Enemies With Benefits: Loveless Brothers, Book 1

by Noir, Roxie

  We move against each other. Our lips part, millimeters, a split second. Her hand closes around my shirt and then we meld again and this time there’s a renewed urgency, an undercurrent that wasn’t there before.

  I pull a hand from her, find the doorknob, push it open when there’s a loud BANG from somewhere beyond her trailer.

  We both jerk back, Violet nearly stepping off her porch, though I grab her before she can go. She’s flushed and open-mouthed, lips red and slightly swollen, her hair even more wild than after her bowling victory.

  We look at each other. I’ve already forgotten the noise, my mind too filled with everything that just happened and what’s going to happen next.

  Violet swallows.

  “I think it’s the —"

  Another crash, this one on her roof. I pull her toward me, my arm protectively going around her back as we look up, following the noise.

  There’s an unmistakable scraping sound of something sliding down the trailer’s aluminum roof. I pull her in harder.

  A moment later an empty, crushed beer can falls, landing with a hollow clunk on her stairs.

  “ — Rednecks next door,” she finishes.

  I look at the fallen beer can, Violet still in my arms. I’m rattled as hell, far more by Violet than by the redneck almost-assault.

  “They seem to make a lot of things explode,” Violet says, talking fast, shoving her hair behind her ears. She doesn’t look at me, but she steps out of my arms. “The other day they —”

  “Y’all okay?” a voice says from behind me, and I turn. A guy wearing torn camo pants and a white undershirt comes around the corner of her trailer, looking concerned.

  “We’re fine,” Violet says. “I think we’ve got your can.”

  She points at it, still lying on her steps.

  “Sorry ‘bout that,” he says, loping over to the can and picking it up. “I told Jim not to light that thing but you know he don’t listen when he’s drunk. I’ll try to get them to tone it down a notch so y’all can have your privacy.”

  He grins, winks, then ducks back around the corner of the trailer.

  Violet’s hand is on her door knob again, and suddenly the space between us feels like a chasm.

  “Thanks for the ride,” she says, already pushing the door open. “I gotta get — you know, work — and it’s kind of cold out here? And I’m sure you also need to get home…”

  “Violet.”

  “And I have to figure out how to get my car back?”

  “Violet.”

  Finally, she looks at me. Dead in the eye.

  “It’s a bad idea, Eli,” she says, her voice still and quiet. “Thanks for the ride, though.”

  Then she’s through the door and gone, and I don’t even get to tell her that maybe it’s not a bad idea before it closes on me.

  Not that I’ve got evidence to back that up. Not that I’ve even got reasons beyond hey, that was pretty fun, but in this moment that sure seems like reason enough.

  Her trailer’s dead quiet. No lights go on. No floorboards squeak from inside.

  I turn around and walk down her steps, her lights still glowing softly overheard, the rednecks next door hooting and hollering even though it’s a damn Tuesday night.

  I get in my truck and drive back home to my mom’s house, and I spend the whole drive trying to convince myself that Violet’s right, marking the first time I’ve ever done such a thing.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Violet

  I shut the door and don’t move. I don’t even lock it, I just get inside my trailer and freeze, hoping that in a few minutes I’ll thaw out and figure out what the hell just happened.

  After a moment, I hear Eli descending the steps outside. There’s the deep rumble of his truck starting up, the crunch of the tires biting into gravel, the low coughing hum as he drives away.

  Once it fades, I can move. I lock my door. I drop my purse on the floor right behind it, not bothering to hang it on its hook, and I walk into my tiny bathroom.

  I don’t even turn on the light, I just run the water and then splash it on my face because I need to do something to negate the shock.

  Splash.

  That wasn’t supposed to happen.

  Splash.

  You liked it, though.

  Splash.

  Eli’s a terrible idea. You don’t even like each other, why would you make out with him?

  Splash. My face is getting really clean.

  And you’re forgetting the maid of honor.

  I pause my hands halfway to my face. For the first time in days, I’d forgotten about it, but now the scene comes rushing back full force: elevator, snuggling, smug look, doors closing, and now all my thoughts are crashing into each other, a confusing jumble.

  He kissed you and then banged her and then kissed you — but maybe he didn’t — but maybe he did — and if he did then what? You’re just another girl on a list a mile long?

  You could just ask.

  You could just be an adult, for the love of God, and ask.

  I don’t want to ask. I don’t want Eli to know that I even noticed that he was in the elevator with her, because then he’ll know that I care that he was in an elevator with another girl, that I’m jealous and wish I weren’t, and I just don’t want any of that.

  I stand up, dry my face off, and wander back into my living room, putting my purse on the hook, then I head to the kitchen to drink a glass of water. I text Adeline and ask if she can give me a ride to the bowling alley in the morning. It’s her day off, and also, God knows she needs an update.

  Thank God for the rednecks because if they hadn’t done whatever the hell they did, I’d probably have invited Eli in and then I’d really have done something I’d regret later.

  Or not, I think.

  No, I’d definitely regret it. Yes, Eli mysteriously got hot during his time away from Sprucevale, and yes, he’s changed slightly, but he’s still Eli. Earlier today we both acted like a bowling match was the final round of the world chess tournament, and it was just a dumb bowling match.

