The Office Rival: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romance

No such luck, of course. I pull my hair forward to remain inconspicuous and strategically cover my eyes. The bartender is looking at me like I’m some crazed weirdo, so I slip him a twenty and order another drink. He appears again moments later with some hard liquor, and I down it in one go, much to his amusement.

The room is spinning, flashing colors and lights blurring as they speed past me. Everyone at the bar looks distorted which only adds to the hilarity, and so I find myself laughing at absolutely nothing. I am definitely not in the mood for another confrontation, but given that minutes have passed, I assume he has the sense to stay away from me. An unfamiliar cold hand is placed on my shoulder, and I jump and turn to be met by Haden.

Oh fuck. Here we go. No good can come of this.

Looking supremely pissed off, his lip is swollen from the smack in the face, and there is a slight cut on his cheek from the costume ring I was wearing at the time. Behind his glasses, his eyes have narrowed, and beneath his lips I see a puff of air followed by a grunt. He looks different from his usual self, and I figure it’s because he’s wearing tight black jeans and a denim, collared shirt rather than his corporate attire.

Gee, he smells nice, and look at the way his forearms flex when he is angry.

My shoulders begin to move up and down, and I start to laugh again, unable to control myself.

“You think this is funny?”

I don’t, but it is. God knows my sense of humor was swept away with my will to live the past couple of days. Is it so wrong that I am getting off on his pure hatred for me right now? The way his brows furrow and the death stare that follows makes it all the funnier.

“You got punched in the face by a girl.” I chuckle. “It’s kinda funny.”

The bartender overhears me, and with a grin, he pours me another drink.

What a swell fella.

I give him my best wink.

“Shouldn’t you stop drinking now?” Haden growls, holding back the glass from my lips.

“What are you, my dad? I’m thirty fucking two. I can do whatever the hell I want. Presley Malone is wearing her big-girl panties,” I slur, followed by more laughter.

I could swear, even in my intoxicated state, that he is smirking, and his eyes have wandered down my body. Maybe I need to stop drinking. My imagination is off with the fairies. It was only minutes ago you thought he was mysteriously handsome.

“Jesus, would you stop? You’ll end up taking some idiot home at the rate you’re going.”

“Wait a minute. Weren’t you the one who told me that I needed to pull the stick out of my ass and replace it with something else?”

He remains silent, and I laugh in his face, ending our argument. Grabbing his arm, I hop off the stool and push him aside to head to the dance floor. Sober, there would be no chance in hell I would dance by myself, but what won’t kill me will make me stronger. That, and I want to escape him.

The dance floor is stifling hot, and bodies are squished together forcing me to bump butts with a cougar beside me. She has to be at least fifty, dressed in the tightest leather pants I have ever seen, trying to tongue-wrestle a guy young enough to be her son. God help me, I don’t want to be single at fifty. What if I have to wear tight leather pants. This image is depressing, and all of a sudden, my self-esteem has sailed away until Mr. Smokin’ Hot is dancing in front of me. I am pulled out of my mini-funk so fast, my confidence returning. Just for a split second, the idea of having this gorgeous man inside me is sending signals to all the right places.

I move in a little closer, and he leans in to whisper. “You’re gorgeous. What’s your name?”

“Presley,” I respond in my seductive, yet intoxicated voice.

The heat is radiating off his body, and the closer I move in, the more excited I feel. He wraps his arms around my waist, and just before our bodies connect, I am pulled into a different direction, and the distance between us grows. Moments later, I am in the alleyway, and Haden i

s standing in front of me, eyes wide and nostrils flaring.

“What the hell just happened?”

“I don’t get you,” he yells.

“What?” I am still looking at the door, confused and trying to understand what the hell just happened.

“You act all Miss Perfect, and then you’re on the dance floor like a tramp.”

“What did you just call me?”

He almost looks apologetic, but verbal diarrhea is hard to control, I should know. The bubbles of anger are simmering at the surface, and I clench my fists, controlling my behavior as much as I possibly can. I’m not going to rule out the idea of smacking that pretty face of his again.

“God, you think it’s okay to punch people in the face?”