Dear Enemy

North doesn’t look like he believes that shit for a second. I don’t blame him; it’s a weak argument, but the deeper truth is one I can barely say to myself: I can’t let her go.

Something is waking up in me or settling back into place. I don’t know which, but everything in me wants to hold on to the sensation and soak it up.

“It’s complicated,” I mutter. “Delilah and I never got along. Her mama used to say we fought like rats over a scrap. But I respect Delilah. Always have.”

“You know,” North starts in, “it’s kind of funny—”

“And there goes my hope that you’d drop this.”

“All I was going to say is that if you’d introduced Sam and Delilah to me at the same time, I’d have thought Delilah was your ex, not Sam.”

I shift in my chair, trying to get comfortable. “Sam is much more my type.”

The women I hook up with are happy to take attention away from me and keep the spotlight on themselves. Hell, my “type” started with Sam. But the truth is, I haven’t been attracted to her in a long time. And even then, it’d been a mild interest at best.

It is an astonishing thing to realize that I have never been so hot for a woman that I lose my head, forget myself in her. Sex has never meant much to me. An itch scratched, but not something essential. Men aren’t supposed to admit that their sex life is lackluster and has always been that way. It feels like a failure.

North studies me now, his eyes seeing far too much. “You never eyed Sam like she was . . .” He trails off with a shrug.

“Like she was what?”

“Butter.”

I snort, but it has no conviction.

“Delilah, on the other hand—”

There’s a knock on the door. Speak the devil’s name, and she will find you.

“Yeah,” I call out, eager for a reprieve.

Delilah sticks her head in, her hair glowing in the light of the projector. “Hey. Y’all busy? Because I have cookies.”

“Cookies,” I repeat. Lord, this woman tempts me.

Her smile is wide and impish, making her cheeks plump like a chipmunk’s. “Don’t worry; they’re healthy.”

North and I exchange a look.

“Well,” she says, carrying in a plate, “as healthy as cookies can be.”

“Which means they suck,” I mutter, disgruntled as hell over my restrictive diet.

Her eyes flash. Extraordinary eyes, the color so light brown it’s startling. I’ve never been able to meet her gaze without feeling it deep in my gut. I wonder if she feels that weird hot zing that zips through the air whenever we’re together.

If she does, she’s not showing it. Instead she smiles brightly at North. “I guess that means these are for you.”

“Hey!” I protest, reaching for the plate.

Since I’m slowed down by my broken body, she easily evades me. “No, no, I insist. I wouldn’t want to serve you sucky food, Mr. Bossy Butt.”

Bossy butt?

North is grinning as he eats a cookie. “It’s good. What is this?”

Delilah beams. “Flourless dark chocolate with peanut butter chips. It’s high in protein.”

“I could eat an entire platter of them,” he says.

Delilah practically purrs. “You can have all the cookies you want.”

Fucking hell. One instance of jealous stupidity, and I’m paying for it.

“All right, brat,” I cut in, reaching again. “Give me a cookie.”

“Brat?” She sets a hand on her wide hips. “Is that supposed to convince me to give you one?”

“Are you or are you not my cook?”

Her eyes narrow, but I keep mine on the plate. She might dump those cookies on my head, and I’ll have to be quick. “That’s twice you’ve played your little lord-of-the-manor card.”

I grin, having fun. “What was the promise? Oh, right. The third time I do so, you make a jerk-off gesture.”

Delilah sets a hip against the back of North’s chair as she faces me. I don’t like the proximity of her butt to his head. At all. But she’s smirking at me with those pouty lips. “Let me save you the trouble.”

With her free hand, she makes a loose fist and pumps it. The gesture is expected, but not the bolt of heat that punches through my gut and goes straight to my cock.

Fuck. I can practically feel her hand on my swollen flesh, the tug she’d give me. Biting back an internal groan, I give her a lazy smile. “Looks like you’ve had some practice with that, Tot.”

Practice some more. I’m here all week, willing victim.

She doesn’t blink. “I’m multitalented, Con Man.”

“I just bet you are.” My dick is rapidly rising, getting heavy in my pants. Hell. Calm yourself, Saint. The request is easier said than done. She’s locked eyes with me, unwilling to back down. And she has no idea what she’s stirring up. It isn’t anger I’m feeling.

I’m in so much trouble. It would help if you stopped flirting with her, dickhead.