  Eli and I are not compatible, even if kissing him is really nice. He will hurt me and I will hurt him, because how are you supposed to have a relationship with someone who you actively want to see crash and burn?

  I’m pretty sure that’s not how any of the great love stories start.

  Pride and Prejudice kinda does, I think.

  “Eli is not Mister Darcy,” I say out loud to my empty kitchen, as if that settles anything.

  Then I shut off the lights and go to bed, where I don’t think any more about the things that I’d like Eli to do to me.

  Not even a little.

  * * *

  I sit up with a jolt in bed. The clock says five a.m., and I’ve just had a horrible realization.

  Eli’s bringing me coffee this morning. To my office. First thing. Because that was the deal we made, and I won bowling, and oh my God this is going to be so awkward. Why is this happening to me?

  Unsurprisingly, I don’t go back to sleep, and at five forty five I just get out of bed and try to clean my kitchen.

  Adeline pulls up at seven forty five, and the second I’m in her car, she frowns at me.

  “What did you do?” she asks.

  “I kissed Eli again,” I say.

  “Good, finally,” she says, and puts her car into drive, pulling out of my driveway.

  Then she stops in the middle of the gravel road that goes through the trailer park.

  “Again?”

  “I might have drunkenly made out with him that night at the brewery,” I admit.

  “That’s why you were so weird,” she says, the car moving forward again. “Also, you weren’t drunk. You didn’t even finish your beer.”

  “Let me believe my lie,” I say.

  Adeline just sighs, turning onto the main road.

  “Fine,” she says. “You got super duper trashed, got it on with Eli in the store room at the brewery —”

>   “We didn’t get it on, we kissed,” I correct. “And we were outside.”

  “And then you did it again last night.”

  I sigh dramatically, leaning my head back against my headrest.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “I am so sorry you kissed a hot guy twice,” she says. “How terrible to have to put aside your plans for spinsterdom.”

  “I have not put aside those plans,” I say. “We’re not dating. We can’t stand each other.”

  “It sounds a little like you’re dating,” she says.

  I pause, wondering if I should tell her about the maid of honor, because it’s possible that even Adeline will think I’m insane.

  “He might have slept with someone else in between,” I say slowly.

  That gets her attention.

  “What?” she yelps. “Eli’s a slut? Okay, I could see it. He did get hot.”

  “Stop saying that,” I grumble.

  “All the Loveless guys are hot,” Adeline says, like that makes it better. “Even Levi. And, you know, there’s always at least two girls fighting over Seth —”

  “I’m not fighting anyone over Eli,” I say, sitting up straight. “No. Hell no.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting that,” she says calmly. “Tell me about the floozy he might have slept with.”

  I tell her: the drunk maid of honor, the elevator, her hands all over him, maybe even grabbing his butt, the look he gave me. When I finish, we’re sitting in the parking lot of the bowling alley right next to my car, and Adeline’s shaking her head.

  “Yeah, that’s nothing,” she says.

  “Don’t tell me that,” I say. “I’ve been making myself crazy.”

  “That’s kinda your thing,” she admits. “Not all the time, but you do tend to get in your head with stuff like this. Remember the time you told Ellie Barker that her Shar-Pei puppy was adorable when she showed you a picture of her new grandson, and then you agonized about whether to send an apology card or flowers or something for a week?”

  “No,” I say. “I’ve wiped that from my memory, and also, that was a very bad picture and the baby was wrapped in a blanket and really did look like a puppy.”

  “Ask him if he banged the maid of honor if you’re so upset,” she says, unlocking my door. “It’s not a weird question if his tongue’s been in your mouth. Twice.”

  I sigh. She shoos me.

  “Go be an adult!” she says, and I finally get out of her car.

  * * *

  I haven’t even gotten to my office yet when there he is, sauntering down the hallway, a cup of coffee in each hand.

  Act normal, I tell myself, even though the heat is already starting to creep up my neck.

  He reaches my office door before I do, then stands there, coffee in hand, waiting. He’s got that same half-smile on his face as always, his hair still slightly mussed, his chef’s whites not on yet and his undershirt highlighting exactly what I’m missing out on.

  “You wanted skim milk and ten packets of Splenda, right?” he says as I walk up to him.

  I must make a face, because he just laughs.

  “Kidding. Cream, no sugar,” he says, and I take the coffee from his hand, sip it.

  It’s exactly right.

  “Just the way you like it,” he says, one eyebrow barely raised.

  “Yep,” I say, my face heating up more. “No sugar. None at all. Sugar’s really bad for you, you know.”

  Eli gives me a long, searching look. He raises his own coffee cup to his mouth and drinks, even that simple motion somehow really hot.

  “Well,” he finally says. “If you ever change your mind about needing something sweet, just let me know.”

  Then he winks, turns, and leaves. My insides turn into goo. Thank God there’s no one else in this hallway right now, because now I’m staring at Eli’s back as he walks away, kind of looking at his butt and mostly wondering what on earth I’ve gotten myself into, regarding coffee deliveries and offers of sugar at eight o’clock in the morning.

