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

by Emily Childs

  “I understand,” he interjects. “I’m sorry, really. You can take calls regarding work if you need to. I didn’t know.”

  What is happening? Twice in one day Zac Dawson apologizes. I fumble for a reply, but it comes out pretty lame. “Okay.” I slip past him and return to the front desk where a short man with a handlebar mustache is writing something in the appointment book. This must be Mouse, and I mutter a quick thank you at him for doing the job I’m here to do. He grunts and shrugs but doesn’t seem put out. More like he didn’t know someone else was here to do it.

  “Time to close up,” Zac says and switches the dead bolt at the same time he clicks off a neon sign in the window.

  I scan the closing checklist on the back wall. Not difficult, and I’ve done most of the work anyway except the trash cans and mopping.

  “I’ll show you how to do the customer close out on the computer when you’re ready,” Zac says, and if I didn’t know him to be determined to bug me, I’d say he’s avoiding me. Like he’s embarrassed.

  “Okay,” I say again. “Hey, I didn’t mean to bite your head off about the call. And personally, I think we handled it with less shouting and insults than before. I’d say we’re making progress.”

  He smirks. “You didn’t bite my head off. It’s . . . I respect folks in medicine. They do a lot, especially when things take a turn for the worse. Sometimes the nurses and doctors and physician assistants are the ones who make it bearable.”

  My mouth parts. What has he been through? Why do I want to know? But I really want to know. I don’t ask.

  “Anyway, your job back home comes first with me. I should’ve told you that right away.”

  I hardly know what to say. “Thanks, Zac.”

  I don’t move for a hot minute after he goes to the garage to do whatever it is he does. When the door from the shop opens again, I’m hunched over the final trash can, replacing the liner.

  “Looks good,” Zac’s deep voice sends a chill dancing up my spine. That’s new. He shuts off the lights and presses a button on the wall to seal the massive garage doors. August and Rafe hop into separate trucks outside, and Mouse speeds away on a motorcycle.

  I made it through the first day.

  “Walk out with me?” Zac asks, his voice low and a little hesitant.

  I gather my bag and fold my arms tightly over my chest. Zac holds the door for me, then locks it at our backs. Outside is horribly muggy and wet, and my hair is frizzing even in a braid.

  “Do you think you’re going to survive after the first day?” Zac asks once we made it halfway to his house. I’d like to know why we’re going to his house, honestly.

  “I’ll survive.”

  “Good. Uh, I told you I’d share my washer and dryer. I do sometimes have a life outside of home and work, so in case you can’t reach me, here’s a temporary key.”

  “You want me to have a key to your house?”

  “For laundry purposes,” he says. “As I said, it might be easier since I’m not always available to hand over my key.”

  I scoff, but a smile climbs my lips. “You’re not so cocky handing over your key—it’s like you’ve never offered a woman a key before. You’re all sweaty and nervous.”

  “I’m not sweaty,” he says, but his eyes are brighter. “And I haven’t ever given a key to a woman, beside my mom. So feel . . . special, I guess.”

  “Huh.” I hope he can’t see the way my skin gets all splotchy and red when I’m nervous.

  “What?”

  I don’t know how to go here with Zac. Small talk, I mean. I’ve had it in my head for so long that I’d prepare no less than three insults a day for him to digest. “I was just thinking, your friends are married, so I guess I assumed there’d be a perfect southern belle tucked in your kitchen waiting for you at home.”

  Zac rolls his eyes. “First of all, I’m not into the debutante type—don’t tell Olive I said that.”

  “She’s a debutante?”

  “Sort of . . . was . . . not really. Her family is the old southern type with lots of inheritances passed down, you understand?”

  I chuckle. “I get it, they’re wealthy. Why is that such a dirty word?”

  “It’s not. I only mean there’s a culture you probably don’t see every day that Rafe and Olive had to break through.”

  “But not for you, huh?”

  Zac pauses at the first step once we reach his porch. “No. I haven’t found anyone who’s up for the challenge, yet.”

