Still Not Into You: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

by Snow, Nicole

  Or maybe that’s my excuse. Maybe that’s how I explain away the person I became when my parents died, and I didn’t want to let anyone else close to me so I wouldn’t have to feel that loss ever again.

  Maybe that’s how I explain away letting Gabe go, for his and my own good.

  I don’t know how to be the kind of person who wouldn’t shred him again and again. I don’t know how to shut off with him, not completely.

  And I don’t know how to let him be the one to protect me, instead of the other way around.

  I stare at Nika’s next message. So is it really serious with you two? Because...Grandma’s talking spring wedding. Totally serious.

  Wedding? Just end me now. They’re more invested in my fantasy life than I am.

  Jesus. I’ve got to find Joannie. Got to. I can’t come back empty-handed, and then have to rip the Gabe rug out from under them, too.

  I almost break it to Monika right then and there, typing out frantically.

  There’s nothing there, sis. There will never be anything there. We just had a little fun to take my mind off things.

  But the message sits there, unsent, waiting. Waiting to be shot at my sister’s heart like a poison arrow.

  And I just can’t do it.

  For once, the truth would be worse than the lie.

  I close my eyes, exhale a groan, and delete those hateful words unsent. Not yet.

  Let her have the distraction a little while longer, if it’ll lift her spirits. Grandma's, too. It’s better to break it to her in person, instead of over a text.

  So I only send back, Never know. My crystal ball’s broken tonight, but the future could be good.

  I get back a litany of emojis that look like she smashed her face against the phone. Hearts, fireworks, rainbows, smileys, thumbs up, sparkles. So many sparkles.

  Christ, my sister.

  I fall back against the pillows, running a hand through my hair and staring at my text messages. Nothing from Gabe. No missed calls, either.

  I shouldn’t be disappointed.

  I swear, I'm not.

  Still can't stop my thumb from hovering over his contact. This bed is too big for me, too empty, and suddenly I picture the next fifty years of empty beds and silent nights.

  I hurt. I hurt inside like someone’s smashed me against a rock and cracked me open to let everything soft leak out of my hardened shell, and I want to curl up against Gabe and let him hold me together while I put all my pieces back inside where they belong and talk myself into doing this. Even though I know it’s probably another dead end, and I just can’t bear to wholly face that just yet.

  I can't stand to admit he's right.

  Being alone has never bothered me before.

  But that was before I knew what it was like to be together, even if I hadn’t realized at the time just what I had.

  I should eat something. Shower. I hadn’t even bothered eating on the drive up like I’d intended, too lost inside my own head. Now, I just don’t have the energy or drive to get up.

  This bed smells like strangers. Not like Gabe. I miss his rough, piny, masculine scent so bad it hurts.

  I curl up as small as I can make myself, try not to think of home, and will myself to sleep.

  * * *

  I wake with my body angry.

  My stomach’s buzzing like a nest of hornets, reminding me it’s not like me to not take care of myself, especially when I’m on such an important mission. That’s another thing you learn as a soldier.

  All those stories about people forgoing food and forgetting everything but coffee in a frenzy of dedication? They don’t work. Your body and brain need fuel to fire on all cylinders. Even when you’re deep in the zone, you stop to eat if you want to stay sharp.

  Skipping meals, for me, is just one more mistake I can’t afford. I’ve got to be on the ball, and I drag myself out of bed and brew up an extra strong pot of coffee before settling with my laptop and the bag of goodies Grandma sent Little Red out into the big bad world with.

  First on top are the pastries I stole and forgot to eat on the drive. Not a bad choice for breakfast. Tapping at my laptop with one hand, I unwrap the apple pastry with another and take an absent bite.

  And nearly spit it out. Instantly.

  “What the –”

  Instead of the wonderful flood of tart filling I’d expected, it’s the opposite. Cloyingly sweet and choking with cinnamon, so much I almost can’t swallow.

  Working my mouth, I force it down, then grab my coffee mug and take a deep swig to clear my mouth.

