Screw You, Lover: An Enemies To Lovers Romance

by Michaela Scott

  Contents

  Title

  Description

  Dear Liam,

  Dear Riley,

  Chapter 1: Riley

  Chapter 2: Liam

  Chapter 3: Riley

  Chapter 4: Riley

  Chapter 5: Liam

  Chapter 6: Riley

  Chapter 7: Riley

  Chapter 8: Liam

  Chapter 9: Riley

  Chapter 10: Liam

  Chapter 11: Riley

  Chapter 12: Liam

  Chapter 13: Liam

  Chapter 14: Riley

  Chapter 15: Liam

  Chapter 16: Riley

  Chapter 17: Liam

  Chapter 18: Riley

  Chapter 19: Liam

  Chapter 20: Riley

  Chapter 21: Liam

  Chapter 22: Riley

  Chapter 23: Riley

  Chapter 24: Liam

  Chapter 25: Liam

  Chapter 26: Riley

  Chapter 27: Riley

  Mailing List

  Excerpt From Stud: A College Football Romance

  About The Author

  Screw You, Lover:

  An Enemies To Lovers Romance

  First Edition. April 10, 2019.

  Copyright © 2019 Michaela Scott

  Cover Design by Cormar Covers

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  He’s ripped, he’s gorgeous, and he knows how to push all my buttons.

  He’s also the only one that can help me save my business…

  I’m so totally screwed.

  Liam Bryce and I have always had what you might call a hate-hate relationship.

  And now that he runs one of the trendiest restaurants in LA and has more abs than a whole football team…

  I hate him even more.

  He’d better enjoy it while it lasts, though.

  Because I’m taking over the restaurant across the street from his.

  And once I do? He’s so going down.

  They say to keep your enemies close.

  But this might be a little too close.

  Because things between Liam and I are starting to feel different.

  Our usual fights and insults are getting…dirtier.

  I don’t know whether to slap him in the face or let him cook me breakfast.

  But whatever I do, I have to do it fast.

  Otherwise, I have a feeling “Screw you, Liam” is going to turn into “Screw me, lover”…

  Dear Liam,

  Thank you for your very thoughtful birthday card earlier this month.

  It was so thoughtful that my parents are MAKING me send you one for your birthday. Seriously, they’re standing in the kitchen right now and watching me write it so I don’t mail it to the North Pole like I did with the Christmas card they wanted me to send you.

  They’re the ones who picked out this stupid pink heart Valentine’s Day card, not me.

  So don’t get any ideas.

  You are NOT my valentine.

  Fall in a puddle of mud,

  Riley

  Dear Groundhog,

  I’m glad you liked my card. It was really hard to find a Groundhog Day card for your birthday, but I think we can both agree that the little guy on the front definitely represents you as a person.

  Just like you, I HAVE to write a thank you card to you specifically, even though I got cards from pretty much everyone in school this past weekend. What’s up with that?

  It’s probably because you’re the only one that sent me a hot pink Valentine’s Day heart.

  Now our parents probably want us to get married so they can be in-laws together or something weird like that. I’ve tried explaining to my mom that I only date humans, not groundhogs, but every time I do I get grounded for the weekend.

  So don’t read anything into this card. You’re the worst person in the universe, and you always will be.

  Get pooped on by a bird,

  Liam

  Chapter 1: Riley

  I think a rat on the subway tracks just barked at me.

  I guess that’s a pretty appropriate way to close out my one year anniversary of moving to New York.

  Dripping wet from the rain up above, I shake the excess water off my umbrella as my train comes in. Unfortunately, it’s going to be a long, long ride back to my tiny little one-bedroom apartment on the other side of town. And after that awful date I just had, I’m going to be counting every stop between me and my bed.

  The train doors open and I take the last empty seat, the details of the date replaying in my mind. This guy seemed alright, although looking back on it, I’m pretty sure I only swiped yes on him because he had an EXTREMELY cute dog in one of his photos.

  Turns out, it wasn’t his dog.

  I should have known it was going to be a terrible date when he told me that, but I still sat through an entire meal at Times Square’s most touristy seafood shack as Mr. Weirdly Baggy Blazer spent an hour telling me about the hot dog delivery startup he’s investing half his paycheck into.

  A misplaced sense of self-confidence plus a complete lack of self-awareness…that should be the bio of every Tinder guy I’ve met up here in the past six months.

  But it’s probably good that he never once got around to asking any questions about me, because if he did, I’d have to tell him about the five hundred job applications I sent in over the past month with literally no interviews. And then I’d have to tell him that the reason I don’t have a job is because the makeup startup I was doing PR for went out of business when they were caught defrauding their customers. It turns out, when people Google your last job and see your bosses getting led out of a building in handcuffs, they don’t really like the idea of being your next boss.

  So, yeah, that rat that barked at me on the tracks? Perfect way to sum up how New York’s been treating me lately. It’s almost enough to make a Southern California girl like me miss her hometown.

  Almost. Then I think about why I left, and who I left, and it’s enough to stop me from booking a plane ticket right here on the subway at the next station with WiFi.