  My scalp prickles. I clear my throat and look at the exterior of the house. It isn’t anything fancy. Dark brick with white shutters on the outside. The porch is wide, and there are two chairs with a small square table in between. The rose bushes are vibrant and trimmed. It’s comfortable and homey. I like it.

  He pulls up a rock tucked beneath the bush and pulls out a plastic wrapped key.

  “You sure you want to give this over?” I ask. “I might trash your house.”

  “I know the number to the police station.”

  I frown. “Yeah, I’m well aware.”

  Zac leans against the post on his wraparound banister. “You don’t like me, do you?”

  Do I? I fold my arms over my chest again. “Was it part of the sentencing agreement that I was supposed to like you?”

  He runs a hand over his trimmed beard. Beards aren’t my thing, probably because of my dad’s ratty beard at the end, but I’m having a hard time not noticing the dark scruff on Zac. Especially since it swirls my stomach.

  “Let me ask you something,” he says. “Turn the tables, just for a second. What if someone damaged your clinic, or whatever? What if they tried to dart away while offering money, as if that makes it okay? Would you be satisfied? It’s obvious you care a lot about what you do.”

  “It’s different.”

  “How so?”

  “My clinic saves lives.”

  “You’re right,” he agrees. “I don’t save lives, but you know nothing about my shop and you don’t know how important it is to me. I may not be a doctor, but I’m fortunate to have a place where people who might be down on their luck can come when they need a tune up. Where people trust us, where they pay when they can if they’re struggling.”

  “You do that? Honestly?”

  He nods, unblinking. “They always pay because we’ve created mutual respect. Sure, I could make a lot more money if we didn’t run business like that, but that place matters to me like your clinic matters to you. Does that change how you feel about my reaction at all?”

  I don’t want to admit that it does, and now guilt makes me want to throw up. I refuse to let him see that side, though. I don’t want to be friends. I keep saying it, but I have no idea why. I think I lash out now because of stubborn pride. “I’m here to do this job, and I’m comfortable not knowing anything about you. Don’t pretend you know anything about what’s important to me or not.”

  I stomp off the porch, hating the way his eyes follow me, as if he can see into my soul. It’s not just Zac I keep out. No one gets to see what makes me tick, not even Emmitt. There are things that are too painful to dredge up.

  I hurry toward the road. If I stop, those horridly beautiful brown eyes on the man I wish I hated will break me.

  If I stop, I might admit that Zac seems like the sort of guy a girl can break in front of.

  I don’t get far before his hand curls around my arm. If I had a brain, I’d shove him off, but there is a bit of relief that he stopped me. Emmitt would’ve let me stomp away and wallow alone. Something flutters in my chest, knowing he’s going to press the issue. Even if he’s going to say something angry. It’s like he recognized something was wrong, and that didn’t sit right with him.

  “Know what I think, Josephine? I don’t think you want to show anyone the real you,” he says in a kind of growl.

  “Oh, really, thank you, doctor.” I step back to a safer distance. There is something wrong with me. I have a boyfriend, but I’m hoping this man will ke
ep talking. Truth told, I’ve struggled with Emmitt for over a year, and I’m the only one who knows. It’s wrong, but I’m comfortable. Emmitt is familiar. He’s easy, stable.

  Zac is like unknown territory that brings out the worst in me, but also reminds me there are sincere people left in the world.

  “I mean it,” he snaps. He chases the gap between us and takes my elbow again.

  We’re chest to chest. My eyes grow wide and I can hardly breathe. His eyes lock on mine. What is this? I mean, is he feeling this rush to the head like me? I’d like someone to slap me out of this, and soon.

  Zac’s voice is low and rough. “I think you talk tough, but you aren’t really this way.”

  “Why does it matter to you? In a few weeks I’ll be a bad memory, someone you and your boys can laugh at later on. Why does talking to me even matter to you?”

  His jaw tightens, and he takes a moment to respond. “I don’t know,” he mutters. “I don’t know, but . . . it does.”

