Dating the Enemy

by Nicole Williams

  “So. We’re here. In real date territory.” I sat on the ledge lining the rooftop. Brooks’s forehead creased with unease before retrieving a couple of old lawn chairs stacked against the stairwell wall. “What now?”

  “First, relax. You’re stressing me out with all the questions. And second.” He whipped the first chair open and motioned at it. “Would you please put your butt in this? A strong wind comes through and you’re going to be doing a backward somersault off this roof.”

  “That’s a physical impossibility,” I said even as I moved toward the chair. “I’m too bottom heavy to topple headfirst over much of anything.”

  “Bottom heavy.” He huffed as he opened the second chair for himself. “The crazy runs deep, doesn’t it?”

  “Pretty sure we’re not here to argue my body type. So can we talk about why we’re really here?”

  He undid his collar button and moved on to rolling up his sleeves. “To get to know each other.”

  “Don’t we already know each other?”

  “We know of each other. We know our public personas, our views on relationships, our work-centered lives. But we don’t know the real person behind all of that.” He scooted his chair closer to mine. “I want to know the real you. And I want you to know the real me.”

  Kicking my feet up on the ledge, I wound the blanket around my shoulders. He’d been right about needing the blanket up here.

  “Why?” I asked slowly. “What we do know of one another, we’re almost total opposites. We’re professional adversaries. We’ve been forced into this game of dating charades by the forces that be.”

  “And we came together all on our own before all of this,” he interjected as his head turned my direction. “Remove the cameras and our work life and we still have whatever it was that brought two strangers together that night.”

  The chair whined when I shifted. “You don’t believe in any of that chemistry, fate, meant-to-be stuff.”

  “No, but I believe in attraction. And I was drawn to you that night.” I felt his eyes wander me. “I still am.”

  Goose bumps spilled down my arms, which were thankfully disguised by the blanket. His words were exactly right; it was his intentions that were entirely wrong.

  “Well, I declare, Brooks North. You think I’m pretty?” I batted my eyelashes dramatically as I fanned my face. “You must be my one and only. My true love. My prince on the white horse.”

  “Wow. Drama school drop-out?” He was cringing when I glanced his direction.

  “Good for you for recognizing when a woman’s faking. You probably have plenty of experience with that.”

  Brooks snorted, leaning toward me like he was about to let me in on a secret. “Nine out of ten women polled claimed I left them speechless.”

  “And the tenth?”

  He grinned. “Still speechless.”

  “Cocky much?”

  “Only when it comes to my dick and my writing.”

  My head shook, but I was actually having a good time out on this rooftop, enjoying the view with a man who drove me crazy in just as many right as wrong ways. Brooks was a modern caveman with a big vocabulary. And somehow I found myself drawn to him, enjoying his company, feeling comfortable in my own skin.

  “Are we going to spend the rest of our first date like this?” My finger waved between us.

  “Thanks for the segue.” He leaned down to pick up the cider bottle and glasses he’d placed beside his chair. “Actually, I was thinking we could ask each other one question at a time. As personal or impersonal as we want—nothing is off-limits—the only rule being whoever’s answering has to be honest. One hundred percent honest. The three-quarters version isn’t going to fly.”

  I was fixated on one word—personal. I didn’t consider myself closed off, but agreeing to answer whatever depraved question an oaf like Brooks might come up with made the air feel thin.

  “I don’t know . . .” I said, summing up in three words how I felt about all things of a Brooks nature.

  “Come on. It’s the only way to get to know each other in as quick and truthful a way as possible. Couples take years to learn what we’re going to condense into mere weeks.” He popped the cap off the cider and poured it into the glasses. “No bullshit.”

  My fingers drummed across the rusted metal arm of the chair. “No bullshit? Not even the kind that might have an ulterior motive of getting me to profess my love for you on camera?”