  I open my office door, toss my purse into a drawer, and flop into my chair.

  My job is about to get interesting.

  * * *

  The moment I see the boxes on Friday afternoon, I know I’m in trouble.

  First, they were delivered in an old Subaru, and I was expecting at least a pickup truck.

  Second, there are only five of them, each labeled ‘100 cranes’ in careful, spidery handwriting.

  “Where are the rest?” I ask the robed man.

  He just tilted his head and looked at me curiously. Calm radiated from him, every movement absolutely infused with it.

  “They’re all here,” he said.

  I bend down to look into the Subaru, but aside from a few fleece blankets and one dog leash, it’s empty.

  “This is only five hundred,” I say. “Unless they’re mislabeled?”

  Please be mislabeled. Please be mislabeled.

  I know they’re not. I’ve seen a thousand origami cranes before, and this is not a thousand cranes.

  “Yes, the order was for five hundred,” he says, completely unruffled. “We thought it was a strange number, so we double-checked it. One moment.”

  He ducks into the passenger seat of the Subaru and comes out with an invoice.

  I read it twice, then three times, just to check.

  It’s for five hundred cranes.

  I feel nauseous.

  How the hell did I only order five hundred? Was it a typo? Did I not proofread this?

  More importantly, what the hell do I do now?

  Small, strange things have been going wrong all week. The CEO of a small midweek corporate retreat got booked into a room on the third floor after requesting a room on the fourth. A car service that we’d scheduled to pick someone up at the airport in Roanoke showed up fifteen minutes late.

  In the kitchen, a hundred tortillas went missing.

  Also, on Tuesday night Eli and I kissed after making a bet that means we have to see each other every morning for the rest of the summer, so even though I’m kind of trying to avoid him right now, it’s not working great.

  I still haven’t worked up the courage to ask about the maid of honor. I know I should. I know I’m not being an adult, but every time I come close there’s a tiny voice that whispers yeah, but what if he did, do you really want to know? and then I don’t ask.

  It’s been a hell of a week, is what I’m saying.

  “Right,” I say, still staring at the sheet of paper. “Yup. Five hundred. Says it right there. In ink.”

  Oh God.

  “We did think it was a smaller order than usual, but thought perhaps you were getting more cranes from elsewhere,” he says, still serene as fuck.

  I want to scream why didn’t you call and double-check?!, but I don’t.

  One, I know perfectly well it’s not his fault, and two, screaming at a Buddhist monk seems like it’s especially bad, even though I imagine he’d take it better than most people.

  “The mistake is ours,” I say, my voice oddly formal as my mind starts racing, already a hundred miles away from this parking lot. “Thank you for the delivery.”

  I need five hundred more cranes.

  It’s six o’clock on Friday night.

  I might be screwed. What if I’m screwed?

  Where the hell can I get five hundred cranes?

  With a sinking feeling, I realize the answer.

  “Peace be with you,” the monk says, his shaved head shining dully in the fading sunlight.

  He gets back into the monastery’s Subaru and drives off, leaving me standing outside a converted barn with five hundred less cranes than I need.

  * * *

  The answer to, “Where do I get five hundred cranes on a Friday night?” is pretty simple, at least on the surface. There’s only the one answer.

  I make them myself, of course.

  Have I ever made an origami crane before? No. Am I particularly crafty or good with my hands? A
lso no.

  But do I have another choice, besides disappoint a bride and probably lose out on $20,000?

  Nope!

  I call up Betsy, the owner of Betsy’s Craft Emporium, and promise to buy her out of origami paper if she stays open an extra half-hour. Bless her heart, she does it, and by seven-thirty, I’m back at Bramblebush, set up in a conference room, armed with a giant stack of origami paper and a iPad loaded with origami tutorials.

  By eight, I’ve made three janky cranes and two good ones. By nine, that number is six and fifteen, so I’ve only got four hundred and eighty-five left to go.

  I take a break, put my head down on the table, and do some quick math. I need to get these done by nine a.m. Tomorrow, when I’m supposed to be here to set up for the final walkthrough with the couple and their wedding planner. That’s twelve hours.

  Four hundred and eighty-five cranes in twelve hours is…

  …slightly over ninety seconds per crane. I don’t need to do more math to know that I have not been achieving that goal, nor do I need math to tell me that taking a break with my forehead on the table isn’t getting anything done, either.

  You know what gets things done? Coffee.

  Coffee gets things done.

  Lots of coffee.

  I hop up, newly determined, and head to the employee break room, flipping the lights on as I head in. It’s deserted, obviously, because I’m the only one here at this time of night, the component pieces of the coffee maker drying in a dish rack by the sink.

  It’s then that I realize I’ve never made coffee at work before. I don’t even know who does it, I just know that every time I’ve come in here, looking for a caffeine hit, I’ve gotten it.

  I approach the machine, arms folded over my chest. It’s one of those big silver cylinders with a spout at the bottom, not the Mr. Coffee-type that I’ve got at home, and I have to admit that it’s a bit of a mystery.