Still Not Love: An Enemies to Lovers Romance Read online

  Still Not Love

  An Enemies to Lovers Romance

  Nicole Snow

  Ice Lips Press

  Content copyright © Nicole Snow. All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States of America.

  First published in February, 2019.

  Disclaimer: The following book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance characters in this story may have to real people is only coincidental.

  Please respect this author's hard work! No section of this book may be reproduced or copied without permission. Exception for brief quotations used in reviews or promotions. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thanks!

  Cover Design – CoverLuv. Photo by Rafa G. Catala.

  Contents

  About the Book

  1. Tale as Old as Time (Faye)

  2. Sonata (James)

  3. Reunion (Faye)

  4. Close Quarters (James)

  5. Under Wraps (Faye)

  6. Everything We Shouldn't (James)

  7. No Alibi (Faye)

  8. Ace of Hearts (James)

  9. Smoke to Flame (Faye)

  10. Wax Doll (James)

  11. Winter Maze (Faye)

  12. Truth to Flame (James)

  13. Heavier Than Winter (Faye)

  14. Lava Talk (James)

  15. Good Intentions (Faye)

  16. Slow Motion (James)

  17. It Aches Like Winter (Faye)

  18. Red-Handed (James)

  19. Incendiary (Faye)

  20. Like Velveteen (James)

  21. Move the Earth (Faye)

  22. With This Ring (James)

  Still Not Yours Preview

  About Nicole Snow

  More Books by Nicole

  About the Book

  Not the heck again. I've had my alpha-jerkface fix.

  Now he's my sworn protector...

  I'm about to go nuclear.

  Yet I have to smile and pretend I won't slap him into the next century.

  James Nobel and I have history.

  Raging hearts. Dueling kisses. Firestorm nights.

  A man like him breaks laws with that suit and that smirk.

  How could I ever forget my first?

  Or pelting an Adonis with balled up love notes in class?

  We were young and dumb and lied about forever.

  Spoiler alert: he did the lying. Then he disappeared.

  Maybe I always wanted to know why, but not like this.

  James, my personal bodyguard.

  James, my flipping bunkmate in a luxury cabin for newlyweds.

  James, who still makes me crave one more night of bad decisions.

  Even worse, we're snowed in with my VIP father and his scary friends.

  It's a date with chaos. And Mr. Hell No Hero-Man makes me do the asking.

  What if there's more to us than scalding banter and I-hate-you glares?

  What if there's still – do I have to say it – love?

  1

  Tale as Old as Time (Faye)

  Let me tell you one thing.

  Belle, I most certainly am not. Even if she just so happens to be my favorite fairy-tale heroine.

  Don’t get me wrong – I love being a librarian. Every book is an entire hidden world waiting to be discovered, one page at a time.

  I get the pleasure of endlessly introducing people to new things. My happiest days are when I get to see a kid discover how much they can love reading when I pick the perfect book for them.

  What I love most about my job, though, is the smell of old pages, binding, book glue, ink, leather.

  Guess what part I hate most?

  Just guess.

  It’s that the scent of a library is lacking. It doesn't have the smell of gunpowder and hot, stinging adrenaline that really gets my blood going.

  That, plus sometimes, it’s too damned quiet.

  That's how it is today until the glass double doors out front slam open, letting in a hint of crisp Portland air that's half winter, half asphalt, and one hundred percent crunchy granola.

  I glance up from checking the condition of a few returns before re-shelving as the commotion starts.

  Over a dozen men in black suits rush the room in militant quickness, all of them nearly identical carbon copies of each other: sharp-cut hair, sunglasses, and those little clear coils of earpieces stretching down to their collars. They bark orders to the library patrons as they sweep in, flanking the perimeter, commanding startled, confused people to clear out.

  With how they’re dressed, the air of authority they give off, no one even questions it – not even the library managers, who find themselves herded out in a flurry of surprised little gasps, tumbling into the crowd streaming toward the exit.

  I sigh, grinding the heel of my palm against the bridge of my nose, and set my books down.

  God damn it, Dad.

  Sometimes, the whole Secret Service schtick is a little too extra.

  But at least he knows how to make a selfishly dramatic entrance.

  And he really pulls off the drama now. Because once the library’s clear of everyone but me, two Secret Service agents hold the double doors open like they’re announcing the entrance of a king. America may not have royalty, but a U.S. Senator is pretty damn close.

  The other agents swarm the single-room space, almost too big for the small, cozy, brick-walled area, an old house that was converted to a library some time during the fifties.

  When Dad walks in, I can almost hear the grand fanfare.

  Especially when, as he passes, the two agents holding the door salute him with a barked, “Mr. Harris!”

  Je-sus.

  My father comes gliding across the room like a razor, cutting the space. If the Secret Service agents are black daggers, he’s a sword.

