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

by Emily Childs

  6

  Zac

  I pull my arm across my chest to stretch my shoulder, glancing at the clock. “I’d say it’s a good time to take a break, guys.”

  Right on cue, a silver car pulls up outside the garage. The girls wave through the windshield, then step out, laughing about something.

  Rafe smirks. “Good timing.”

  “You guys can’t even spend a Saturday away from your wives.”

  Rafe washes some of the grime from his palms in the wide sink. “I don’t think they’re here for us. At least not Olive. She’s here to meet your prisoner.”

  I wipe a paper towel over my sweaty brow and spare a glance at the front lobby. Josephine sweeps the floor, probably for the third time. But I promised busy work now that appointments were confirmed.

  “I’ll go warn her.” I wave at Olive and Lily as they wrangle little Brin between them. August’s daughter squeals when he crouches and holds out his arms. The baby is in that phase where she walks like a drunk and giggles with each step.

  The front lobby is cool and brings a bit of relief to my overheated face. Jo glances up from the dustpan and her mouth tightens at the sight of me. At least she isn’t frowning or sneering anymore. On the desk a thick book is open, and when I check the cover, I chuckle.

  “Light reading?”

  Jo wipes her hands along her jeans and stalks to the desk, closing the book and shoving it back into her canvas messenger bag. “I’m supposed to take a continuing education exam in three months on heart conditions in adolescents. I was studying.”

  I lift a brow, interested in what she did in real life for some reason. “You work with kids?”

  “No,” she says, and crosses her arms. Her jaw twitches, and I guess she’s either biting back a retort, or I make her uneasy. Probably both.

  “Have you always liked working with the heart?” Why do I care?

  “Does it matter to you?”

  Good question. I bury my own unease beneath an eye roll as Lily and Olive finally make it inside. “No, I guess it doesn’t.”

  “Hey, Zac,” Olive chirps, though her eyes don’t leave Jo. Olive is known to keep a bounce in her step, but she practically prances across the front lobby. “Hi there!” She holds out a hand to Jo, who takes it with a bit of caution. “I’m Olive, but you can call me Ollie. Rafe’s wife. We came to see how the lone woman was handling these guys.”

  “And we brought you something to eat since Maggie doesn’t believe in refrigeration or microwaves at that old motel,” Lily adds, handing a paper sack over the desk.

  Jo is stiffer than a board, a furrow between her eyes as she takes the plastic bag full of food. “Uh . . . thank you.”

  “Sure thing,” Olive says. She must notice how uncomfortable Josephine is acting, but Olive Whitfield isn’t one to wallow in discomfort. She pulverizes it with laughter most days. “Josephine, right?”

  “You can, uh, I go by Jo, most times.”

  I grin. Look at that—she can play nice.

  “Jo,” Olive confirms. “How are you holding up? I know Zac’s mama, you know, and if he’s not behaving the woman will want to know.”

  I unzip my jumpsuit. “One of these days you ladies and my mother are going to need to let me grow up and release me out into society without y’all checking up on me.”

  Jo isn’t smiling—though I think she might be fighting one—when she glances at Olive. “It’s been tolerable.”

  Rafe and August step into the lobby, Brin on August’s shoulders gripping his hair like reins, belly laughing. Almost right away the shell cracks, and Jo smiles, wide and white.

  “Who’s this?” she asks.

  Lily beams, nothing gets Lily Whitfield talking more than folks asking about her daughter. “This is Brin. Can you say ‘hi’ baby?”

  Jo waves as August scoops the baby off his shoulders and lets her toddle around. Jo crouches and beams at the little girl. Weird—her stony outer layer isn’t able to withstand kids. I make a note of that. Maybe Brin will become the shop’s mascot for the next month.

  “She’s beautiful.” Jo taps Brin’s nose.

  “Thank you,” Lily says. “She’s a handful, that’s for sure.”

  “We’ve got forty-five minutes, sweetheart,” August tells Lily. “Did you want to stay here, or are we going?”

  “No, we’re coming,” Olive answers instead. “Since Zac insisted on taking these guys on our day off, we’re heading out to lunch. You’re welcome to join, Jo.”