  I’m breaking a cardinal rule and tearing down a wall between us. I bite the inside of my cheek. We don’t say anything, simply breathe a little harder as tension builds and stare at each other. Maybe it’s that we’re both challenging each other to say something next.

  “Boy, what are you doing with a forceful hand on that woman?”

  Zac’s eyes flutter to the end of the drive. I didn’t even hear a car roll up, but a tall woman with curly blonde hair is shooting daggers at Zac.

  He drops my elbow and steps back, smiling. “You want the truth, Mama? Or should I let you use your imagination?”

  His mother? She’s beautiful and obviously knows how to set the man in his place.

  The woman points a warning finger at him as she tromps toward us. “You’re never too old to get your mouth smacked, son.” She does swat at the back of his head, but then glances at me. “Now, this must be Miss Josephine.”

  I grin and hold out my hand, heart racing. “Yes. Josephine Richards . . . ma’am.”

  “Oh, they’ve got you all trained up on the ma’ams. You can call me Agatha, sugar. Is my son giving you a hard time? Be honest and I’ll take care of it for you.”

  I want to laugh, but I smile sadly at Zac instead. “No. He was saying the truth I don’t want to hear.”

  I swallow past a knot in my throat when Zac fixes his eyes on me. That soul-breaking stare is going to be the end of me.

  “Well, sometimes the truth is the pits,” Agatha insists. “But when we accept those truths, we give ourselves a lot of power. Now, I’m pleased I caught you. Tomorrow being a special Sunday and all, I’d love to extend the invitation for you to come on over and have dinner with us.”

  Zac coughs, the kind that comes from being taken off guard, and covers it behind his elbow. His mother shoots him a sharp look, and I’m curious.

  I wring my hands together. “Dinner? With your family?”

  “Sure thing,” Agatha says. “Of course, we usually have the Whitfields over, too.”

  “Jace and Will were planning on coming too, Mama.”

  Agatha snaps her fingers. “That’s right. Cousins of the Whitfields. We usually don’t have such a crowd, but we’re celebrating tomorrow, and I thought what a perfect time to have a new face at the table.”

  I shift on my feet. “Thank you, but I couldn’t impose, especially on a special occasion.”

  “Oh, there’s no imposition,” she tells me. “Trust me, the more the merrier at this birthday party. Keeps us distracted.”

  “I don’t think I understand.”

  “Oh, it’s Zac’s daddy’s birthday,” Agatha says as if I should know exactly what she means by it.

  I look to Zac for help. His voice is soft. “He died.” My stomach flips and I have to fight the urge to touch him. He clears his throat. “But we still celebrate his birthday.”

  I shouldn’t say yes, but this changes things. At least for me. I glance at Agatha with a smile. “I’d love to come.”

  Agatha beams. “Wonderful. Zac, you make sure she gets there in one piece.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well, that’s all I was coming over here for, to tell Zac to invite you, but I’m glad I got to meet you myself.”

  “One thing about Mama,” Zac says with a grin. “She’s not one to talk on the phone. It doesn’t matter if someone lives thirty miles away, she’d rather ask questions face to face.”

  Zac earns a shove for that. “Well, it’s more personal, don’t you think, Jo?”

  I smile. It’s easy around this woman. “I agree.”

  Agatha chats small talk with me for a few minutes and Zac’s tense stance slowly eases the longer we do. His eyes say a hundred things that we’ll probably never bring up. Not with each other.

  When Agatha leaves, I start to walk away.

  “Let me drive you,” Zac says. “It’s starting to get dark.”

  “No,” I say. “I’ll be fine. I like the fresh air.”

  “Jo—”

  “I’ll be okay,” I say with a smirk. “Want me to text you so you know I made it okay?”

  Zac folds his arm over his broad chest. “Actually, yes. What do you think of that, Miss Josephine?”

  “You’re a rather clingy nemesis.”

  “I live to please.”

  I roll my eyes, but only to hide the heat flooding my face. “Bye, Zac. See you tomorrow.”

  “If today didn’t scare you off, dinner with the Dawson’s will. Fair warning.”