  All tall, sharp-edged, and PR-ready, his suit the color and hardness of steel, his eyes like polished jade blades. Sometimes I look at this man, with his silvered, backswept hair and stern jaw, wondering who he is and how we're related.

  I don’t see my father in him, even if I know he loves me and would do anything to protect me.

  That's the whole reason I’ve been squirreled away in this cozy little piece of Portland like a secret waiting to be discovered.

  But in him, there’s something missing. Like the man who used to carry me around on his shoulders disappeared, leaving behind a skin that some dark, cold, grim thing shrugged on over its tense, bristling shape.

  Yet, there’s nothing cold about the way he reaches for me when I stand straight with a fond, exasperated sigh and round my desk to approach him. He pulls me into a hug, wrapping me up in his tall frame, resting his scratchy beard on the top of my head as he holds me tightly.

  “Faye,” he murmurs, his voice as scratchy as his trim beard, deep and raspy and comforting. “You look like you’re doing well.”

  I lean into him, squeezing him tight. “Well, until you barged in with the entourage, I was bored.”

  “Boredom is good for your health.”

  “Is that what they’re saying in your top secret briefings? Or is it just the latest science fluff piece you read on your way over?” With a laugh, I draw back, looking up at him. “What’s with the theatrics? This is pretty heavy, even for you. Feels like you’re about to usher me into a panic room. Or pull some kind of Liam Neeson stunt. Look, Dad, if you want me to keep a low profile, you can’t do stuff like this at my job. I don’t know how I’m going to explain it tomorrow.”

  “You won’t need to,” he says, voice firming, and he takes my arm gently in one knobbed, large hand. “This isn’t your job anymore.”

  I b
link. “What? But I –”

  “Faye, there’s no time to explain. Especially not here.” His gaze darts around, and I can see his old military training in that look. He’s assessing the perimeter, expecting danger, looking for any access holes, points of egress, vulnerabilities.

  So, in other words, this is serious.

  “We shouldn’t be out in the open,” he whispers gruffly, giving my arm a light pull. “We’ll talk in the car.”

  Part of me wants to resist, but there’s something bothering me. A tension in the air, a sour omen, and my own training kicks into high gear.

  Situational awareness is something you never forget. Not even when your Dad drags you out of the FBI not long after you even finish your first field assignments. It’s been years, but in the back of my mind, I’m still an agent.

  And that agent is saying there’s danger in the air, and the time to talk isn’t now.

  So I keep my mouth shut, for now, as I nod and follow them outside. The Secret Service agents form a cordon around us, flanking us, and I realize they’re acting as human shields.

  That’s never a good sign.

  Neither is the fact that Dad arrived in a limo flanked by half a dozen black SUVs, and I can tell from the plating and window thickness that every last one of them is bulletproof. This is the kind of gear and protection reserved for a presidential motorcade, not for a Senator.

  Holy hell.

  This is serious.

  But I don’t realize just how serious until I’ve allowed myself to be maneuvered into the back of the limo. The doors close, leaving us alone with just the privacy window walling us off from the driver and the agent in the front seat.

  I’ve been in enough of these vehicles to know it’s soundproof, double-plated bulletproof glass. So that even if someone tries to take out the driver, they’ll never be able to shoot through the front windshield to get a hit in on the people in the back.

  I settle in my seat and cross my legs, eyeballing my Dad.

  I’m trying to figure out a delicate way to ask while he’s gazing out the window with that glaring, brooding look I’ve seen so often ever since Mom died. That’s what changed him, really.

  The night she fell asleep behind the wheel on the way home from a charity function and drove her car off a bridge. It’s been eight years, but I don’t think he’s ever grieved properly.

  He’s still living in that moment. That night he got the brutal phone call and showed up at my college dorm with tears streaming down his face, saying I had to come with him to find Mom.

  I still hurt, too.

  I still miss her. Miss the way she smiled, the way she smelled, the laughter, the way she got me the way moms love to get their daughters, the way she always had paint on her fingertips and her cheeks and all over from one of her latest projects.

  Most of all, I miss the way she was a bridge between me and Dad. We’re both churning passions and crashing heat while she was this cool, soft touch making the burning air between us safe. She knew just what to say to defuse teenage angst or stop me from saying something to my father I knew I'd regret. Or to stop him from getting in the way of his little girl growing up.

  I’m not like her. I don’t know how to be calm and quiet and gentle.

  Defusing explosives, not people, is my thing.

  And I don’t know how to be careful with Dad right now.

  But I try. I really do, keeping my voice soft and low as I ask, “Dad? Are you okay? Did someone try to hurt you?”

  “Yes,” he says, with such bluntness it takes my breath away. “And they’ve threatened to hurt you, too. That's why I'm here.”

  I sit up straighter. My heart slams against my ribs and then ricochets back in place.

  God. He doesn’t even change his pensive gaze out the window, delivering the information with such coldness it’s like he doesn’t truly care if someone kills him. Or me, though I know he does.

