The Enemy (It Happened in Charleston 2)

And then Stacy and I carry on for another five minutes while she talks me down from my cliff just like I knew she would. It’s what we’ve always done for each other, and now I feel better knowing that it’s what we’ll always do.

After I’ve filled her in on every detail of life over the past few weeks, she says, “So what do you want going forward?”

I press my lips together and pull my knees up to my chest. “I want Ryan. But he lives here, and I live in Charleston. I don’t know how we can make it work.”

“Maybe he’ll move to Charleston for you.”

“What? No. No way. I could never ask him to do that.” Am I terrible for thinking of asking him to do that? Yes. I am terrible. I won’t do it.

“Okay…then if you are dead set against a long-distance relationship, another option would be for you to move to Chicago. You could probably make it work running Darlin’ Donuts long distance if you hired a good manager or something to run it.” That doesn’t sit well with me either.

At some point over the past week, my confidence has been rebuilding. I’ve started dreaming of owning the bakery alone. Making all the decisions. Proving to myself that I do have what it takes and forgiving myself for all the times I’ve given up too soon in the past.

And now my anxiety is coming back, and I just want to avoid this decision until I absolutely can’t anymore. “Well, I don’t have to decide tonight. I’ll let you go. Sorry for waking you up, by the way. It’s like, what, 3AM there?”

She chuckles. “June, it’s 10:00 here...same as Chicago. We’re about to start a movie.”

“A moooovie,” I say dramatically. “Right. Enjoy your MOVIE.”

I jump when the closet doors suddenly fly open. Ryan is standing there, staring down at me with his hands on his hips and brow quirked.

I raise my voice. “No, sorry! I don’t need any more phone books, sir, thank you!” I end the call with Stacy and smile up at Ryan, looking as innocent as a doe sipping from a stream.

“How’s Stacy?” he asks, completely unfazed by my overzealous act.

“Good. Sunburned.”

He reaches out and helps me to my feet. Once I’m closer to him, I smell his body wash and take in his damp hair dangling over his dark eyebrows, and I let the truth that I just blurted to Stacy settle over me like a warm sunny day.

I love Ryan Henderson.

Now what am I going to do about it?

Chapter Twenty-Four

Ryan

June is still sleeping in my arms. She set up camp in the guest room, so I thought that was where she was going to stay for the night. But somewhere around midnight, I heard my door squeak open followed by June’s voice. “Don’t get any funny ideas. I’m just coming to snuggle.”

She slipped under my covers and burrowed into my side like a little bunny making a new home. And let me tell you, it’s ridiculously hard to sleep next to a woman like June and not let one funny idea slip by. I was good, though. I rubbed her back until I was lulled into blissful sleep by the scent of her orange shampoo. HA, just kidding!

I lay awake the entire night, smelling that freaking shampoo and convincing myself to keep my hands to myself. Just call me Mr. Funny Guy, because I’ve been so funny all night that I want to die just to be put out of my misery. June, however, was the very picture of a sweet Hallmark movie. Her body almost immediately softened, and her breath went heavy with the telltale signs of sleep—completely unfazed by the way our bodies were pressed together and hot under those covers.

Women are a mystery.

Now, it’s morning, and I haven’t slept a wink. June will sleep all day, I think. Her hair is fanned out around her, her lips perfectly pouty, and that sunflower peeking out from under her tank top is smirking at me. It occurs to me that maybe June’s playing the torture game again.

She wins. Easily.

I wanted to be here when she wakes up, but now, I don’t trust myself. I’m sleep deprived, funnier than I’ve ever been before, and her skin is like a furnace. I would try to slip out of bed quietly so I don’t disturb her, but by now, I’ve learned that June sleeps like a coma patient and I can slide my arm out from under her and toss the covers off without her so much as twitching.

Once I’m in the kitchen and done making coffee, I check the notifications on my phone, and one in particular stands out.

Noah Prescott: Going to the restaurant this morning. Come by and see it. I guarantee you any hesitations you have will go out the window.

Noah knows I’m in Chicago, because I very stupidly responded to one of his emails last night, saying that I was back in town and would meet with him sometime before Friday. I don’t want to go see the restaurant site, though. What I want to do is turn down the job offer and spend the rest of the morning packing my stuff out of this sterile apartment and move it all to Charleston. Being in here after spending the week at June’s house is a massive disappointment. Crushing. A physical manifestation of the gaping, echoey hole in my life the past ten years.

I never knew to compare my couch to a giant yellow marshmallow, but now I’m about to pour kerosene all over this leather brick and let the flames dance in my eyes as I watch it burn. The vaulted ceilings are oppressive. They take the clinking sounds of my spoon tapping against my mug and reflect them back in subtle mockery. Emptiness surrounds me, and I think it’s funny how