The Enemy (It Happened in Charleston 2)

Stacy looks appalled. “Why’d you do that?”

“Because I was proving that I—it doesn’t matter. How long has he been here?”

“About five minutes. He’s standing over at the bar.”

Nerves zing through me because this is it. After twelve years, my archnemesis is once again standing in the same room as me, and I fully intend to squash him.

My little black dress is hugging all of my curves, and my loose-wave, honey-brown hair is tickling my spine. I’ve been saving this dress for exactly this occasion. It has a high neckline but low-cut open back, making it the perfect combination of sexy and sweet. The mullet of dresses, if you will. Business in the front, party in the back. Even better, the slender long sleeves cover almost all of my shoulder tattoo, leaving only the tiniest sliver of pale-yellow sunflower petals to peek out over my shoulder blade.

I take in one deep breath before turning around and scanning all of the men at the bar. I scan. I scan again. I scan one more time because… “He’s not here.”

“Yes, he is,” Stacy says in a matter-of-fact way that gives me a sinking feeling. “He’s right there.” She points toward the bar, and I whip my head around to her.

“No. He’s. Not,” I say through my teeth. “I don’t see any ugly men with greasy hair and rotting teeth!” I’m doing that thing where I’m yelling in whisper form with a smile still plastered to my face. It’s scary.

Stacy doesn’t back down from my crazy. She gives a look that says this ends here and now. “That’s because Ryan is not ugly or greasy.”

“But you said he was!” I sound so desperate now. I’m seconds away from breathing into a paper bag.

Stacy shakes her blonde head, and if I wasn’t completely freaking out right now, I would tell her how pretty her new highlights look. “Nope. You always assumed he was, and I just never corrected you.”

“Why! That’s the kind of thing that you correct a girl about.”

Her eyes go wide, and her mouth falls open. “You’ve got to be kidding me! The last time I tried to mention anything remotely complimentary about Ryan, you took my fifteen-dollar glass of wine and poured it into the restaurant’s ficus!”

I did do that. And I stand by it.

“Now! Like it or not, Ryan is here, and he’s not ugly, greasy, or unhygienic, so it’s time to put on your big girl panties and woman up.”

Right. She’s right. This pep talk was good. I nod my head in agreement, trying to get hype like those football players before they run out of the tunnel. I feel a new adrenaline coursing through me—an electric shock to my system that triggers my brain to switch into high alert. Because suddenly, the game—or rather, the opponent—has changed.

“Which one is he?” I go shoulder to shoulder with Stacy as my eyes cut fire across the bar.

“The navy suit with Miss USA draped over him.”

Of course.

Of freakin’ course.

Chapter Two

June

As if he can feel my eyes on him, Ryan chooses that exact moment to look over his shoulder. The room tunnels, and an invisible thread pulls tight between us as his gaze locks with mine. I inhale sharply, feeling punched in the gut. Gone is the boyishness of his face. Gone are the lanky arms and legs. It’s still Ryan staring me down, but Ryan the man. Ryan 2.0. Ryan maple-glazed and covered in sprinkles.

When he realizes it’s me, he turns his body out to face me and leans one elbow against the mahogany bar. The jacket of his slim navy suit protests at the strain and pulls tightly against his broad shoulders. He’s wearing a white dress shirt with the top button undone, showing a small triangle of skin that whispers he spends a good amount of time in the sun. His dark-brown hair is mussed and wavy like tides in the ocean. Confidence drips off him and zaps all of mine away.

Suddenly, my dress is too small. My hips are too big. There’s no breeze blowing through my thigh-gap because I don’t have one. The dress dips too low in the back, and I’m worried that the little bit of fat that normally ripples under my bra is visible even though I’m wearing stick-on cups. Is red even my lip color? This was supposed to be my power outfit. My Trojan horse. If I looked hot and powerful, I’d feel hot and powerful inside. It’s not working, though, so I have no choice but to fake it.

I shoot out an invisible S.O.S. to all the boss babes of the world and beg them to telepathically send me all of their feminist strength. When Ryan’s mouth tips into a smirk, I don’t smile. When his dark eyes skim over me, I don’t flinch. And when he straightens to his full height, re-fastens the middle button of his suit jacket, and starts stalking toward me, I don’t drop to the floor and hide under the table. But I really, really want to.

“Oh, shoot! He’s coming over,” says Stacy. “Listen, there’s a lot you should know—”

“Shhhh,” I hiss back at her. “I have to use all of my energy to look confident and irresistible.” I haven’t broken eye contact with Ryan yet, and although I don’t like that he just saw the frantic exchange between Stacy and me, I’m glad he knows I’m not running from him.

My stomach jumps into my throat as he gets close, and I think I might be sick. I hate that I was expecting Elmer Fudd, and instead, I’m getting Ad

onis. He’s closing in on me now, and so is the music, and the rapid pounding of my heart, and Stacy’s French manicure. I rip my arm from her dramatic grip and break eye contact with Ryan only long enough to give Stacy a look that says don’t embarrass me! She recognizes the warning, because she’s given it to me often. It’s how we keep each other from becoming the next meme circulating the internet.