Dating the Enemy

by Nicole Williams

  I caught Quinn shaking her head at Sybill when she opened her mouth, probably to ask which slimeball was being talked about this time. In this large of a group of single women knocking on thirty’s cryptic door, the list wasn’t short.

  The others didn’t know about the arrangement yet. Per Mr. Conrad’s instructions, I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone, but Quinn was the person to go to if I had something to get off of my chest. She guarded secrets like a Rottweiler protecting its turf.

  “I want you to remember the way you’re feeling right this minute when you two are out on a date and he’s giving you that look while smelling all good and telling you how your eyes remind him of the ocean at sunset.” Quinn nudged me as we grabbed the last of the popcorn. “Deal?”

  I’d fallen for his act once—no way in hell was it happening twice. “Deal.”

  After handing out the last few bowls, I’d just plopped into the oversized chair with Riley to drown my worries in Pride and Prejudice, when the doorbell rang.

  “You expecting anyone else?” Riley asked, glancing around the room as if checking to make sure everyone was accounted for.

  “Nope,” I responded, wiggling out of the chair. Most of us were old college friends, but a couple were fellow employees from the World Times. The original group had started out larger, but one by one, Misses had become Mrses and Thursday Night Chick Flick had turned into couple’s yoga or staying in or whatever the happily married people of the world did.

  When I checked the peephole, I exhaled.

  “Who is it?” Quinn called from the living area.

  “A male specimen,” I answered as I debated opening the door.

  “What? Really?” It sounded like Annie was half a note away from a shriek. “What are you waiting for? Let him in.”

  After unlocking the door, I swung it open. I felt the air stir behind me from the five heads that whipped toward the door.

  “Oh. It’s just Martin.” Sybill’s voice was the equivalent of a shrug. “Back to the movie. No offense, Martin!” she shouted a moment later, as an afterthought.

  “None taken,” Martin called into the apartment, switching the bag he was holding from one arm to the other. “How’s it going, Hannah?”

  I worked up a smile, reminding myself he was the neighbor who never called in a complaint when Thursday nights got out of hand. “I’m fine. Thanks.” Uncomfortable silence. “How are you?”

  Martin was a nice guy, but kinda odd. The odd that made one wonder if he led some kind of secret life that could have been as unexpected as being a Dom or more likely was being the president of the Ragdoll Cat association of the North-East.

  “I was walking by Sucre on my way home and noticed they’d just put out a fresh batch of croissants. I picked up a dozen since I knew it was Thursday night.” Martin pulled out a light pink box that had Sucre stamped across the top in elegant lettering.

  Sucre was one of the more trendy, expensive patisseries in the city, and a dozen croissants from there had probably cost way more than my budget would have allowed without some creative scrimping for the rest of the month.

  “Thank you. How thoughtful,” I said as he handed me the box. “We’ll put them to good use.”

  Martin smiled as he pushed his glasses farther up on his nose. He was a computer engineer at one of the bigger finance companies in Manhattan, and even though I guessed his salary could have warranted a much larger, more posh apartment on the Eastside, he stayed here with the rest of us paycheck-to-paycheckers.

  “Anyway, I just wanted to drop those off. I didn’t want to keep you from . . .” He listened to the dialogue in the background. “Pride and Prejudice.” His brows lifted. “Didn’t you all watch this a few weeks ago?”

  “You can never watch Pride and Prejudice too much in a lifetime, Martin. Get with the program.”

  I didn’t miss Quinn’s sigh in response to Annie’s proclamation.

  “Do you want to join us? The more men exposed to Mr. Darcy’s ways, the better off this world will be,” Annie continued.

  “I guarantee that if you model half of his ways, you can woo any woman you want,” Sybill chimed in, not seeming to blink as she gazed at the television screen. “You’re single, right, Martin?”

  “Single.” He lifted his left hand as though that were a confirmation. “The very epitome.” Then he shifted his weight. “What about you, Hannah? Still a card-bearing member of the singles club?”