  The train screeches to a halt, jolting everybody in their seats as half the train shuffles off and an identical-looking group of people shuffles on.

  One stop down, thirteen to go…

  ***

  Fourteen subway stops, five flights of stairs, and one barking rat later, and I’m officially lying in bed! I know I should probably change out of my Tinder dress before I just pass out on top of the covers, but that just feels like so much work…

  My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I sigh as I reach out and grab it, assuming it’s my date texting me goodnight.

  But it’s not.

  It’s him.

  Hey Groundhog,

  Having fun on your date? Are you finally going to break that dry spell you’ve been having since, shit, I can’t even remember when?

  Well, sorry to burst your bubble, but I looked up the hot dog company you told me this guy was investing in and it’s a complete shit-show. The hot dogs cost ten dollars each and when you order one they tell you it’ll be delivered next summer, once they get enough investment money to pay for the trucks. I think the CEO is either your date’s childhood friend or a family member, and this company is obviously a scam.

  So if I was you, I’d stay far away from this guy’s hot dog…but hey, desperate times call for desperate measures, right?

  UGH!

  Instantly, I sit up in bed, furiously texting Liam an angry response. I mean, sure, he’s technically right about this guy, but does he have to be s
uch an arrogant ass about it?

  I should have known he was going to have some kind of smart-ass joke about my date. He always does. Since I moved to New York, I don’t think a week has gone by without him texting me gloating about something, shamelessly bragging, or insulting whatever I’m doing. And, obviously, I can’t just let something like that stand, so I text him back, sometimes even doing a little bragging myself.

  Not so much recently, though. Recently, he’s the one with the super trendy restaurant in downtown LA, and I’m the one who sees my resume rewriting itself over and over whenever I close my eyes.

  My nose scrunches up with rage as I type out an epic response to Liam, but as I’m putting the finishing touches on it, my phone buzzes in my hands and the screen lights up. At first, I assume it’s a follow-up from Liam, but then, my sister’s picture fills the screen, sticking her tongue out at me with her eyes shut tight behind her glasses.

  Sam’s calling me this late?

  That’s a little weird.

  “Sam?” I ask, bringing the phone up to my ear.

  “RILEYRILEYRILEYRILEY—”

  With a wince, I pull the phone away from my ear for a second. “What’s up? Is everything alright?”

  “THEY SAID YES!”

  “Okay, uh, great…who said yes? To what?”

  “TO YOU! Reopening Mom’s restaurant!”

  I freeze, trying to process what I just heard. Me? Reopening Mom’s old restaurant? In LA? Why?

  Sensing the questions filling my head, Sam keeps talking. “Your loan got approved! You’re going to get two hundred thousand dollars to start Riley’s Pizza Kitchen back up again!”

  My…loan?

  Oh. Wait a second.

  I did apply for a loan.

  A couple weeks ago, when I spent the entire weekend applying for jobs literally everywhere I could think of, I sent a loan application to my old family bank for money to reopen Riley’s Pizza Kitchen. I remember rushing through it, thinking it was such a long-shot that I wasn’t sure why I was even bothering.

  And apparently, they said yes anyway.

  “Wait, my loan? They approved my loan? SAM! This is amazing!”

  “I KNOW, you’re going to move back to LA, and we’re going to hang out ALL THE TIME, and–”

  Wait, she’s right. If I have a two hundred thousand dollar check waiting for me at my old family bank, then I’m leaving New York.

  Soon.

  “Uh, Sam, do you know anything about when I’m supposed to start?”

  “Your check’s at the bank NOW! You could get started as early as next week.”

  Looking out the window at wet, rainy New York City, I think about the barking rat, and the bad date, and the five flights of stairs I just climbed a couple of minutes ago.

  “Oh, I’m going to start sooner than that,” I whisper into the phone.

  “Awesome,” Sam says, “Let me know when your flight comes in! Until you get a place of your own, you can stay with me and Matt! Oh, man, this is going to be AMAZING! But I should probably let you go, I know it’s late.”

  Watching my entire life rewrite itself in front of me, I get ready to say goodnight to Sam. But before I do, one last thought pops into my head. “Wait, Sam, am I going to be reopening the restaurant in the exact same building?”

  “Oh, yeah, the Burrito Barn that replaced Mom’s restaurant shut down earlier this year. The building’s been empty ever since.”

  “Okay,” I say, “And what about the businesses around it? Are they all the same?”

  Sam takes a couple seconds to think. “Hmm…well, the candle shop’s still there…the tattoo parlor changed owners and changed its name, but I think that happened while you were still here…oh, yeah, and obviously, Liam’s restaurant is still on the other side of the parking lot.”

  For the first time since hearing the news, the smile leaves my face. “Oh! Huh, forgot about that. I guess we’re going to be neighbors again.”

  “Yeah,” Sam says, “And I can’t wait to see the look on his face when he finds out you’re his new competition. He’s going to flip out.”

  I let out a nervous laugh into the phone. “Definitely. Alright, Sam, I think I’m going to get some sleep. Talk to you later!”