  Okay. What was Grandma smoking?

  And why's the taste of cinnamon so overwhelming, so oddly familiar?

  It’s bothering me enough that I tap out a text to Nika.

  Hey, sis, quick question...is Grandma okay? She messed up this last batch of tarts real bad. If she’s screwing up her baking, I’m worried she’s not holding up as much as she pretends.

  Monika buzzes me back in minutes. Huh? Grandma didn’t make those. Jim did. He’s been going around with baskets full of cookies and other goodies for all the neighbors, getting all weepy about moving and giving out going-away presents. He made pecan sandies for us because they’re my favorites, but the tarts were in there too.

  More hearts and heart eyes. I eye the phone wryly, sighing, shaking my head.

  I swear, if Jim Appleroth was five years younger, Nika would be dating him by now instead of just basking in the attention.

  That solves one mystery, at least. If only they were all this easy.

  But the familiarity is still bugging me, my stomach turning over as I look at the nasty tart.

  That taste brings back a memory.

  Joannie in her high chair, her little face screwed up.

  I’m babysitting, because Nika’s got to work and Grandma Eva’s at some sort of ladies’ function with her senior citizen friends. Joannie won’t eat for me.

  She’s glaring right at me with her face all tight like she’s a prisoner of war waiting out an interrogation. I’d laugh, if I hadn’t been trying to get her to eat for an hour.

  It’s cinnamon applesauce today, her favorite, and normally it calms her down and has her reaching eagerly every time, but today she’s got her Szabo hat on and is being stubborn for no good reason other than because she can.

  I try the airplane trick.

  She lets out an exasperated sigh that blows her wispy baby-fine hair from her face, lips thrusting out, but still won’t open her mouth.

  Hmmm. Maybe monkey-see, monkey-do will work.

  Sighing, I scoop up another little bit on the baby spoon and slide it into my mouth, all cloying apples and sappy sugar and cinnamon until I swallow and smack my lips exaggeratedly, then scoop up another spoonful and offer it to her.

  “See?” I force a smile, as she eyes me warily but starts to open her mouth. “It’s good. Auntie Sky loves it. Why don’t you try?”

  I snap out of the memory with my eyes wet and realize I’m staring blankly at the data on the laptop screen. My rib cage feels like it’s collapsing.

  I miss her so much. I miss her, I miss Gabe, I miss my family being happy and bright and wonderful and the only real place I could call home.

  But most of all, even if it’s selfish, I miss me.

  I miss who I used to be when I knew how to smile, how to love people, how to wake up every morning and look ahead to the pleasure of my job and my life and my family, and everything in between.

  I left the Navy because I didn’t like the person it made me. Constantly on edge. Constantly on guard. Too claustrophobic, cold, and regimented. Not like the freedom and genuine friends I have at Enguard.

  And I feel like I’m still stuck there. In that place. As that person.

  But that person is whispering in my ear now, the former intelligence officer I used to be, whispering about those apple tarts. About the cinnamon. About Jim.

  Why Jim? Why?

  Unless...

  Oh, God.

&nb
sp; No.

  Unless I’ve been looking in all the wrong places.

  16

  Don't Let Your Guard Down (Gabe)

  By the time I get back to my place, I know she’s gone.

  It’s like that leash she’s got me on is stretched between us, and the farther and farther away she gets, the tighter it pulls, stretching thin but never quite breaking. Just strangling harder around my neck and making it near impossible to breathe.

  I sit in the driveway outside my AirBnB, staring at the quaint little frame style house without really seeing it. It’s just shadows in the dark and little hints of color catching the moonlight. I’d picked it because it was blue, but now it just looks as washed out and grey as everything else while my fingers curl hard on the steering wheel and I fight this choking, shitty feeling in my gut.

  I shouldn’t have left her. I shouldn’t have let her chase me off.

  Shouldn’t have let her leave San Francisco alone, running after dead ends that could still get her hurt real bad if someone takes offense to her line of questioning. Maybe I’m not her real boyfriend, but I’m her real bodyguard.

