Enemies Abroad

by R.S. Grey

  “We made it a blind wager. Everyone had to pay up and cast their vote in secret. Liz here stuffed the pot. Afterward we tallied up the votes, and well…as you can see, Gil from environmental services is apparently the only one at Lindale Middle School who believes in love.”

  Gil is the longest serving employee of Lindale Middle School. He’s been here since the Ford administration. On paper, he’s in his eighties, but he has the energy and the joints of a fifty-year-old. When we find him, he’s sweeping the main hall, listening to “It’s Gonna Be A Lovely Day” on a little speaker attached to his hip holster and swaying back and forth to the beat.

  He’s happy to see us even before he notices the barrel full of money in Noah’s hands.

  “You’re kiddin’ me!” he says with a howling laugh after we tell him he won the bet. “I can’t even carry that thing!”

  Later, we’ll help him put the money in an envelope and get him safely to his car with it, but we thought it was only right to present his winnings in the barrel first, for comedic value.

  “What made you cast your bet for us?” I ask, expecting him to shrug and say he’s just an optimist.

  He winks. “Oh, I’m a watcher. In my line of work, I see what a lot of people don’t, and you two…” He shakes his head and smiles like he’s delighted. “It was only a matter of time.”

  Epilogue

  Tonight’s a big night. We’re hosting Kristen and Melissa at Noah’s house for dinner. We’ve been back from Rome for three months and I’ve seen them on my own plenty of times, but Noah hasn’t been invited. That’s mostly my doing. I wanted to make sure my friends had time to adjust to his new role in my life. No, no, he’s not horrible. He’s great. We like him now. See?

  I’ve planned the day down to its most finite details. I have every beverage option imaginable: tea, wine, coffee, beer, Crystal Light. I have Noah grilling out back. He’s making chicken, steak, and shrimp. For sides, we have mashed potatoes, roasted corn on the cob, macaroni and cheese, and salad.

  Noah’s house is sparkling clean. There’re fresh towels in the guest bathroom, flowers on the kitchen counter, and little candies in a dish on the coffee table—Melissa’s favorite.

  The doorbell rings and I panic.

  “Noah! They’re here!”

  At the end of the night, I’ll look back on my behavior and laugh, but right now, I’m too entrenched in the moment to realize my enthusiasm is seeping out of my every pore. I open the front door with a flourish and welcome my friends into Noah’s house like I’m the concierge at the Ritz Carlton in charge of looking after a bona fide celebrity. Let me get your coat. Let me get you a drink. The bathroom is right here. Did you find the toilet paper to be soft enough? I can find you something better if you need it. A moist towelette?

  Instead of letting them make introductions naturally, I shove Noah toward them like he’s a Ken doll I purchased at Target that day. Look at him! Tall and funny! And he cooks! Noah, tell them about the curry you made the other night. C’mon, don’t be shy. Tell them.

  While they’re sitting in the living room sipping their wine, I hover over them with the open bottle, ready to top them off at a moment’s notice.

  Noah comes over and tugs on my arm, asking if I wouldn’t mind helping him in the other room for a minute.

  “Can it wait?”

  I hate to leave my friends. They might take his short disappearance as a snub. They’ll assume the worst.

  “It’ll only take a second,” he promises, then he half-drags me from the room.

  We go to our bedroom and he shuts the door.

  His hands grip my shoulders and then he bends low so we’re eye to eye. For the first time all evening, I register his warm brown eyes, his levelheaded stare, his easygoing smile.

  “You have got to cool it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your friends like me. And if they don’t, that’s fine too, but—”

  My eyes widen in horror. “No. Not possible. We’ll get them to try your steak. No one can resist your steak.”

  I try to turn and open the door, but he holds my shoulders steady.

  “Audrey, you’re freaking out.”

  “I’m freaking out,” I repeat, finally realizing it.

  “Why? It’s just dinner.”

  “It’s really important to me. My best friends are meeting my boyfriend.”

  Noah and I haven’t said we love you to each other. I love him, point-blank. I’ve loved him since I found that printed reading list stuffed in his book back in Italy. And even though we haven’t said the words yet—haven’t spelled it out loud and clear—we’ve conveyed our feelings for each other a million different ways. When I’m having a particularly sleepy morning and can’t seem to manage to pry my eyes open, Noah makes my coffee and brings it to me right in bed so the aroma tempts me out from beneath the covers. If I happen to be out and about and pass his favorite ice cream shop, I always stop in to pick up a pint to-go. Over dinner, Noah catches up on reality TV with me even though I know it’s not his thing. When we order Chinese takeout and they give us an odd number of crab puffs, I always let Noah have the extra one. I mean, jeez, that’s basically on par with getting his name tattooed on my lower back, you know what I mean? These are crab puffs we’re talking about!

  “What’s the worst-case scenario?” he asks, trying to help me see reason.

  “They hate you forever and I have to find new friends.”

  “That’s…extreme. Remember what happened when I met your parents?”

  We went over to their house for a belated birthday celebration for my dad. Once we arrived, my mom fussed over Noah like he was Queen Elizabeth coming for a visit. Noah, is that chair comfortable enough? Audrey, switch with him—let him have the recliner.

