Still Not Love: An Enemies to Lovers Romance Page 7

  So much for being able to pick my poison. I'm having every bad kind rammed down my throat in one go.

  I’m still splitting hairs on backup plans an hour later, but it’s the distraction I need to keep from losing my mind.

  Trying to pretend the very woman I’ve been assigned to protect isn’t in this room.

  Faye and I even eat dinner separately, heating pre-made gourmet meals that are essentially the wealthy version of a TV dinner. Not exactly haute cuisine, but serviceable.

  By the time the night begins to wind on, however, Faye's yawning turns contagious.

  I’m more exhausted than I want to let on.

  I get up to put a few more logs on the fire, curling my lip when I sense a small draft.

  The cold is coming in through the cracks by the bed. I worry about her sleeping beneath that window with frost riming the glass and the chill seeping through. But she seems unconcerned as she climbs off the bed and tosses me an acid look.

  “I’m changing for bed, James.” She plants her hands on her hips with a challenging twist of her lips that’s half smirk, half dare. “You might want to close your eyes so I don’t upset your delicate sensibilities.”

  I sink down onto the sofa again, back to her, and settle my laptop across my knees. “Not looking suffices just as well, Ms. Harris. Thanks for the heads up.”

  “Faye,” she insists. “Use my goddamn name.”

  “Ms. Harris,” I repeat. Unsure whether there's a snarl or a smirk needling my lips.

  “Faye. Say it.”

  Of course, I don't. I'm too lost in this fiery game I knew we shouldn't be playing.

  I start to glance over my shoulder but stop when she lets out a squeal. “Don’t turn around!”

  Too late. I glimpse just a few whirlwind hints of naked flesh before she’s stumbling back with something clutched over her chest, and I obligingly close my eyes before turning my head away again.

  I don’t open them again until I’m sure the only thing I’ll see in front of me is the weather tracking app.

  Not the tempting invitation of slender limbs.

  Not the lush little ass that makes my palm itch with wicked memories.

  Not the sour scorn on her delicate lips, begging to be bitten.

  “You decent now? It’s nothing I haven’t seen,” I mutter under my breath – and that’s the pure torture of it.

  That I know every inch of her body as well as I know my own, and yet I sit here locked inside myself in sheer, terrible denial.

  She makes a huffy sound. “What did you say?”

  “Not a thing,” I reply smoothly, and then, unable to resist, add one more thing I shouldn't say. “Nothing at all, Ms. Harris.”

  “I hate you,” she hisses, then a few moments later, softer, more forlorn, “Good-fucking-night.”

  I can’t help but smile, as long as she can’t see me.

  This is Faye to the core, even when she's pissed. Maybe because she's pissed.

  Larger than life and yet so very vulnerable.

  All big explosions so you can’t get close enough to see the softness and the need all that fire and fury hides. Yet, she let me that close once upon a time.

  She let me know her in a way that hadn’t seemed possible at first – and I betrayed it for her own good. But I can’t stop the longing inside me that remembers knowing her, feeling her, testing the limits of a strange connection we can't forget.

  With her, with each other, we could be who we truly were with no masks, no lies, none of the misunderstandings that make human beings these strange ego-machines always reaching and never figuring out how to touch another soul without getting burned.

  We did it. We had it. We reached, we touched, we held, we loved.

  Before I blew it all to hell, creating these ruins I can't resist exploring half a decade later. Unsure whether I should curse the pain or laugh at the irony of whatever we've become.

  We're nothing now.

  I see the chasm when we look at each other across a distance we can never cross.

  “Goodnight, Faye,” I whisper, after I'm sure she can't hear me, and I listen to the sounds of her drifting into sleep.

  * * *

  The fire burns down little by little, leaving the cabin quiet and dark, but cozy with contained warmth.

  By the time I let myself look at her, I’ve been staring at my mother’s novel for hours.

  Another huge, heaping slice of nothing.

