Faking It with the Frenemy

“I live here.”

“No, you don’t! This is my apartment.”

“But the—”

“No!” I cut him off before he can make any excuses or weird explanations. He’ll probably say something asinine, like how he won this place on a bet, too.

My phone is charging on the small table by the couch. I’m calling the cops and getting this crazy bastard arrested. Getting a wedding date will be the least of his worries. Hopefully he’ll resist, so the cops will have a reason to rough him up. I’m not asking for blood—just some good, solid punches. Maybe a broken jaw.

Gritting my teeth, I come around the kitchen counter fast. The bastard’s eyes widen—ha! Bet he wasn’t expecting that!—and he starts toward me.

Oh, crap! I leap for the phone, in my best grand jeté style, but he catches me with my toes still a few inches above the floor. His arms squeeze so tight that the air gets forced out of my lungs like ketchup from a squirt bottle.

Oh my God. He’s going to crush me until I pop. “Let…me…go,” I wheeze, squirming and kicking, refusing to die like this.

But the muscles I’m straining against feel like bunched piano wire, and I make about as much progress against Wyatt as I would against a piece of heavy construction equipment. This close, he smells like fresh pine soap and laundry detergent, plus a hint of mint toothpaste on his breath. I should’ve taken up karate instead of ballet. Then I could’ve broken his nose and legs by now, and been inhaling the scent of his blood instead.

“Jesus, will you stop?” he says. “You’re about to cut your feet up.” He moves, and there’s a definite crunching noise from the floor.

The wine glass.

Wyatt carries me toward the sofa. “Damn it, Kim. The superintendent gave me the key to this place. I’m moving in today.”

“Annie? Well, she messed up. It’s the unit next door that’s empty,” I say, even as part of my mind says something’s off about this.

Then I remember I’m in nothing but a towel, and he still has his arms around me. Shit. I shove him away hard.

He lets me go and falls back. I clutch the towel like a shield—it’s the only thing between us—and glare at him.

Wyatt’s looking at me like I’m the loon here. That I’m hurting his feelings by treating him like he’s a serial rapist.

“I’m going to ask you again. What the hell are you doing here?” I demand. Now that the shock is wearing off and my brain is working normally, I don’t believe that bullcrap about Annie. She’s always reliable and sharp. She wouldn’t make a mistake like that.

“You’re welcome. No extra charge for saving your feet from being cut to ribbons or anything.”

“Yeah, well, there wouldn’t be any broken glass in the first place if it weren’t for your home invasion!”

Muttering, he takes the broom I left propped up against the kitchen pantry door and starts sweeping the floor. The gesture is unexpectedly nice, but I don’t let myself weaken. He’s Jekyll and Hyde. You think he’s nice and let your guard down…and then bam, he slashes at you with a knife!

Well, figuratively, at least.

Since I’m resolved to remain strong, I cross my arms and ignore the way his forearms flex as he sweeps up. Unlike most guys, he isn’t doing it wrong, either.

Super irritating.

So I say, “I wish this were Texas. Then I could’ve shot you.”

“For getting the wrong key?”

“Oh, horseshit. What are really you doing here?” I demand for the third time, hoping he’ll just confess that he’s turned to a life of crime. Billionaires can be villains too. Just look at Lex Luthor. Comic books don’t lie.

“I told you. I live here.”

“No, you do not. This is my apartment.”

He stops and looks at me, his head cocked to the side. Is he going to grab me and shove me face-first into the pile of broken glass he’s gathered, so he can finish the job his ex-wife started back in high school? The scar on my jaw seems to throb at the memory.

“No, I mean this building.” He gestures at our general surroundings when I don’t move. One scar is plenty. “Anyway, don’t sue the super. She was actually crying when I talked to her.”