  His mouth moved as he handed me a glass. “Not even that kind. That’s the foulest kind of bullshit. And if it makes you feel any better, we can each have one veto to whatever question we don’t want to answer. Sound fair?”

  Taking a drink of the cider, I stared at the city lights as I considered my answer. The idea of getting to know him beyond the online research and biased observations was appealing. The thought of him getting to know me, whatever he wanted to know, was paralyzing.

  “Let’s do this.” I clinked my glass to his while my insides glitched, one part at a time.

  From his temporary silence, I knew I’d surprised him. Hell, I’d surprised myself.

  “First question.” He bowed his head at me. “You get the honors.”

  My brain hiccupped, not realizing we were starting this hive-inducing game of Q&A a half second after agreeing to it. Question. Question. What do I want to know about Brooks North?

  “What was your kindergarten teacher’s name?” The words exploded from my mouth, followed by my face drawing into a wince. Of all the questions, that was the one I led with?

  Just paint a giant L on my forehead. For lame.

  Brooks covered his mouth—probably so he could silently laugh into it. “Mrs. Spears. The most patient person on the planet.”

  “She would have had to be to put up with a five-year-old version of you,” I muttered, adjusting in my chair to get comfortable. “Okay. Your turn.”

  “How many times had you hooked up with someone before that night with me?”

  I was already wincing in anticipation, but his question shifted my expression into shock and awe. “Uh oh. No way. I just asked you what your teacher’s name was and you ask me how many guys I’ve hooked up with in my life? Not fair.”

  He lifted his shoulders. “You wanna use your veto?”

  “No,” I half-shouted. “Because if that’s your first question, I don’t want to imagine what your fiftieth will be.”

  “So?” He blinked at me with the least innocent look humanly possible. “How many?”

  I dropped my feet from the ledge. Then I placed them back there. Crossed my ankles. Crossed them the other way. “Before you?” God, my voice was about an octave and a half too high.

  “And after, if you want to add that in too,” he replied before taking a lazy sip of his cider.

  “Taking in college experiences, subtracting life-like dreams, not counting leap years, rounding to the closest number . . .” My eyes narrowed as I calculated my answer, shifting yet again in my seat. “That would be none.”

  He was quiet long enough I glanced his way to make sure he hadn’t fallen asleep.

  “None,” he stated.

  I inhaled. “None.”

  A shorter pause this time. “None?”

  “And there’s that word again,” I gritted out. “You seem to be struggling with it. Let’s try another. Zero. No one. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Nil.”

  Brooks set his glass down and leaned forward in his chair. “Really? Never?”

  “No.” I shot him the same look he was giving me. “And why are you looking at me like I’m some kind of mutant because I’m picky when it comes to who I fall into bed with?”

  “Picky?” A single laugh rattled in his ribcage. “You spent all of three hours getting to know me before—”

  “Thank you. I remember what followed.”

  A whirlwind of emotions played over Brooks’s face while I second-guessed my decision to agree to this slow form of torture.

  “And after?” he asked.
<
br />   “That’s two questions.” My head shook. “And it’s barely been two months since my first random hook-up, so I’ll let you read between the lines there.”

  “So none after either,” he said, clasping his hands. “Your turn.”

  My forehead creased from the abrupt shift. Confessing I was a hook-up amateur to firing off the next question.

  “How many women before me did you have a one-night stand with?” I asked without hesitation. No more teacher-name quality questions.

  His eyes locked on mine. “I invoke my veto power.”

  My nose crinkled. “What?”

  “Ve-to,” he enunciated slowly.

  My eyebrows rose into my hairline. “You seriously just used your one and only veto on the very first serious question I asked you?”

  “I’d rather veto right up front than keep thinking ‘damn, I wish I hadn’t answered that question.’”

  I stared at the city, considering his approach before deciding it was not for me. “And I’d much rather save my veto for one of the last questions, in case you ask something totally inappropriate.”