  And I love her.

  I love that sweet fuckin' cactus of a woman. All Sky's needles and spurs have dug right into my body and left their mark.

  And that’s why I walked away.

  Because there’s only so much pain a man can take, even someone masochistic enough to love a wildcat like Skylar Szabo.

  I almost laugh as I sit here with that realization slamming me, both a heavy weight on my chest and a lightness whooshing out of my lungs. I love her.

  I love her, and goddamn if I don’t want to try coaxing her into loving me back.

  Tomorrow. She’ll be halfway to Redding by now, and I know her well enough to know if I call while she’s driving I’ll get no answer and no call back when she finally settles at a hotel, tired and probably still mad enough to spit nails. I’ll call her on my way out the door.

  I got some legwork to do around here, and then hopefully I can go fetch her home from Redding with some good news.

  * * *

  Bad news?

  She ain’t picking up my calls.

  I try again and again over a quick breakfast sandwich – our favorite combo meal – and nothing. Not answering texts, either.

  I really hope she’s just laying low, maybe muted her phone, and she's not in deep shit with people who don’t want her poking around and getting messy up in their business.

  I've never wanted a woman to be mad at me more than I do now.

  I’d rather she was ignoring me than in the sort of trouble where I can’t find her to bail her out.

  Maybe she won’t pick up for me, but she might pick up for her grandmother. I need Eva's help.

  Besides, it’ll ease my mind to know Eva and Monika have stayed untouched during this mess we’ve stirred up, anyway. So after I finish wolfing my hash browns and fire off one more text to Sky, I hit the road and head to their place across town.

  That woman must have ears like a hunting dog, because before I’ve even got the Dodge in park, she’s on the doorstep, waving and calling my name with a broad smile, like I’m family already.

  Dammit. I feel like shit for the way I’ve been lying to her, but I don’t even know it’s about to get even worse till I’m out of the truck with a broad grin and through the gate, catching her on the sidewalk as she spills down the front steps to hug me tight.

  “Gabe,” she says, squeezing me with enough strength for someone with twice her tiny bird frame, then pulls back and pats my arm, looking at me with a mixture of warmth and puzzlement. “It’s so good to see you, but I thought you and Skylar were in Napa?”

  Napa? Fuck.

  Only years of practice keeps me from going full on deer in headlights. Sky must’ve told them she took me up on that invite so they wouldn’t worry about where she was really going.

  I gotta roll with the punches, and quick.

  “She’s up there now,” I lie. “But she forgot some stuff at home. I’m trying to give her a break, so I said I’d come back for it and let her rest. She asked me to check in on y’all while I’m here.” Hell, that’s flimsy. I need something more distracting. I clear my throat, ducking my head and scrubbing a hand through my hair. “And you know, I...say, Eva, you were talkin’ ‘bout rings last time...”

  Eva eyes me sidelong, then smiles almost coyly and mock-swats my chest. “Ah, you sly devil, you. I think I see where this is going.” She hooks her arm into mine and practically force-marches me up the steps into the house. “You wanted to propose somewhere romantic, young man, is that it?”

  “Uh. Yeah! Thing is, I don’t know Sky's ring size.”

  Monika’s head pops up over the half-wall dividing the kitchen and dining room.

  “Ring size?” Her eyes are wide as saucers. “Oh my God! You’re...you're going to propose to Skylar?”

  Fuck.

  I've really stepped in it now. I gotta keep this up. “Yeah, but...I don’t know her ring size, and I don’t know how to ask without being too obvious. I was hoping you knew.”

  “Unfortunately, no,” Grandma Eva says with a thoughtful frown, then brightens and ushers me toward a seat at the dining room table.

  She’s strong-arming me like a bouncer, and I’m going along with it – though I almost flinch from the overpoweringly sweet-spicy smell coming from a plate of pastries set out in the center of the table.