  Any semblance of a grin fades, and Jo backs away. “No, I’m all right. Thank you, though.”

  Olive threads her fingers with Rafe’s and leads out the door but snaps her fingers and turns. “I almost forgot. We were told you don’t have a car. I don’t know what the rules are, but I have my car I don’t need much. You’re welcome to it while you stay.”

  “You’re offering me a car?”

  “Sure, the school I teach at is only seven miles up the road. Rafe can take me.”

  Jo hugs her middle and shakes her head. “Thank you for the offer, but I should be fine. I’d like to just do the work and get on home. I don’t plan to do much sightseeing.”

  If any of my friends are fazed by her withdrawn response, they don’t let it show. Olive shrugs. “Suit yourself. The offer is there if you want. See you later, Jo. We’ll be keeping tabs on you so you don’t go raving mad in this place.”

  Lily laughs and wraps her arm around August’s waist before the Whitfield clan leaves.

  When we’re alone, the shop feels too quiet. I rock on my heel and steal a glance at Jo, who’s back in the office chair. She’s trying to look busy.

  I hang up my jumpsuit and clear my throat. “So, there’s an hour for lunch.”

  “Okay.”

  “And Ollie wasn’t kidding—she’s sincerely offering the car. As long as you show up here each morning, I doubt anyone would care if you went where you please in the evenings.”

  At that, she wheels on me. “Where would I go? There’s nothing here that even tempts me. I don’t need to be driving a stranger’s car, especially when I’m not anyone’s favorite person down here. What if it broke down or something? I’d probably get blamed for it and have to stay longer.”

  I rub the bridge of my nose. This woman is aggravating, and I have no idea what keeps drawing me to dig deeper. If I had any sort of sense, I’d ignore her as much as she ignores me. “Why is it hard for you to see people are genuinely being kind? You think Olive and Lily were saying all that to tease you—or test you or something? Hate to break it to you, Jo—they’re just nice. And why would you think the car would break down just because you’re driving it?”

  She fiddles with the planner on the desk. “She said she was a teacher; I figure they don’t have a lot of extra—”

  “Oh,” I say with a touch of bitterness. “I get it. They don’t have a lot of money to upkeep their cars. You imagine a run-down beater that squeaks when you turn the wheel.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “We’re all poor, ignorant hicks to you, right?”

  Jo glares at me. “Your words, not mine.”

  “You know, you’re high and mighty, and I don’t know why. I don’t think it’s really you.”

  “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “I know you dropped the ice queen act when you saw Brin—so you’ve got some sort of heart.”

  “I have a heart, but I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to make up for an accident that you made into an ordeal that uprooted my entire life.”

  I lean over the desk, so our faces are inches apart. She draws in a sharp breath and I hope she can’t see the rapid pulse in my neck. “I didn’t come up with the sentence, Miss Richards,” I grumble. “I wanted money for repairs—that’s all.”

  “Then why did you call the police?”

  The back of my throat feels like sandpaper. “I didn’t know if you’d be good for it, Jo. You tried to run, remember? Blame me all you
want, but you’re here for a month, girl. It wouldn’t hurt for you to get to know some regular faces. Might pass the time quicker, and you should smile a little more—it’s a smile worth seeing.”

  That last part slipped out. I’m quick to pull away before she notices the heat flooding through my face like some shy teenager.

  “I don’t want to know this place,” she whispers.

  I shake my head. What is it with her resentment of the entire state—at least it seems like it—of South Carolina? “Like Olive said, suit yourself.” I open the file cabinet behind the desk and take out the bag of cookies I’d been forced to take from my mom, then toss the bag onto the desk. “But don’t expect anyone else to quit trying. Those are from my mom.”

  “What?”

  I don’t answer, and step into my personal office for a minute, jaw tight. Even if the space is the size of a supply closet, I need a second to cool down. This arrangement doesn’t mean we need to speak more than necessary. I don’t need to submit to her glares and obvious hatred. I rake my fingers through my hair, more frustrated at myself because I know I don’t need to do any of that with Jo, but I know I’m going to keep talking to her. And I don’t know why.