  Brooks tucked the blanket higher behind my neck. If he noticed the goose bumps scattered across my skin, he gave nothing away. “You’re more likely to ask the most important questions up front.”

  He was right, making me wonder if he already had a very good idea who the real Hannah Arden was. Maybe I knew him better than I thought I did too.

  “And you’re most likely to save those for last.”

  My phone chimed while I agonized over the last sentence of my article that was due in twenty-three minutes. Not the ideal time to let myself get distracted.

  Checking the screen, I squashed my smile before it formed. The message from the mysterious DC (two guesses what that stood for) read: How would I know you were lying?

  It was his turn to ask the next question after he’d answered mine last night. I’d asked if he had any food allergies so I could, naturally, make sure to include that in the next meal I made for him.

  I considered ignoring his question until I’d finished my article, but now that I was thinking about it, I couldn’t turn it off. Swiveling around in my chair, I considered my answer. How did I act when I lied? What did I do? How did I look?

  Of course I realized he was asking so he could call me out if he caught me lying to his face. So maybe I should have kept my answer vague . . . but that flew in the face of our Q&A’s one cardinal rule: be honest.

  I typed in a quick response and reread it before sending. My voice gets a little high, and I can’t make eye contact. I throw in more ums and yeahs than usual too.

  A moment later, I heard a chime from the cubicle in front of me. We never asked our questions out loud when we were at work; we relied on email and texts. In the evening when we were at his place, we could spew as many verbal questions as we could fit in before we crashed for the night, but here we had to keep a careful distance.

  A minute later, Brooks rose from his chair. “So you must think I’m a pretty amazing guy by now, right? A real catch? One in a billion?” He adjusted his tie, giving me a burning look I managed to play ignorant too.

  “Um, yeah, sure,” I said, pitching my voice a few notes high. “I’d, um, agree. Yeah.”

  “That’s what I thought.” He chuckled as he wove out of his cubicle. “You want a coffee?”

  I nodded as I got back to my article.

  “Extra cream, extra sugar?”

  “You always ask that. Do you assume one day I’m going to change how I like my coffee?”

  “I don’t assume. I just want to allow you the option of changing your stance on how you like your coffee.” His light eyes sparked. “Or anything else for that matter.”

  “Wishful thinking,” I called after him, loud enough a few heads turned my way.

  Brooks and I already drew enough attention as it was in the office, thanks to the increasing popularity of our dating experiment, and I knew neither of us should be giving anyone more reasons to speculate in whispers in cube alcoves.

  After getting back to my article and feeling confident I’d stiff-armed that last sentence into shape, someone stepped into my space.

  “That was quick,” I said before spinning around to discover it wasn’t the person I thought it was.

  “What was quick?” Quinn asked, stabbing her pencil through her messy ponytail.

  “Sorry. Thought you were someone else.”

  “Nope. Just your uber awesome best friend here with a friendly reminder that the cafeteria downstairs is closing in fifteen minutes.” She tapped her wrist where a watch might have been if she wore one. “Time to scavenge what we can before it’s another meal compliments of the vending machines.”

  “Perfect timing,” I said as I hit Send on my article to Mr. Conrad.

  “Perfect timing would have been twelve thirty for lunch instead of two forty-five.” She wove her arm through mine and steered us toward the elevators.

  Most days we scored lunch from the cafeteria on the second floor. Quinn usually got something from the fried section while I scouted the grilled section, then we shared our loot. With how busy I’d been the past six weeks, our lunch dates had been infrequent at best.

  Plus with my new living situation, the subway no longer spit me out at the stop right by Flour Power. Quinn had been gracious enough to snag my morning sustenance and bring it into work for me, but I missed my breakfast dates with her.

  “How’re you holding up?” Quinn asked as we waited at the elevators.

  “Not too bad. You?” I fired off a quick text to Brooks letting him know I was grabbing lunch but he could leave my coffee on my desk. I might have angled my phone so Quinn couldn’t see it, since she was still convinced he was one of Stalin’s blood relatives.