  I get distracted, though, by the warm scent of dog as that big ol’ Shepherd jumps on me like we’re best buddies, tumbling into my arms and lap while I scratch behind his ears and give him a good friendly shake. He’s a heavy dog, Eber, but we match each other real good, and after a few scratches he settles, content with his head in my lap.

  Eva’s rubbing her chin. “I think I can find out.”

  Monika wrinkles her brow. “Can’t rings be sized right later on?”

  “Don’t be silly.” Eva brushes her shoulder with one hand before sailing to the phone propped in a charger on the counter. “Gabe wants it to be perfect! Only the best for our Skylar. So, now, let’s make it perfect.”

  Her eyes that are so much like Sky's pearly blues almost twinkle, and I can practically see the words kiss the bride in Eva's world-weary gaze. It's like a sword running through me.

  “Yeah,” I manage, trying not to gag on the words and my own filthy lies. “Just perfect.”

  It’s the smile that crosses Monika’s face again that’s killing me the worst.

  She’s so bright, so animated. Christ.

  This girl thinks she’s gonna be my sister-in-law, when her sister would probably spit in my face if I showed up in Redding with a ring. How many ways can a guy buy his ticket straight to hell?

  Please, fuck. Please don’t let me have just made things ten times worse.

  Grandma Eva purses her lips, then pulls her phone away from her ear and looks at it like it personally offended her. “Of course she’s not answering. That girl ignores her phone too much.”

  “She’s probably asleep,” I venture. In for a penny, in for a pound, and I don’t want them to worry. “We were up kind of late last night.” At Eva’s sly look and Monika’s glittering smile, I hold my hands up. “Driving. Don’t y’all start now.”

  Monika snorts, while Eva chuckles and hits the redial button with her thumb. “I’ll just leave her a voicemail,” she says, lifting the phone to her ear again and turning away.

  Monika opens her mouth as if she might say something, but then pauses at a knock on the front door. With a quick smile and a murmur that she’ll be right back, she slips around the table and heads through the living room to the door.

  I catch a voice that sounds faintly familiar, paired with hers. My ears perk up.

  Skylar's sis sounds warm, welcoming, while he's just...tense, agitated, the friendliness in it so forced it sounds almost exasperated.

  When she returns, it’s with a slim, older man with neatly combed iron-grey hair in tow. That
Apple guy...Applebaum? Appleroth.

  His eyes are a little too wide, his smile frozen in a way that carves furrows in his cheeks, and tiny beads of sweat gleam along the ridges of his brows. Friendly Mr. Rogers is looking a little stressed today, and something about it sets me on edge.

  Especially when he flings me a look as he catches sight of me.

  Like he hadn’t expected me to be here and it’s goddamn well ruined his day. But he recovers lickety-split, and flashes another smile as he edges around me – I take up a lot of space at a small table, all right? – and leans over to start wrapping up the pastries in a cloth he brought.

  “Terribly sorry,” he says. He’s talking quickly, his voice pitched a little too high, like his throat is tight with nerves. Or, hell, is it fear? “I made these all wrong. So embarrassing. They’re for another neighbor, really not suited to your tastes. I must have mixed the baskets up.” He smacks his forehead just a little too playfully.

  Monika laughs anyway.

  He’s already turning away, steps small but quick, hitching, and he throws a plastic smile over his shoulder as he motors toward the door like the Devil’s on his tail. “Be back soon, ladies...and gent. I’ll just drop these off with the right folks and bring you a new basket before I leave.”

  I don’t think he’s in the house thirty seconds before he’s gone, leaving all of us sitting there blinking. I feel like I just got hit by a whirlwind, and from those blank expressions, Eva and Monika feel the same.

  “Well.” Eva pats her skirt primly, hanging up her phone. “That was unusual.”

  Monika smiles wryly. “Poor Jim. The stress of the move must be getting to him. I think he feels guilty.”

  “Guilty? What for?” I ask.

  “Leaving us behind,” Monika answers. “He’s practically part of the family. I...I kind of depend on him a little too much, I think. Especially since –”