  Back in the lobby, Jo is still staring at the bag of cookies. I frown and snatch my truck keys from the desk drawer. “Not that it matters,” I start. “But Olive’s car wouldn’t have broken down. It helps when you’re married to a mechanic, but you just turned down driving a two-year-old BMW. Those crazy teachers, always pushing their nice things on people.”

  She doesn’t look at me. Josephine is a challenge. She shows vulnerability, then bites. She’s angry, then soft.

  “Why do you keep doing this?” she asks, but her voice is hardly above a whisper.

  I pause at the door. “Doing what, Jo?”

  “Why keep tossing welcome mats in my face?”

  I groan and scrub my face. “I told you. I’m not here to make you miserable. Honestly, I didn’t mean to disrupt your life, okay.”

  “So, is this you admitting you went too far by calling the police?”

  “No,” I say because I still think I’m in the right here. “But I didn’t think they’d make you give up a month of your life by working for me. Call a bag of cookies, and all the small talk, my way of making the best of it.”

  She straightens her shoulders. “You don’t need to coddle me. I can handle hard things.”

  I step halfway outside. “Do you not have neighbors or friends back home?”

  “Excuse me? Of course, I do.”

  “Good. I’m only asking because what you call coddling, I call being friendly. What do you need from me, Jo? What will make this better for you, so it’s not like fingernails on a chalkboard for you?”

  “I don’t mind that sound.”

  I can’t help it, I laugh. “Was that a stab at sarcasm?”

  “You’ve had plenty of my stabs at sarcasm, I’d think you’d be able to recognize them by now.”

  Well look at that, one corner of her mouth is curling like she just might break a grin. When did an argument flip into . . . well, whatever this is? I rub the back of my head and lower my voice. “Seriously, what do you need? I don’t want to walk on eggshells in my own shop.”

  Any hint of a grin fades. But again, she’s not frowning. Not exactly.

  “An apology would be nice.”

  Seriously? I’m about to argue, but she holds up her hand.

  “Not for the accident, Zac. I’m a big girl. I know there are consequences for what I did. Even if I think you overreacted.”

  Okay. Progress, I guess.

  “But,” she goes on, “You lied and tricked me, that night. I don’t like liars.”

  I did play a role that night. Saw the relief in her stressed expression when she thought the stranger she’d insulted was going to fix her up, going to brush off her temper tantrum. She’d even apologized for being unkind and let her guard down. I guess I did trick her in all my glorious temper. I still think she deserved a lot of it, but I probably could’ve gone about it without the deception.

  I leave the front door and cross the lobby. Her eyes bounce between mine. We’re almost chest to chest. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let you think I was going to help you out when really I was calling the police.”

  She tilts her head.

  “What?” I ask. “Not good enough?”

  “No.” She finally smiles. “I just . . . I didn’t think you’d really apologize. No one has done . . .”

  Whatever no one has done fades away. She catches herself and now I’m more curious.

  Josephine clears her throat and shoves her hands in her pockets. “Thank you. I appreciate your apology.”

  I smirk. “And when do I get mine?”

  “Uh, for what?”

  She’s not serious. My mouth drops. “For what? I mean—”

  Jo chuckles softly, and I stand by my statement that the woman should show off that smile more.

  “I know what you want an apology for, Zac.”

  “Okay. I’ll wait.”

  She shrugs. “I know what you want, but I’m not going to say it.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because I’m stubborn, Mr. Dawson. And I reserve the right to apologize when I’m good and ready.”

  She’s . . . teasing me. Sort of. “Suit yourself, Jo.” I open the front door again. “I’m patient when it comes to getting what I want.”

  7

  Jo

  I watch the clock and nibble one of the cookies Zac left on the desk. What a weird conversation we had earlier. I hardly know what to think. He’d apologized. I thought he’d laugh, maybe be angry, and go into how the entire thing was my fault.

  But he acknowledged his trick.