  It feels like Mom left a single thread dangling at the end of an unfinished tapestry, and I’m supposed to find a matching thread somewhere inside myself to weave into her design. And to be perfect, that thread has to match precisely in color, in texture, with my fingers insanely skilled in the weave.

  I can’t find anything in myself with the same brilliant hues of emotion that my mother gave off, and what little bit I can tease out is just clumsy.

  I sigh. Mom always lived in another world – one where the colors were richer, the food more flavorful, the emotions more powerful.

  She lived everything with such intensity, dismissing the practical for the strange and airy place her imagination took her.

  I often wonder, bitterly, if that was why the cancer took her so quickly, so easily.

  Because she burned so bright, maybe she burned through life too quickly. Maybe she ran out before it was her time.

  Maybe that’s why I’m so afraid to be anything like her, too.

  She was a child of the air, unconcerned with material things, while I had to nail myself to earth.

  That's why I’m the wrong person to finish this story.

  My heart just isn’t in the same place.

  I'm going to break my promise to Grandpa and feel like a fucking tool for doing it.

  This book, it’s all flights of fancy and daydreams.

  Love told by people who still believe in happy endings.

  The title, 1000 Love Notes, fits too well. In it, the heroine tells the hero she won’t forgive him for a past transgression until he writes her one thousand love notes. She thinks she'll scare him off with such a daunting task, but rather than give up, he takes it as a chance to prove his devotion.

  Suddenly, she's finding love notes damn near everywhere – in her laundry, taped to her fridge, on the hood of her car, written on the side of her cup at Starbucks. At first, she finds it annoying, but over time it grows on her with fondness until finally, she stands on the verge of admitting maybe she just might love him, too.

  That’s the part where I struggle.

  I understand the rest all too well because I lived them.

  Crumpled bits of paper thrown across the lecture hall, lodging in the back of my shirt.

  I never breathed a word about Faye's notes to my mother, but it's like she just knew.

  Can't blame the heroine in the book either. Admitting love so easily, so freely, so real seems like nothing but raw fiction.

  I set my laptop aside, rubbing my eyes. Then I turn to lean my arm against the back of the sofa, watching Faye as she sleeps.

  Even with the winter night breathing through the window, she’s kicked the covers off and curled up in a shivering bundle. Her oversized shirt hangs off one shoulder, bunching around her hips to expose bare, shapely legs, her thighs thick and soft but her calves slim and toned.

  She’s prickling all over with goosebumps.

  With a sigh, I push myself off the couch, cross to the bed, and pull the layers of quilts and heavy down blankets up over her.

  She’ll probably kick them off again, but just to be safe I tuck her in tight and hope it'll keep her warm until morning.

  The blankets will have to do the job I can't.

  * * *

  It’s well after midnight by the time I strip down to boxers and hit the couch, using a throw cushion for a pillow and scrounging up some spare blankets from the emergency supply cache in the closet.

  It’s warm enough, but I still spend a restless night listening to Faye’s every breath.


  The slightest creak jerks me awake. It's all too easy to imagine an intruder on the front step, rather than the weight of snow in the eaves and branches coming down in piles.

  Still, near dawn, I manage to drift off.

  Only to bolt awake at the sound of shouting outside.

  I’m up in an instant, Faye a second after, wide-eyed and drowsy but flinging the covers off. In one heartbeat I’m in my suit, in two in my shoes, coat, and gloves.

  She starts to get up, fumbling for her jeans, but I point at her firmly.

  “Stay,” I command.

  Her eyes flash, and she scowls. “But –”

  “No. I'll check on it.” I don’t have time to argue with her, not when the shouting just grows louder, more urgent.

  Checking for my Ruger tucked into its shoulder holster, I stride quickly to the door and fling it open.

  There's just a wall of impenetrable white.

  Snow sheeting down in huge, frigid waves that make it impossible to see more than an inch in front of my nose.

  I’m near-frozen in an instant, icicles accumulating on my eyelashes, and I quickly close the door behind me to keep the heat from escaping before pulling the neck of my coat up high over my face to warm my breath.