  “You don’t have to keep up the façade with me. It’s got to be exhausting going on all of those damn dates, having Conrad pull your strings while millions of people are watching you live. And having to keep up with your duties here as an actual writer on top of it all . . .”

  I patted her hand as we stepped onto the elevator. “Considering everything, I’m doing good. Real, non-façade answer. I swear.”

  “Oh my God, and your apartment on top of it all. It’s taking forever for them to get it fixed up.” Quinn’s head fell back, patting my hand faster. “Having to endure breathing the same air as him in that sterile haunt he calls home.”

  “Actually, it’s not his home. He’s just renting the place.”

  Her head whipped back into place, those dark eyes narrowing on me. “You’re defending him.” Her face got in mine. “Why are you defending the demonic parasite?”

  “I’m not.” I internally cringed when I registered how high my voice was. “I’m just stating that he’s only temporarily residing there until I prove my point and become editor in chief. I’m sure his real place in California is much worse. So sterile you can actually smell the joy being sucked out of you.”

  Quinn pinched my cheek. “There’s my girl.” After I swatted her hand away, she hip-checked me. “How many more days until you can move back into your place?”

  “Andre called this morning and said the cleaning crew is almost done and I should be able to move back in by next Monday.” My shoulders slumped for some strange reason. Why wasn’t I psyched about getting to move back into my own space and out of Brooks’s soulless dwelling?

  “Any way they can speed things up? It’s practically been a month.” Quinn led the way off the elevator when the doors chimed open on the second floor, toward the smell of fried food that had been wilting beneath heat lamps for hours. “Your landlord should compensate you for having to move out, or at least give you a break on your rent. Not to mention toss in some Benjamins for the therapy you’re going to require after spending all that time with a turd like Brooks North.”

  “Yeah, not sure they’re going to go for that, but thanks for looking out,” I said as I steered toward the grill while Quinn sauntered t
o the fryers.

  “Eh. Anything look edible over there?” Quinn tapped her foot as she inspected the selection of goods under the heat lamps.

  “This coming from the woman who ate half a hot dog that I’d forgotten in my purse the day before?” I touched the wrapper of one of the few burgers left out, confirming the bun was about as hard as a Frisbee. “Think we’re going to have to settle for the salad bar or risk breaking a tooth biting into one of those things.”

  “Salad bar? Did those words just come out of your mouth?”

  I felt Quinn’s hard stare aimed at my back. “Just an idea.” I touched the wrapped chicken sandwiches. Instead of rock hard, the buns felt soggy.

  “People die from eating at salad bars.”

  “Aren’t fresh vegetables good for us?”

  “Not if they’re packed with E. coli.” Quinn held up a tray with a couple of corndogs that were cracked from spending hours under a heat lamp. Taken as a whole, a questionable meat substance wrapped in dried-out corn bread was the best option.

  “Works for me,” I said, snagging a few packets of ketchup before paying for our just-edible lunch. After we’d selected a table, I squeezed my ketchup into a blob on the tray. “So I’ve been waiting for you to bring it up, but since you don’t seem in a hurry to . . . what’s the latest Justin news?”

  Her failure to make eye contact alerted me something had happened. “We went to that basketball game.”

  The noise my corndog made when I dropped it sounded like it was made of wood. “When?”

  Quinn shifted. “Last night.”

  My mouth fell open as I lowered my head toward hers. “And you were going to tell me about this when?”

  Quinn swirled her corndog into her mustard. “There’s nothing to tell. He got some tickets, asked if I wanted to go, we went, that’s all.”

  My fingers rolled across the table. “That’s all all?”

  “I don’t speak Ms. Romance.”

  A sigh escaped me. “No long stares, no arms draped over shoulders?” The corners of my eyes creased. “No good night kiss?”

  “No. Definitely no.” Quinn gave me a look that suggested she was offended by my question.