  Like he knew I understood crashing into his shop was my fault. It was. Even I can admit that, but I’ve been resentful about the way he put on an act. Did I deserve it? Probably. Still, I don’t do well with liars or tricks, and it triggered something deep inside.

  Now he’s apologized, and I don’t know how to be around him if I don’t resent the man.

  I brush my hands free of cookie crumbs and take up the broom, to distract myself, I suppose. But there’s nothing to sweep since I’ve done it three times already. I’ve already changed the toilet paper rolls in the bathroom, then cleaned the bathroom. I’ve washed windows until they’re entirely invisible, and when boredom grew too unbearable, I wiped down the blinds with a damp rag.

  It’s only three-thirty.

  I snatch another cookie and open up my textbook to the chapter on ventricles and valves. When my phone buzzes with a call, I don’t care who it is, I answer anxious to talk.

  “Greta,” I say with a smile. “It’s good to hear from someone at work. How’s it going?”

  “Hey, Josephine,” Greta says.

  My fellow PA has a silky voice, and a chronic pout to her lip, like a porcelain doll. She sounds bored, though, all the time. Like everyone is a peasant and her, the queen.

  “How is life down south?” she asks, but I don’t think she really cares.

  “It’s . . . different.” This is me being positive. “Thanks again for covering my caseload. Everything going okay?”

  “Oh, it’s fine. I don’t mind working late and Emmitt isn’t bad company,” she chirps. My smile fades, but Greta barrels on. “I had a question about Mr. Garcia. He’s having a difficult time opening up about symptoms with a new face, I’m afraid. Any suggestions?”

  “Is he symptomatic?” I stand from my seat and pace near Zac’s office. Discussing sensitive patient information isn’t a front lobby sort of conversation. Joseph Garcia is one of my older patients, with whom I have a great rapport. He’s also suffered from an undeveloped left ventricle along with a hole in his heart since birth. Age and the stress of his son’s sudden death leaves me constantly worried about him. But he’d been fine when I left.

  Greta clears her throat. “He denies symptoms, but his skin has a blui
sh tint that’s causing me concern.”

  “Blood pressure?”

  “Pretty low, though not in complete danger zone.”

  “Is he short of breath?”

  Greta pauses, and I can almost imagine her tapping her toe. “Josephine, I checked all his vitals. They’re within normal range, though his oxygen was on the low end, it was still acceptable for the condition. I’m capable of running tests, but I’d like advice on how to get him to be honest if he’s having symptoms. He seems to want you and you alone. I know you’ve known him for a couple years, but it has me worried that he’ll allow himself to sink simply because you aren’t here.”

  I rub my thumb over a growing ache in my forehead, but startle when someone taps my arm. Zac tilts his head and seems wholly irritated.

  “There’s people out front. What are you doing?” he snaps.

  “One second,” I tell him and turn my back on him. “Greta—”

  Zac huffs. “You’re here to do the assigned work, not gossip.”

  “Hold on, Greta.” I press the phone to my chest and reel on Zac. “Forgive me for not making an appointment for someone’s car—I’m trying to help a man who could die if he doesn’t care for himself properly.”

  Zac takes a step back, frustration bleeds from his face, and is replaced with a flush. Good. He needs to know I’m not his servant and have a life.

  I narrow my eyes. “Give me a second. Okay, Greta, my best advice would be to talk about his wife. Don’t mention his son. Seriously, don’t ask about any family except his wife. Maybe ask him about Alfie, it’s his dog.”

  “Okay, great.” Knowing Greta, she’s probably taking notes.

  “You’ll keep me updated, right? Please.”

  Greta’s end is muffled, and there’s a man nearby, but I can’t make out who it is. “Thanks, Josephine.” Greta never calls me Jo, and it’s annoying. “I’ll try those suggestions. Talk to you later.”

  “You’ll keep me updated?” I try again, but Greta ends the call, and I call her a rude name in my head. With a deep breath, I shove my phone in my pocket, and try not to raise my voice when I face Zac. He leans against the wall, rather interested in the tiles of the floor. “Look, I know I’m supposed to work here like I don’t have a life, but I do. I have patients I left behind—”