  I see now that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

  My dad took him out back for a “stern talking-to”, as he explained it to me, but then a few minutes later, I heard laughter. When I peered through the wooden blinds, my dad was affectionately patting Noah on the shoulder. Later that night, I heard him call Noah “son”! They have plans to play golf together next week!

  “They loved you.”

  “They loved me,” he repeats.

  “I love you.”

  His smile drops. His shock is written all across his face. He blinks as if trying to process the magnitude of what I’ve just said, and then a beat later, he repeats it.

  “You love me.”

  He’s never looked happier.

  “Oh great.” I roll my eyes. “Is this the end then? The part where you call in the camera crew?” I affect my best impersonation of a TV producer. “Guys, please tell me you got her confession on video. We really fooled her big time! Yeah, well, the joke’s on you because I still have that contract you signed in Italy.”

  He laughs, shaking his head. “You’re right. The ruse is up. I got you so good.” He leans in to kiss my cheek, to lace his fingers through mine and press me to the door. “You really fell for it big time. Your toothbrush is in my bathroom. You have clothes in my closet. Your succulent lives in my kitchen window. How could you be so naïve?”

  His lips make their way to mine and he kisses me gently.

  When he pulls back, he whispers, “I love you too.”

  Epilogue to the epilogue

  Noah

  * * *

  Audrey and I have been elected “cutest couple” for the yearbook superlatives three years running. Audrey cuts out the pages from each edition and proudly pastes them in a scrapbook. When we have friends over for dinner, she brings it out to show them. Embarrassed, I hid the scrapbook from her last week, but it’s only a matter of time until she finds it again.

  Principal O’Malley’s still bitter about his $20, but after some persuasion, he let Audrey and me keep our classrooms right next door to each other. Every day, we eat lunch together in Audrey’s classroom. Every day, a teacher walks by, stops, and clicks their tongue in disbelief that t
he rumors are really true. Gil still gloats about his winnings.

  Having had a break from chaperoning the Rome trip, Mr. and Mrs. Mann realized they didn’t have the energy for it anymore and happily passed the torch to Audrey and me. For three summers now, we’ve taken a group of ten students to Rome during the month of July. We take the kids to all our favorite sites and we make sure to pay a special visit to Giuseppe and his family. Standing together in their small kitchen, Eva shows the students how to make homemade pasta, and after, we sit around the table eating our culinary creations and practicing our Italian.

  This summer, with the blessing of our family and friends—Melissa and Kristen even helped me pick out the ring—I’m going to propose to Audrey inside the Palazzo Colonna, which is the location of the famed last scene in Roman Holiday where Princess Ann chooses duty over love and Joe Bradley walks away from her forever.

  This time, I’ll promise Audrey the ending will be happy.

  I hope you enjoyed your Italian vacation with Noah and Audrey in Enemies Abroad. For another fun teacher romance, continue reading for a sample of my #1 bestselling romantic comedy Not So Nice Guy.

  SYNOPSIS

  * * *

  “Oh my god. Who is that?”

  * * *

  I get asked this question a lot.

  * * *

  “Oh him?” I reply. “That’s just Ian.”

  * * *

  Just Ian is the biggest understatement of the century. Just the Mona Lisa. Just the Taj Mahal. Just Ian, with his boring ol’ washboard abs and dime-a-dozen dimpled smile.

  * * *

  Just Ian is…just my best friend.

  * * *

  We’re extremely close, stuck so deep inside a Jim-and-Pam-style friendzone everyone at work assumes we’re a couple—that is until one day, word spreads through the teacher’s lounge that he’s single. Fair game. Suddenly, it’s open season on Ian.

  * * *

  He should be reveling in all the newfound attention, but to our mutual surprise, the only attention he seems to want is mine.

  * * *

  He’s turning our formerly innocent nightly chats into X-rated phone calls. Our playful banter sports a new, dangerous edge.

  * * *

  I want to assume he’s playing a prank on me, just pushing my buttons like always—but when Ian lifts me onto the desk in my classroom and slides his hands up my skirt, he doesn’t leave a lot of room for confusion.

  * * *

  I’m a little scared of things going south, of losing my best friend because I can’t keep my hands to myself. So, I’m just going to back away and not return this earth-shattering kiss—oh who am I kidding?!

  * * *

  Goodbye Ian, ol’ buddy, ol’ pal!

  * * *

  Helloooo mister not so nice guy.

  Chapter 1

  Samantha

  This morning, we’re having sex inside the army barracks again. It’s hot and heavy. The enemy is advancing—we might not make it out alive. Explosions rumble in the sky and in my pants. I’m sweating. Ian started out wearing camo fatigues, but I ripped them off with my teeth. That’s how I know I’m dreaming—my mouth isn’t that skillful. In real life, I’d chip a tooth on his zipper.

  My alarm clock fires another warning shot. My waking mind shouts, Get up or you’re going to be late! I burrow deeper under my covers and my subconscious wins out. Dream Ian tosses me over his shoulder like he’s trying to earn a Medal of Honor and then we crash against a metal bunkbed. Another indication that this is a dream is the fact that the fleshy part of my butt hits the corner of the bunk yet it doesn’t hurt. He grinds into me and the frame rattles. I scrape my fingers down his back.