  He wouldn’t have dragged me out of my job if he didn’t.

  “I think,” I say slowly, “I need a little more. What's going on?”

  “I’m not sure how much I should say.” He’s grinding his knuckles against his chin, the faint light through the blackout windows reflecting off his worn, well-polished wedding ring. “Someone’s put a hit out on me, Faye. On us. On anyone connected to us.”

  “What? Who? Why?”

  “I don’t have answers for that just yet, but I’m looking into it, believe me.” Sharp eyes slide to me abruptly, locking on. “I just know they’re serious. This isn’t your typical anonymous crank calls or talcum powder in an envelope scare. Last night, someone shot out the window of the house. They missed me, but they also got away. Security wasn’t able to catch them, and they’d apparently been casing the grounds long enough to find the one blind spot in the CCTV coverage.”

  Just like that. As casually as talking about going out for drinks. There’s this weird detachment in his voice while he’s talking about someone who tried to kill him.

  Right about now, I hate him.

  I hate him because I love him, and he didn't call.

  He doesn’t seem to care that he could've died last night and I wouldn’t have even known until he was already a police report, a memory, a nationwide news shocker – and nothing more.

  “Jesus Christ, Dad,” I gasp, glaring at him. “Why didn’t you call me last night? Are you hurt? Are you –”

  He stops me with a raised hand. “Listen. I wasn’t even close enough to the window to be hit by the flying glass. I didn’t have time to call you when I was arranging an investigation and increased security coverage. Everything’s under control, but I’d like it to stay that way, Faye – which is why I’m relocating you until the threat is neutralized.”

  “What? No!” Anything calm and reasonable goes out the window when he tells me so flatly that he’s just going to move me around like a chess piece on a board. I clench my fists. “That’s not fair. You forced me into this life and now...now that I’m finally settled into it, you’re just going to rip me away?”

  He grinds his teeth but doesn’t react.

  Oh, how I want him to react, but of course he’s got to be Senator Harris and not my Dad and the man who gave me my own explosive temper.

  “It’s temporary. And it’s for your own safety. Please don’t be childish.”

  Stung, I recoil. “So it’s 'childish' to want to control my own life? Funny, I thought it was childish to let my father order everything for me when I’m twenty-seven years old and I can’t even go to the damn Co-Op store without a security escort.”

  “Please don’t exaggerate.”

  “It’s how it feels.” I fold my arms over my chest, glowering out the window. “You don’t get to do this to me again, Dad. I can handle a little suspense. I used to be a freaking FBI agent. Still would be, if you hadn’t been doing this to me my entire life, pulling strings where they don't belong.”

  “Don't give me that. You know damned well that was for your own good.” There it is – that spark of anger, that growl in his voice. “You nearly blew yourself to kingdom come when –”

  “Because I was an explosives expert!” I fling back. “Explosives, Dad. Explosives experts deal with bombs – surprise, surprise. What matters is that I know what I’m doing. I wasn’t in danger then, and I’m not in danger now. I know how to handle myself.”

  I have to believe that. I have to.

  Because I’ve been holding on to that idea for years, if I’m honest.

  I still train, almost every day in my basement with a punching bag, a jump rope, a treadmill.

  I still keep up on the latest FBI statutes and changes in surveillance and criminal investigations.

  I still re-certify for firearms with a concealed carry license every year.

  I still avidly devour info on new developments in explosives tech and neutralization techniques, because as long as I’m doing these things, I don’t feel like I’m stagnating, rotting away as this useless little mouse tuck
ed in the corner of a bookshelf.

  I’m the deadliest librarian in Portland.

  Hiding a skill set that could save lives while I run story time for preschoolers on weekends.

  All because Dad decided I wasn’t allowed to have a life and tore me away from my job, my world...and the man I thought I loved, until he turned as cold and strange as my father.

  And there he goes again – taking a deep breath, pushing down any feeling behind his façade of Senator Harris, looking at me with the same calm, stern command he uses in the office, where he intimidates people into doing his bidding and cutting through the bullshit and politics and red tape every day.

  “This is not up for discussion, Faye,” he says. “Obviously, I understand you have your feelings, but I didn't ask for your input. And it won't change the outcome. You're my daughter, damn it. It’s my obligation to keep you safe. If feelings have to be collateral damage, then so be it.”

  “Whatever. I might feel better about it if you didn’t call me an 'obligation' right after telling me my opinions don’t matter.”

  He sighs, dragging a finger down his chin. “You’re too much like your mother.”

  “I’m nothing like Mom, and you know it. That's the problem. I’m too much like you, and that’s why I piss you off so much. That's why we –”

  “I’m not angry.”

  “I wish you would be.”

  I wish you’d feel anything at all for more than half a second. More than the frustration streaming out in his tone because I don't just fold without questions.