  I was about to confirm my membership, albeit grudgingly, when Quinn gave a purposeful clearing of her throat. “Actually . . . I think my card’s in the process of being suspended.”

  The skin between Martin’s brows creased. “That sounds ambiguous.”

  “More like convoluted.” I started to close the door, but Martin had never been good at taking a hint.

  “Doesn’t the guy who dropped off a dozen Sucre croissants at your doorstep get any more details than that?” He pulled at the collar of his shirt.

  Soon enough, the world would know the details of my “relationship.” Not that it was pathetic at all that the first one I’d had in four years was of the contrived variety and set up with my arch enemy.

  As I was about to bid Martin adieu, the elevator doors down the hall chimed open and a heap of flowers paraded out. Someone was carrying the ginormous arrangement, but they were only visible from the knees down. They must have been going to the brunette siren at the end of the hall. From the revolving door of deliveries she received, it was as though she were dating the entire defensive team for the Giants.

  When the flowers stopped beside my door, I was prepared to point down the hall toward apartment twenty-five.

  “Miss Arden?” Whoever was holding the arrangement panted. “I’ve got a delivery for you.”

  My mouth fell open. “Miss Arden as in Hannah Arden? Apartment nineteen?”

  From the living room, I could tell they’d paused the movie and were tiptoeing closer.

  “That’s correct, ma’am. Can I carry them inside for you?” When the delivery boy moved inside, Martin got whacked by a few sprigs of greenery. “It’s pretty heavy, so if you just point me where you want it, I’ll get it situated.”

  I turned toward the interior of my apartment, experiencing a head-scratching moment. I didn’t have a lot of experience with where in my apartment to place obscene bouquets of flowers.

  My friends helped, waving at my small round dining table.

  “Right over here will be great,” I said, staying beside the young man to guide him in the right direction. It was a miracle he’d made it up here without running into or over something.

  Five female whispering voices were not so quiet. Or discreet. I shot a warning glare back at them as I signed for the flowers.

  “Here’s the card to go with them.” The boy pulled a small envelope from his pocket before ambling toward the door, shaking out his arms as he did. “The next time I make a delivery that size though, I’m going to request a dolly.”

  “Thanks,” I mumbled, my fingers turning into thumbs as I struggled to pull the card from the envelope.

  Since you didn’t want to tell, I took a guess. Every flower you can find in a floral shop is included, so in a way, I picked your favorite. Well, all except for the rose, because even you in all your romance blindness aren’t so cliché to favor a rose the best.

  Yours (for the next three months at least)

  BN

  “Who are they from? What does it say?” Sybill moved closer, going between gaping at the flowers and card in my hand.

  When my eyes connected with Quinn’s, I saw she already knew. Her arms were crossed and she was fuming in silence, her eyes moving toward the flowers like she was trying to set them on fire.

  Still perched in the doorway, Martin gave a whistle. “I don’t want to imagine the payment plan that guy had to take out to buy those. I once ordered a Mother’s Day bouquet for my mom back in Milwaukee, and it cost me over a hundred bucks and the flowers came out looking like
a preschool class had assembled them.” He shot me a smile before starting to close the door. “Doesn’t look like that relationship is so convoluted after all, Hannah.”

  Standing there for another minute, blinking at the note while my friends pawed the flowers like they’d been plucked from the Garden of Eden, I warred with dueling emotions. One part of me was touched and moved by, quite frankly, the most elaborate gift I’d ever been given by a man who was not my father. The other part was outraged that he was pulling out shots like this so early in the game. He was in this to win it. He wanted that job; he wanted to prove to the world that love could be molded and formed the way a potter worked a lump of clay on a wheel.

  He wanted to beat me.

  But I wanted to beat him more. Crumpling the note, I tossed it in the general direction of the garbage can. It landed about five feet short.

  “This is war.”