  “We’re going to get caught, soldier,” I moan.

  His mouth covers mine and he reminds me, “This is a war zone—we can be as loud as we want.”

  A staccato burst of machine-gun fire erupts just outside. Heavy boots begin stomping toward the locked door.

  “Quick, we’ll have to barricade it!” I implore. “But how? There’s nothing useful in here, just that standard-issue leather whip and my knee-high combat boots!”

  He hauls me up against the door and we lock eyes. The wordless solution suddenly becomes clear: we’ll have to use our own writhing bodies as a sexy blockade.

  “Okay, every time they kick the door, I’m going to thrust, got it? On the count of three: one, two—”

  Just as my dream gets to the good part, my phone starts blaring “Islands in the Stream” by Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton. Cool 80s country pop serenades me at max volume. There are synthesizers. I groan and jerk my eyes open. Ian changed my ringtone again. He does it to me every few weeks. The song before was another silly throwback tune by two old kooks.

  I reach out for my phone and bring it beneath the covers with me.

  “Yeah yeah,” I answer. “I’m already showered and heading out the door.”

  “You’re still in bed.”

  Ian’s deep, husky voice saying the word “bed” does funny things to my stomach. Dream Ian is blending with Real Life Ian. One is a hunky lieutenant with arms of steel. The other is my best friend whose arms are made of a metal I’ve never had the pleasure of feeling.

  “Dolly Parton this time? Really?” I ask.

  “She’s an American treasure, just like you.”

  “How do you even come up with these songs?”

  “I keep a running list on my phone. Why are you breathing so hard? It sounds like you’re over there fogging up a mirror.”

  Oh god. I sit up and shake off the remnants of my dream.

  “I fell asleep to reruns of M*A*S*H again.”

  “You know they’ve continued making television shows since then.”

  “Yes, well, I’ve yet to find a man who titillates me like Hawkeye.”

  “You know Alan Alda is in his 80s right?”

  “He’s probably still got it.”

  “Whatever you say, Hot Lips.”

  I groan. Just like with Major Houlihan, that nickname annoys me…kind of.

  I sweep the blankets aside and force my feet to the ground. “How long do I have?”

  “First bell rings in thirty minutes.”

  “Looks like I’ll have to skip that 10-mile morning run I was planning.”

  He laughs. “Mhmm.”

  I start rummaging through my closet, looking for a clean dress and cardigan. Our school’s employee wardrobe requirements force me to dress like the female version of Mr. Rogers. Today, my sundress is cherry red and my cardigan is pale pink, appropriate for the first day of February.

  “Any chance you filled up an extra thermos with coffee before you left the house?” I ask, hopeful.

  “I’ll leave it on your desk.”

  My heart flutters with appreciation.

  “You know what, I was wrong,” I tease, affecting a swoony lovesick tone. “There is a man who titillates me more than Hawkeye, and his name is Ian Flet—”

  He groans and hangs up.

  * * *

  Oak Hill High School is a five-minute bike ride from my apartment. It’s also a five-minute bike ride from Ian’s house. We could make the morning commute together, but we have drastically different morning rituals. I like to roll the dice and push the limits on my alarm clock. It thrills me to sleep until the very last second. Ian likes to wake up with the milkman. He belongs to a gym and he uses that membership every morning. His body fat percentage hovers in the low teens. I belong to the same gym and my membership card is tucked behind a beloved Dunkin’ Donuts rewards card. It leers out at me each time I make a midday strawberry frosted run.

  Those barbaric contraptions at the gym intimidate me. I once sprained my wrist trying to change the amount of weight resistance on a rowing machine, and have you seen all the different strap, rope, and handle attachments for the cable machine? Half of them look like sex toys for horses.

  Instead of subjecting myself to the gym, I prefer my daily bike rides. Beside
s, there’s really no fighting my physiology at this point. I’m a twenty-seven-year-old woman still riding the wave of pretend fitness that comes naturally with youth and the food budget of a teacher. The only #gains in my life come from binge-watching Chip and Joanna Gaines on Fixer Upper.

  Ian says I’m too hard on myself, but in the mirror I see knobby knees and barely-filled B cups. On good days, I’m 5’3’’. I think I can shop at Baby Gap.

  When I make it to school (ten minutes before the first bell), I find a granola bar next to the thermos of coffee on my desk. In my haste to make it to school on time, I forgot to grab something for breakfast. I’ve become predictable enough that Ian has stowed snacks in and around my desk. I can pull open any drawer and find something—nuts, seeds, peanut butter crackers. There’s even a Clif Bar duct-taped under my chair. My arsenal is more for his own good than mine. I’m the hangriest person you’ve ever met. When my blood sugar drops, I turn into the destructive Jean Grey.

  I scarf down the granola bar and sip my coffee, firing off a quick text to thank him before students start filing into my classroom for first period.

  SAM: TY for breakfast. Coffee is LIT.