. Skinny jeans and wedge sandals with my tee will have to do. The morning is muggy. Stanton Island can get humid, but Honeyville is a different story. I’m half drenched by the time I’m a quarter mile down the road. Still, as much as I complained about walking to work, I don’t mind the morning. It gives me a minute to get familiar with my home for the next month. Besides, the breeze brings the scent of distant shorelines and blossoms. I’d like to bottle it up and take it home with me.

  I kick the gravel in the parking lot. My throat is tight and I frown as I study the building. I’ve dreaded this moment, but what I thought was nothing but a rundown shop that night is actually well maintained. The antique gas pumps look like they’ve had a fresh coat of paint, and the cursed metal pole dividing the pumps is newly sturdy and upright.

  One sedan, a motorcycle, and a pickup truck fill the lot. Next door is a dark brick rambler with Zac’s pickup in the driveway. I make a mental note of my potential laundry facility. Zac’s house isn’t dreadful either. The lawn is mowed, and he even has wild rose bushes near the porch. I suppose I’ve never considered if Zac is a bachelor. Maybe there is a woman in his life who makes sure his property doesn’t fall into shambles. Maybe he’s naturally tidy. Wouldn’t be the first time she knew a man who cleaned up after himself. Not Emmitt, of course, but she’d known a few.

  I take a deep breath and face the front door. Find something good.

  Okay—the air smelled nice, the place looked clean, and . . . well . . . to be continued.

  Inside is an orderly desk, computer, drinking fountain and a vintage popcorn maker. The air breathes with exhaust and rubber. One wall holds a line of canvas prints of old race cars, while the other is a wall of windows showing off the garage. Laughter rises over the thump of heavy rock music. Two men stand next to a minivan missing its tires, zipping up jumpsuits.

  “Welcome to the shop.”

  I shriek as I wheel around. Zac flips a ring of keys around his index finger, grinning like he’s proud of himself. He’s in tattered jeans and a plain, black T-shirt. Grunge isn’t supposed to be appealing, but my nemesis pulls it off. I tighten my hold on the messenger bag I brought filled with a book on pediatric arrythmia, a ratty copy of my Cardiothoracic textbook, and Jane Eyre. I love the classics and I don’t know how much downtime I’ll have. If the horribly handsome tyrant believes in downtime at all.

  “I didn’t even hear you.” I tuck my braid off my shoulder, nervous, and needing to move my hands.

  His dark chocolate eyes take me in, but he schools his face into the familiar scowl after a minute and smacks the glass to catch the attention of the two guys in the shop. “Rafe, August,” he shouts. “This is Josephine.”

  They nod and abandon the loud shop to join us in the front lobby.

  The taller of the two holds out his hand, his blue eyes almost like snow. “Rafe. Good to meet you.”

  “And this is his brother, August,” Zac introduces when the second man, who has sandier hair, shakes my hand.

  “Older, better-in-every-way, brother,” August insists.

  I don’t have time to stop my smile. “I’ll be sure to remember.”

  “That guy under the car in the back is Mouse,” Zac says, pointing at two legs underneath a small coup. “He won’t say much, don’t take it personal. He’s more the get in and get work done sort. There’s a part-time guy, Andy, he’ll come and go during the week. He’ll also try to ask you out in the most uncomfortable ways. The guy doesn’t mean any harm, he’s just awkward.”

  Rafe and August chuckle together.

  “It’s true,” August says. “He hit on my wife when she was five months pregnant, and we still lived in Louisiana at the time. One visit, that’s how quickly Andy moves.”

  My grin widens imagining the scenario. I’d given into musings that the guys in this shop would be barbaric cavemen who spit tobacco on my shoes. The two brothers—and I’ll admit—Zac too, don’t fit any of my grudging imagination.

  “Come on, I’ll show you what I need you to do,” Zac says. “You’ll be inside in the air conditioning at least.”

  “That’s a relief,” I say under my breath.

  He guides me behind the front desk. “Here’s what I usually do on Saturday afternoons.” He holds up a large planner. “These are all set appointments for Monday and Tuesday. I need you to call all these folks and confirm they’re still coming in. If th
ey are, highlight the time and name. If they changed their mind, cross them off. Simple enough, right?”

  “That’s it?”

  “For the morning,” he grins in a wicked, handsome sort of way. “There’s more to come, Jo. Closing time isn’t until four today. Trust me, I’ve got plenty of busy work planned. You’re going to save me hours a week.”

  I hold my breath, fists clenched at my side, when Zac steps into my personal space. What is he doing? His warm eyes find mine, our faces only a few inches apart, and he smiles like he knows something I don’t.

  Then he reaches behind my head for a jumpsuit hanging on a peg. “So jumpy, Jo. Do I make you nervous?”

  I pull out the office chair and make sure I cut him with my best glare. “Not at all. You’re annoying.”

  One corner of his mouth tugs into a cocky half-grin as he slips his jumpsuit over his clothes. “One of these days you’re going to see I’m not as bad as you make me out to be.”

  “I doubt it, Mr. Dawson.” I lift my chin. “I told you, I won’t forget that you’re the reason I’m here in the first place.”

  Zac grunts and slips a baseball cap over his messy hair. “Neither will I, Jo. My goal by the end of all this is to get you to freely admit the reason you’re here is because of you, not me.” He points at the shop, his voice darker. “If you need anything, just holler at us. We can hear over the noise.”

  I don’t say anything as he slips into the shop. The buzz of tools and boom of music fades like noise underwater when the door closes. I have to hand it to Zac’s employees, they seem decent, but I’m not here to make friends.

  I swallow past the upset in my throat and reach for the phone to dial the first number.

  I can do this. I don’t need to like Zac to do this. I don’t need to be friendly to make phone calls and handle busy work.

  And I don’t plan to be. I plan to remain aloof, keep my head down, and get out of here.

  No matter how distracting Zac Dawson is proving to be.