  I walk backward for a few steps. “You don’t scare me.”

  But he does. Something about the way these weird reactions keep happening is scaring me half to death.

  8

  Zac

  I’m not sure how everyone is going to fit inside my mom’s house. Rafe told me Dot Gardener is coming, too. It’s Dot’s first weekend off since her family’s new clinic opened. Funny to have Dot, Olive, even Jace and Will at the table. I used to think Dot was a snob back in high school, but since Rafe and Olive finally got together, I discovered Dot is funny and we don’t really know what’s going to come out of her mouth.

  I like our mishmashed friend group now. It’s certainly never boring.

  Being an only child, my mom and uncle took every opportunity to fill the table with as many faces as possible. Both my parents came from big families, although my extended family lives in Alabama, Atlanta, and some are even in Nevada of all places. As a kid, I was accustomed to neighbors and friends sitting around the table for dinner. My mom said she liked the noise.

  Today, though, Jo is coming.

  I take a deep breath and check my reflection. My hair is impossible to tame, but I don’t have any holes in my jeans and T-shirt, so that’s something. The beard is trimmed and I don’t stink. I didn’t think I’d care so much.

  I’m not shy around women. I’m not afraid to go after who I want. Not saying I want Jo. She’s got a boyfriend and she’s infuriating ninety percent of the time. I’m simply saying I wouldn’t mind knowing her better. An unsettling idea because she’s not my type. Not even close. I scratch the back of my neck. That’s not true either, though. I don’t know my type. My love life has been fine, I thought. I have fun, but now that I really think about it, I’ve never gotten serious with anyone. I always find a reason to step back. Now the girl who basically hates me is the one I keep thinking about.

  It’s the forbidden fruit complex, that’s all. The thing we can’t have only makes us want it more. Makes sense.

  I accept my hair will be messy, then grab my truck keys. Every inch of the sky glows in soft orange and pink as the sun drops over the horizon. The pleasant air calms my unease about the evening, until I catch sight of a wandering woman, her eyes locked on the asphalt as if the road is telling her a tale.

  I roll down my window and pull alongside her. “Jo, what are you doing? I was coming to pick you up.”

  Jo’s eyes snap up, and I swallow the dryness in my throat. Her hair is down, and I never realized how long it is.
To her shoulder blades. She looks good in the floral skirt and sandals that remind me of ballet slippers with the laces tying up her ankles.

  “I felt like walking. I sent you a text to tell you.” She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and offers me, what I think, is an obligatory smile. “I don’t have anything to bring since I didn’t dare ask if there was any food for sale at the motel.”

  I laugh. “Don’t worry, you’ll be well fed without vending machine snacks.” I lean over the seat and open the passenger door. She lifts a brow, watching me. “What?”

  “Who says I’m getting in?”

  “If you want food before Rafe and August eat us out of house and home, then you’ll want to come with me.”

  She snorts, but I win and she saunters to the passenger side. “I can open my own doors you know.”

  “Good for you,” I say, but then I tilt my head. “Are you telling me your fancy doctor doesn’t open the door for you?”

  Those pink lips twist into a grin. “Welcome to the 2000s, Zac. Emmitt encourages an independent relationship, and I happen to agree. I don’t need special treatment, and neither does he.”

  Well Emmitt sounds stupid. I point at the seat. “Would you get your butt in the truck, Miss Independent? I hate to break it to you, Jo, but I’m going to open the front door for you, and the shop door, as well as my truck door—chivalry isn’t dead, even in modern times. Admit it, you sort of like it.”

  “Why don’t you admit you’re doing it because your mother would smack you if you didn’t?”

  I smile. “Sounds like you’re teasing me. I knew you had it in you, but you’re right. The woman is as sweet as sugar, but she can smack with the best of them. What are you smiling at?”

  Jo turns to the window and rests her chin on the top of her hand. “I might like the chivalry—a tiny bit.”

  I open my mouth to be dramatic. “Is Josephine Richards admitting I do something nice?”