  Friday mornings I got into work early, usually so early Flour Power wasn’t even open yet to let me snag my standard breakfast. I liked to get in and finish my article, which printed every Sunday, free of distractions and noise. I spent the first part of the week collecting research, brainstorming, and outlining, but I wrote the article on Friday. By that point, I was itching to get my thoughts down on paper, and the words flowed. Typically, I was done with the first draft before anyone else even made it into the office. I spent the rest of the morning editing and revising before handing it over to copy edit.

  However, this morning, words were in short supply and creativity was coming up empty. Not even the fresh splash of inspiration from P&P last night had conjured up my writing muse. As I rubbed my eyes and contemplated taking a coffee break, the floor creaked behind me.

  When I whipped around in my chair, I found the other early bird at work at six on a Friday morning. Brooks’s eyes narrowed on my laptop screen.

  “‘Flowers are a relationship enhancer—not a relationship fixer. And they’re not a substitute for bad behavior. Buy them because you want to make her happy, not because you’ve done something to make her sad.’” After reading the last part of my first paragraph, Brooks chuckled. “This wouldn’t be inspired by a certain bouquet of flowers that showed up at your place, would it?”

  I closed my laptop screen and scooted away from him. “Only a narcissist would assume that.”

  Another chuckle. God, I really hated that laugh. Two notes, deep in the chest, oozing condescension.

  “I’ve got a deadline looming. Why don’t you scurry off to your office hole and pretend you have something to do other than annoy me?”

  “By the way. You’re welcome. For the flowers.” Brooks inspected my outfit, grinning when he noticed the broach pinned to my fuchsia cashmere cardigan. It was old-fashioned and kind of gaudy, but it had been my grandma’s, and therefore, it was timeless.

  When I refused to offer any kind of response, especially gratitude, he continued. “I declined the offer of the office in favor of a cubicle, remember? Didn’t want anyone thinking I had any unfair advantages when I get the job.”

  I worked to unclench my fists. “Yet another thing a narcissist would say.”

  “Oo. Two for two.” Brooks checked his watch; this one was different than yesterday’s, but somehow looked even more expensive. “But sadly, not a new record for being called a narcissist twice this early in the morning.”

  I needed a distraction. A cup of coffee to sip from. A newspaper to skim through. A damn article to finish writing—except I didn’t need King Chauvinist reading every syllable over my shoulder.

  “Electing to sit in one of these cubicles like the rest of us minions? How big of you,” I muttered.

  “It’s only for three months. I can manage.” Brooks was lingering, holding a tray with a few coffee cups.

  I waited for him to move on and let me get back to work.

  Any time now . . .

  “Any chance you’ll be heading to that lowly cubicle of yours any time soon?” I asked when another minute ticked by with him standing there with that gorgeous smile and stare that somehow managed to make me violent.

  “Since it appears I won’t be receiving a thanks for that monstrosity I sent you last night . . .” He made it all of one and a half steps before stopping. “By the way, what time should I pick you up tonight?”

  My head tipped. “Excuse me?”

  “For our date.” He was looking at me like I was missing something.

  “What date?”

  He rubbed his mouth. “Our first date.”

  “That’s not happening tonight. I didn’t agree to that. And you don’t ask a girl on a date by asking what time you should pick her up.” My arms crossed. “Only a narcissist would pose a date that way.”

  “Three times.” Brooks checked his watch again. “Now that is a record.”

  “I’m sure it won’t hold long.”

  “My god, woman. Can you cram any more pluck into that petite frame?”

  Glancing down at myself, I wondered what petite frame he was talking about. My height was on the petite-ish side, but my frame was very un-petite.

  “About that first date.”

  “Again. Not a way to ask a woman on one.”

  His phone buzzed in his pocket, but he didn’t check it. “I already know where you live, so let’s say I show up around nine?”

  “Nine? That’s a person’s bedtime, not the ideal hour to head out for a date.”