  Straining, I listen.

  A second or two later, I finally catch the sounds of more shouting from my right. Not far from a few of the other cabins where other Enguard members are staying, along with some of Hamlin’s crew from Pershing and the photographers that were apparently snowmobiled in last night before dinner.

  It’s dangerous to move into the white, cold chaos. Wouldn't take much at all to get turned around in this whiteout in an instant and wander into the snow to freeze to death a few feet from the cabin.

  But the bellowing voice seems familiar – and after a moment, I hear another coming from the opposite direction, closer to the main lodge and the larger luxury cabins surrounding it.

  “Shitfire, hang on! I'm movin'.”

  The first voice is definitely Gabe's.

  The other, unfamiliar, but I catch a call of, “This way! Follow my voice!”

  Then Gabe comes looming out of the white, first a dark silhouette and then color and shape and distinction, ice rimming the fur of the hood on his parka and crusting his scarf.

  His eyelashes are all frosted snow. He’s shouting at the top of his lungs, from the bottom of that big barrel chest. “Keep talking! I’m almost th—”

  He stops just short of plowing into me, then stands in place, huffing out frozen breaths and rubbing his gloved hands together. “James? What’s going on?”

  “I was about to ask you the same,” I answer, muffled through my coat. “Is there an emergency?”

  “Emergency? Nah, man, just shift change.” I can’t see his mouth, but I can hear the smile in his voice and see it in the crinkle around his eyes. “One of the Pershing guys radioed, and we didn’t put down guide ropes and stakes last night, so we’re playing a little Red Rover.”

  “Red Rover?”

  “Red Rover, Red Rover, send Gabe right over.” He laughs, deep and just a little hoarse with the cold. “He’s hollerin’ his fool head off so I can follow his voice and not get lost.”

  I sigh, practically deflating, and push my glasses up my nose, dislodging them from the frost that had already started freezing them to my skin.

  False alarm. Thank hell.

  “Come,” I say, reaching for Gabe’s arm. “I’ll shadow you.”

  He blinks down at me. “But how’re you going to get back on your own?”

  “My keen and catlike reflexes,” I retort dryly, twisting my head toward the sound of the Pershing guard’s raised voice, sounding worried at no response from Gabe. “Let’s go join your friend.”

  Together, we forge through the storm. A total slog.

  The cold slaps us in terrible sheets, alternately damp and dry, sucking the moisture from inside my nostrils to leave them crackling and burning. Together, we make a better windbreaker than one person would, allowing us to make a shield of our bodies that clears a path.

  We tamp down the snow as we go, making a furrow in knee-high drifts that'll likely cover over our footsteps in less than an hour. Luckily, I only need minutes, and I only need to be able to retrace my steps back to Faye.

  Even when I try to keep myself distant, everything always draws me back to Faye.

  Once we finally arrive at the lodge, I take a minute to warm up, stepping inside just to let myself breathe before I have to turn around and forge back into pelting snow and needles of ice.

  Pushing through the door, I pull my hood back, raking snow and crystals out of my hair and breathing in deep. The air feels so damn warm it's like fire scorching down my throat.

  Then I come face-to-face with Senator Paul Harris.

  My lip curls into a snarl, watching him.

  He’s just exiting one of the back rooms, looking far too casual in his knit sweater vest over a crisp shirt, every bit the family man dressed for the holidays, on performance at all times.

  His graying hair is swept back. He’s cultivated that perfect poker face of the stern but kind older man who’ll love you even while doing what’s best to keep you safe and happy.

  It’s all about image with Harris, hiding the cold, bitter, utterly calculating man underneath.

  You have to know him to see the glint in his eyes, the sharpness that's quietly seething, constant rage.

  There’s something dangerous about him.

  Something that makes the approachable, fatherly image he’s crafted one hell of a lie.

  I suppose we all wear masks here.

