Enemies With Benefits (Loveless Brothers 1)

“And it’s well known that sex rarely leads to attachment,” Adeline says.

“Not with Eli,” I say. “We don’t even —"

“— Like each other, yeah, I heard,” she says, one eyebrow raised.

“Exactly,” I say. “Do I need dirt or anything for these flowers?”Chapter Twenty-SevenViolet“The smoked chicken isn’t bad, but obviously, what you want is the pulled pork,” Eli says. “You like spicy?”

“I do.”

“Get the jalapeño hush puppies,” he says, nodding at the menu over the counter. “If you think you can take it, anyway.”

“Of course I can take it,” I say, even though I have no idea if that’s true. “What else is good?”

“The mac and cheese is eh,” he says, tilting one hand side to side. “The cole slaw’s just average, the collards are all right…”

He trails off, reading the menu. There are no printed menus at Ace in the Hole Barbecue, only the big plastic one over the counter that looks like it’s been there since the 1970s. Half the stick-on letters are black, half are red, and there’s a variety of different colors represented. The interior is entirely unfinished plywood, and it seems to be a design choice, not an accident of laziness.

Eli swears that this is the best barbecue in a three-hour radius. He also swears that we won’t run into anyone we know, since we’re forty-five minutes outside of Sprucevale in Grotonsville, which is several towns away.

It’s Thursday night. He’s slept over every night but Sunday.

We both order at the counter: I get the hush puppies, Eli gets baked beans, we both get the pulled pork.

“You folks together?” the cashier asks as he rings me up.

“No,” I say, just as Eli says, “Yes.”

The cashier just looks up at me expectantly.

“We’re paying separately,” I tell him, already handing over a twenty.

“Really?” asks Eli.

“Yes, really.”

“I can’t even take you for barbecue?”

The cashier quietly takes my twenty-dollar bill and makes change. I look at Eli like he’s lost his damn mind.

“Why would you take me for barbecue?”

“Because you had a shitty day and I’m trying to be nice for once?” he says. “Because barbecue was my idea so I figured I’d be paying for it?”

“This isn’t a date,” I say.

Even though I’m about ninety-nine percent sure we’re going to have sex later.

“No one said date,” Eli says.

“The last time someone else offered to pay for my dinner I ended up washing dishes until midnight,” I point out. “Fool me once, et cetera.”

I don’t like this. I don’t want to feel beholden to Eli. I don’t want to feel like I owe him anything, like he’s got some advantage over me that he could hold over my head.

I don’t want to give Eli an edge, ever, for any reason. With sex, everything is even: we both want and we both take until we’re an exhausted heap in my bed. But out here, in the real world where there are manners and clothes, it feels different. It feels like I need to be on my toes.

“How would that even work at a place where you pay up front and then get your food?” he says. “I’m not going to jump out of a window after I pay, I’m going to eat my damn barbecue.”

The cashier clears his throat, holding out my change. I attempt a smile in his direction and take it from his outstretched hand.

“I’m just saying, I haven’t had the greatest experience with men paying for things lately,” I say, taking my number and stepping aside so Eli can pay for his meal.

“Besides,” Eli says, ignoring my last statement and taking out his wallet, “I can’t imagine you being any more of a pain in the ass than you already have been, so I wouldn’t even have a good reason to jump out the window.”

“Wow, I can’t wait to share a meal with you,” I deadpan, and Eli laughs, taking his change and grabbing his number.

“Besides, I’m pretty sure you’ll sleep with me,” he says as we walk away from the counter.

I pretend he didn’t say anything. We sit. The topic changes. We talk food. Eli goads me into predicting how long the couple from last weekend is going to stay married (I say a year, he says nine months).

We talk about whether Montgomery is wearing a toupee. We talk about whether that’s his real accent. Eli tells me his theory that Montgomery is actually a New Yorker who saw Gone With the Wind one too many times and decided to come try it out for himself.

The food comes. We dig in, and for once Eli’s right: this place is great.

“Or maybe,” Eli says, pausing with his barbecue sandwich held in front of his face, “he’s got that accent so he can be shitty to his employees and it still sounds cultured and genteel.”

I dunk a hush puppy into barbecue sauce.