  “A nine o’clock bedtime? I remember those days.” He leaned in a little, his eyes flashing with amusement. “Then I graduated the first grade.”

  Grumbling, I twisted back around in my swivel chair, only to catch the ankle of my pantyhose on one of the wheels. I’d snagged them already, and it wasn’t yet seven in the morning.

  “Charles already informed the camera guy and scheduled the first official live feed for tonight. So if you want to go tell him you’re not going to go through with it . . .” Brooks motioned down the hall toward Mr. Conrad’s office. It was dark and empty this early, but it wouldn’t stay that way.

  “He already scheduled the first date?” Whipping open my laptop, I pulled up the World Times’ homepage, and sure enough, the top article read Ms. Romance vs Mr. Reality. Who will win the battle of love? Find out tonight at 9pm EST.

  My throat did that cotton thing again—a common reaction to Brooks’s presence.

  He nudged my shoulder with his hand. “It’s a date.”

  My eyes narrowed on the screen. “It’s a cheap trick.”

  “Are you saying I’m cheap? Or you are?” Brooks leaned back out of arm’s reach, having at least some survival instincts. “Because I recall the bar tab that night and you were not cheap. At all.”

  “You were the one who ordered the drinks. I didn’t know what I was drinking.”

  “So you’re saying you are cheap?” That amused tone of his was going to be responsible for me committing violent acts. “That I should scratch the reservations I have at the five-star and go with a curb seating by the local hotdog vendor?”

  My fingers drilled into my temples. I needed to stock up on Tylenol for the next three months. “I’ve got an article to write. Will you please leave me alone?”

  “Do you want me to leave you alone before or after I drop off the coffee I got you?” Sliding one of the cups from the tray he was holding, he held it out.

  When I examined the label, I found he’d ordered it exactly how I took my coffee. Extra cream and sugar. Not that that was an exceptionally unique order, but still, it wasn’t exactly the single Manhattan woman preference of black coffee, no sugar or cream because lord forbid a calorie come in liquid form.

  Instead of waiting for me to answer, he set the cup down beside my laptop. As he did, his eyes fell on one of the framed photos I had sprawled along my desk. “Mom and Dad?”

  My eyes moved to the same photo, one taken almost twenty years ago, of them standing beside the small prop plane Dad had learned to fly in college. People said I looked like my mom, but I d
idn’t see it. She was a rare beauty, vintage Hollywood like. They looked so happy—the kind a person didn’t believe was real—but growing up with them for eight years of my life, I knew it was. Maybe not easily attainable or accessible, but achievable with the right life recipe.

  “Yeah,” I answered at last, looking away.

  “Let me guess. High school sweethearts, married after graduation, go on evening walks together after dinner, still fall asleep in each other’s arms—”

  “You’re not going away!” Pretty sure my voice just echoed down the hall, it was that loud.

  “There’s my exit cue.” Brooks turned and left. But he didn’t go far.

  Only as far as the cubicle across from mine.

  Rolling my neck, I took a breath. “What are you doing?”

  “Scampering off to my cubicle. Isn’t that what you wanted?” The wall between us made it hard to see more than the top of his head, but I could imagine the expression on his face based off his tone alone.

  “And is there a reason your cube is directly across from mine?” My fingers hovered above my keyboard, writer’s block burrowing deeper with every passing second.

  “There’s a reason for everything, Arden.”

  Packing up my things to find some quiet corner, I replied, “That doesn’t mean that reason is a good one.”

  “See you tonight. And don’t worry. I’m not expecting you to put out on the first date or anything.” Brooks’s voice followed me down the hallway. “Oh wait.”

  My article was in the copy-editor’s hands with thirty-six seconds to spare before deadline. I’d never cut it so close before. I hated that I’d almost missed a deadline, and I hated even more that the article I’d written was lacking the usual Ms. Romance polish and finesse. It read more like a college humanities paper some frat guy had written twenty minutes before class, still burping up last night’s tequila and Taquito fumes.