  As I hang up and toss the phone down onto my mattress, a million emotions rush through my head at once.

  I’m going back to LA. I’m going to own my own restaurant. Riley’s Pizza Kitchen, originally named because Mom was pregnant with me when she got the loan to open it, is now actually going to be Riley’s Pizza Kitchen.

  And as that thought hits me, I tear up a little, and I look up towards Mom, promising to make her proud.

  Then, I walk up to the window, look out at the city again, and shake my head, thinking about all the terrible jobs I’m not going to have to take if I head back home.

  Sam’s right. This is going to be amazing.

  There’s only one problem, though.

  When I move back to LA, I’m going to be sharing a parking lot with the exact same person I moved out here to get away from.

  And he’s going to be my number one competition.

  Oh, yeah, there’s another little problem I just thought of, too.

  I have no idea how to run a restaurant.

  Chapter 2: Liam

  Rise and shine, master. It’s time for my breakfast!

  Alright, Duke, I get it, you’re hungry.

  Stretching out in bed as Duke licks me awake, I gently push the frisky Irish Setter off of me and get ready to start the day. Panting like he’s about to start drooling, Duke sprints down the hall towards the kitchen, and I sit up in bed, grabbing a shirt from my nightstand and throwing it on as I get ready to feed the dog.

  Noticing a blinking light on my phone, I tap the screen, cocking an eyebrow as I see a text from Riley.

  Hey Jerkface,

  How was your weekend?

  Because I’m pretty sure mine was better.

  See you soon…

  Hmm. That’s vague. Normally Riley gives me a lot more material than that.

  I wonder how her date with that hot dog loser went. Maybe she’s too embarrassed to talk about it?

  From the kitchen, Duke starts making the saddest, most pathetic whimpering noise I’ve ever heard.

  “Okay, okay, I’m coming,” I say, heading into the kitchen to feed him.

  Holding the dog food bag upside down with one arm, I look at Riley’s text again with the other. See you soon? The fuck does that mean? I should ask Matt if Sam knows anything about this.

  “Oh, shit,” I look down and watch the dog food waterfall I’ve been pouring out start to spill over the sides of the bowl. Flipping the bag back on the counter, I watch as Duke attacks the overflowing bowl, wolfing down food like he hasn’t eaten in weeks.

  “Alright, fine, you’re going to have a big breakfast. But after this, you’re going on a diet, so enjoy it while you can.”

  I guess I can’t really blame Duke for loving food. I mean, shit, when I first met him, he must have been half his current weight. Those manipulative bastards at the animal shelter across the street were doing an adoption drive right out front of Crave, and when I got off work, the sun was setting and the cages were all empty, except for this guy, all skinny and hungry and looking at me with literal fucking puppy dog eyes.

  What was I supposed to do? I feed people for a living.

  And now I feed Duke, too.

  I scratch the back of Duke’s head as I pick up some of the dog food that spilled out onto the floor, and his tail wags like crazy.

  Then, up on the counter, my phone rings. It’s Matt.

  “What’s up?” I say, leaving Duke to his breakfast as I step into the bathroom and start the shower.

  “Hey man, just got to Crave. What are we cooking today?”

  I run my hand under the water. “Hmm…did we get those ingredients from Japan yet?”

  Matt laughs, “Yep, the truck was out front when I got here. This stuff is
crazy, man.”

  “Oh yeah? Like what?”

  “A lot of these fish…I don’t even know what they are.”

  Okay, fuck yes, I knew this was going to be a good idea. “Sounds like it’s sushi time, then. Let’s do a variety plate where no one knows what they’re going to get. And then let’s do some blackened cod, some shrimp paella, and some ginger wasabi veggies for the vegetarians.”

  “Yeah, alright, that sounds good. I just hope I can find the wasabi…there are, like, a hundred crates here.”

  A hundred crates? Okay, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. “Alright, I’ll be there in fifteen to help you look.”

  That’s the best part of living right next to work: no commute. If it wasn’t for this shower I’m about to take, I could probably be there in five.

  Hanging up the phone, I strip down and step into the shower, thinking about how we’re going to use up all that Japanese food without it getting old. See, at Crave, the menu’s different every single day. Some days we’re an Italian restaurant, some days we’re a fancy steakhouse, some days we just cook whatever crazy shit we want.

  But whatever we’re making, it’s always incredibly fucking delicious. That’s why we’re packed every single night of the week. It’s also why we’re starting to get serious buzz in the LA restaurant scene. We just started catering events a couple months ago, and we’re already getting booked for award shows, Hollywood parties, you name it.

  But with all that glory comes high expectations, and that means we can’t just serve California rolls all week just because we accidentally ordered too much Japanese food.

  As I grab a bar of soap and start scrubbing down my body, my thoughts drift away from Japanese cuisine and back towards Riley’s text.

  It’s not like her not to take the bait. I was really hoping I’d get a full blow-by-blow of that date; it sounded fucking hilarious. But hey, maybe I’ll text her this weekend when we’re catering that fashion show. That should get her to open up.

  Wait, how did I get this far off topic? I’m supposed to be thinking about a meal schedule for the week.