Enemy Dearest

My mind spins, dizzy with thoughts. Or maybe it’s the rum and Coke. Adriana moves to Isaac’s chair, completely engrossed in whatever he’s prattling on about. I mind my own business because he reminds me of the kind of guy who’s charming when he needs to be. Perfect hair. Laser-focused attention. Witty and charismatic. Too good to be true. But I won’t rain on Adri’s parade. She came here to have a good time. Who am I to stop her?

That said, I’m officially the third wheel.

Not that I mind, but it feels wrong to sit here and twiddle my thumbs while the two of them look at each other with stars in their eyes and perma-smiles on their faces.

“Adri, you want another?” I rise and shake my empty cup.

She gives me a nod while listening intently to her frat boy, and I make a beeline for the bar. When I arrive, I’m third in line behind a girl ordering four mixed drinks for her and her besties and a guy who appears to be text-fighting with someone. A quick glance over my shoulder assures me Adriana’s still doing fine without my babysitting services.

“Next,” the bartender calls when it’s my turn. I order two more rum and Cokes before spotting an overflowing tip jar on the ledge. Shit. Digging in my bag, I fish out two perfect singles and pray they’re enough. He doesn’t seem to pay attention one way or another. Too busy stepping to the beat as he pours and mixes. And when he’s finished, he places our drinks on the counter and waves the next person up.

Drinks in hand, I turn to head back to Adriana—only to walk straight into some guy in a gray t-shirt and torn jeans.

The drinks spill down both of us—ice and all—before settling in a pool at our feet.

“Oh, lord. I’m so sorry.” I clap my hand over my mouth, eyes flicking to his.

And then my stomach drops.

August.

He stands frozen. People around us begin to take notice, pointing, nudging. I’m sure he’s used to being the center of attention, but not like this.

“I didn’t see you,” I say. To my left, someone trots toward the cabinet by the cabana to retrieve towels. The same towels August handed me last weekend when I emerged from his pool with nothing but my birthday suit on.

The kind attendee returns with two towels, but it only takes a second for me to ascertain that no amount of dabbing is going to salvage my dress or the giant cola stain running down the front.

Several yards away, Adriana and Isaac are in a world of their own. Still enraptured. We haven’t even been here a half hour and she’s just met a cute guy, there’s no way I’d make her leave now.

“Come with me,” August says, nodding toward the house.

“What?”

“Come with me,” he repeats, though it wasn’t that I didn’t hear him the first time. I’m just confused.

Before I can protest, he’s stalking toward the back patio in his wet t-shirt, crumpled towel in hand. I canter after him.

“You’re really a man of few words, aren’t you?” I try to joke with him.

He slides a door open and disappears into the darkness of the house, swallowed into a void. I step in after him. The scent of leather and cedarwood and time fills my lungs. This house is over a hundred and fifty years old. At least that’s what the plaque said by the front gate.

Built in 1869.

It’s been in the Monreaux family since the day someone dug a shovel into its earthy grounds. My house doesn’t have much of a history. It was a tract home built by some fly-by-night builder in the seventies who was trying to cram as many entry-level houses onto one plot of land as he could—hence why I can hear with perfect clarity my neighbors fighting after dinner every night.

He leads me down a dark hallway, to a set of stairs so polished they shine in the dark, and once we reach the top landing, we take a left down another hall lit with hardwired sconces with flickering lights.

“I feel like I’m in a movie or something,” I say, a slight nervous chuckle in my tone. I don’t add that said movie would be a thriller. Something with ghosts and a haunted house. I don’t want to offend him more than I already have.

Within seconds, we arrive at what I can only assume is his bedroom. Or at least it’s a bedroom. There have got to be at least a dozen of them in this house, given its enormity.

August closes the door behind us before flicking on a lamp on a desk. The shades on his windows are pulled open and the moonlight and party from outside illuminates the surroundings. A bed. Two nightstands. A chest of drawers. I’ve yet to spot anything personal. Not a trophy or ribbon. Not a framed photograph or memento.