The Enemy (It Happened in Charleston 2)

The dare floats between us, and the only evidence that he even heard me is when the corner of his mouth lifts the tiniest bit. “June, I’ve been pining away for you all these years.”

His words tip me over. Spin me around. Disorient me until I can’t see straight. Ryan’s face is serious. He really means what he just said, and his admittance makes my stomach turn inside out. I can’t say anything. My tongue is tied up in a neat little bow.

At my silence, he grins and turns back to his work. I should take this opportunity to laugh in his face. I could finally win our war. Here and now, I could claim victory and plant a flag in the ground, staking my win. I should do that. I don’t. “Are you ever going to ask me out?”

I want Ryan to jump or startle at my words, but of course he doesn’t. His confidence is what makes him so attractive. “You just told me, about an hour ago, that you’re not ready. Something changed?”

Something has definitely changed, but because it feels safer to admit I’m attracted to Ryan than I have feelings for him, I tell a different truth. “Yeah. I saw your abs. It got me thinking that maybe one date won’t hurt.”

“No, thanks.”

“What?” I immediately start picking my shield back up. I should have known better than to think this wasn’t all some trick.

He must hear the edge to my voice, because he turns to me and shrugs. “June, I’m not interested in becoming the next guy in your long string of one and only dates. I like you—I have for a long time—and I’m done hiding it. I want to give us a chance, but one date is not gonna do it for me. So, are you ready to give up your rule?”

Yes.

“No.”

He nods but doesn’t get upset like most men would. “Okay, then.” He takes a deep breath and wipes his hands on a kitchen towel. “Get over here and help me make some mashed potatoes.”

Part of me thinks we should keep talking about this. That I should empty my feelings out onto the counter like an adult and tell him I’m scared of him. I’m scared of loving him and him walking away from me. But I can’t. The words won’t budge.

I slide off the countertop and move to stand beside him as he hands me a big knife that I don’t think he would have given me if he knew how few times I’ve held it before. That fact is clear, though, when I grab hold of the slippery potato and inch the blade through it. Nice and slow. That’s it. Easy does it. ANNNNND one cut complete!

The knife makes a sound when the blade connects with the cutting board, and I smile, feeling like someone should give me a gold medal. Maybe Top Chef is still taking auditions?

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Ryan’s less-than-enthusiastic voice has my head jerking up to look at him.

“What? I did it! Look at that solid cut!”

“I turned a million years old in the process.”

Someone likes to exaggerate. “Is speed always your top priority?” I give him a taunting, flirtatious look, but he doesn’t take the bait. Still, I see the corner of his mouth twitching. I want to kiss it.

“How do you not know how to use a knife?”

I shrug. “I work with dough all day. Very rarely do I have to use something sharp.”

“Okay, well today, you learn

.” The authority in his voice is doing nothing to lessen his attractiveness.

I’m ready for Ryan to move in close behind me and pick up the knife so he can teach me how to use it. He’ll keep his body pressed up next to mine, and his breath will tickle my ear as he shows me how to properly slice a potato. His calloused hand will cover mine, and my whole body will break out in chills from his touch. It will be the sexiest cooking lesson in the world, and we will fog up the windows in my house when he kisses my neck, knife lesson forgotten. He’ll probably spin me around and carry me to the couch and—

“June!” He’s waving his hand in front of my face, and I blink. “Where’d you go?”

My cheeks flush, and if he notices, he doesn’t comment. He’s too engrossed in my impending lesson—all business. He holds up his knife and nods for me to do the same. Super. I guess I really am getting a lesson in knife work with a gap so wide between our bodies I’d have to stretch just to get our elbows to touch. How sexy.

For the next ten minutes, Ryan drones on and on about how the knife should never leave the cutting board, and the blade should rock back and forth, letting me move through the potato faster. Honestly, I’m bored to tears. I couldn’t care less about this dang blade. This is nothing like when we were making donuts side by side. Instead, Ryan’s brows furrow, and he’s serious—joyless.

I pause my practice and look up at him. “You know, I had no idea that you even liked to cook—back in high school, I mean,” I say, interrupting his monologue on the various techniques of rocking the blade at different angles.

He freezes, and I see something flash across his eyes. “No? Huh.”

“You never mentioned it. Not once.”

His attention is back on his work. “Not exactly surprising. We never talked back then unless we were trying to annoy each other.” He’s right. And now that breaks my heart. So many wasted years.