  And his is flawless as he stops in his tracks, looking up from the aide he’s speaking with, and locks eyes with me. There’s only a second's flash, a pause, before he’s all smiles, coming toward me with his hand outstretched.

  Oh, hell, here it fucking comes.

  “James Nobel,” he says cordially, and again I think I’m the only one who catches the cool, threatening edge under the warmth in his voice. “It’s been forever since I’ve seen you. How have you been?”

  Miserable, I want to tell him.

  Fuck, I want to shout it at him.

  Grind it into his face with my fist.

  Miserable, furious, grieving – I want him to know it all with a single sharp blow. The explosion of white-hot rage inside me churns like lava, this wildfire I’ve tried to cage for years.

  Now, it’s close to finally breaking past the bars of ice I’ve locked around it.

  Only the measuring, expectant look in the Senator’s veiled eyes keep me under control.

  He wants a reaction. He'd enjoy it, especially when my job right now is to protect him.

  And, of course, if I lose my temper, Landon will be obligated to discipline me. This is chess, and he’s just made his move, trying to bait me into exposing myself and giving up the game.

  Not today. I’ve always been good at chess.

  It’s a game I never lose.

  So, I just hold steady, maintain my neutral calm, and reach out to shake the Senator’s hand.

  There’s a certain firmness to his grip, an iron strength, that says he’s testing me. I don’t waver, holding his eyes as I give his hand a solid shake and let go, tilting my head.

  “Senator Harris,” I say coolly. “I’ve been well. And you?”

  “Despite recent troubles, I’m quite well.” There’s something in the inflection there, something that says he’s pleased about something I'm sure I don't want to know about. Yet his voice is heavy with mock sympathy, gravity, empathy as he continues, “You’ve been in my thoughts for some time. Not just because Faye used to talk about you constantly. After the plane crash...”

  “What plane crash?” Gabe asks, stepping up behind me and blinking between us. His golden retriever friendliness shatters the building tension between me and the Senator, making more space between us. I tear my gaze from Harris, glancing at Gabe.

  “It’s noth
ing,” I say. “It happened a long time ago.”

  “Yeah?” He cocks his head.

  I hold in a sigh. Sometimes I wish I could be as easy as Gabe, accepting people and things at face value with pure warmth. “So you two already know each other?”

  “We have quite the long history,” Harris replies, so smoothly you can almost slip on the words. “In fact, I helped James here get his first job. And he made me proud.”

  Enough.

  No one at Enguard needs to know about my time with the FBI, or how it ended. Even as Gabe stares in puzzlement, I grip his arm with a tight smile for the Senator and steer Gabe away. “If you’ll excuse us,” I say, “we’ll put coffee on. Won’t your guests be arriving soon?”

  “They will,” the Senator agrees. “If they can get through the snow. I certainly do appreciate your attentiveness, James.”

  I don’t bother with a response, though Gabe is craning back to stare at Harris even as I marshal him away.

  And I feel Harris’ gaze boring into me, tracking my every move, even as his voice drifts after us, low and ominous and promising.

  “You’ll take good care of us all, won’t you?”

  5

  Under Wraps (Faye)

  Something about this doesn’t feel right.

  I’ve been thinking it all day, ever since James went bolting outside this morning, ordering me to stay in place.

  Only to come back with his face set in a forbidding mask, his icy aloofness twisted into a grimness I’ve rarely seen.

  Of course, he wouldn't tell me what’s really going on.

  Typical James.

  Just that the photo shoot’s been put off until tomorrow, possibly even until after the guests arrive, due to the inclement weather. We’re supposed to hunker down here, keeping an eye on the TV weather bulletins.

  But all the cold front warnings in the world can’t prepare me for the waves of ice radiating from James whenever I’m 'in his vicinity.'

  Obviously his choice, eternal-stick-up-the-ass words.

  And when we’ve been told to lock down and stay put while the wind whips and howls around us, there are few places in the cabin that aren’t in his vicinity.