Sleeping with the Enemy (An Enemies to Lovers Collection)

So, let me put it this way. You can’t buy something, for all the money in the world, if someone doesn’t want to sell it.

Let me also put it another way—Silas Graham, age ninety-two. He is also a bit of a collector, but it’s not just toys or cars that are his passion. He collects a bit of everything, and I think it’s linked to childhood because he collects the things he had and those he loved as a kid. It’s just a guess, though. Maybe he just likes the things he likes because he likes them. Yup, now I’m acting all science-y and psychology-ish over here.

Silas Graham has “the one” car. That. One. Car. The car I’ve been searching all over for years and years—fifteen, give or take, but who’s counting?—that I’d love to acquire. And when I say love, I mean LOVE. You know, one that I cherish and devote my life to. My life would be complete, and my collection would be near perfection.

I know Silas Graham has that said car because he loaned his collection of antique toys to a museum for a special display they were doing a few years ago down in San Diego. As it appears, I didn’t just hear about it as I received an invitation. There are a ton of people out there who know I collect and like these things, which is also how I found a lot of them. People, sellers, and other collectors sometimes contact me, and I’m on a bunch of different sites and groups too. I know it’s kind of nerdy, but it’s a great way to find the things I want.

So, Silas Graham is the owner of one shiny, delightful, four-inch-long package that I’ve been dying to get my hands on for over a decade. He has one particular toy I could only dream of finding because there are only two known left in the entire world. I can’t even put a figure on the car, though believe me, I’ve tried since I got the mysterious reply back to my letter.

It’s a letter that brought me almost all the way across the country, straight to Silas Graham’s door. It’s a very nice door to a very nice house. The lawn is green and manicured, and flower beds border the small porch in front of the house. It’s a smaller house, though it’s still somewhat bigger than most of the wartime bungalows in the neighborhood. Painted a powder blue with white trim, including a white porch railing and white shutters, it’s a picture-perfect and cottage-y style home.

And in that home, somewhere, or locked away in some bank vault to keep it safe, is the toy car I’d like to purchase.

As soon as I step out of the rental sedan, which smells slightly like leather and old cheese, a thoroughly noxious combination, my heart starts beating faster, all the way up into my throat. It feels like I have really bad heartburn as it’s racing so hard. My pulse thrums at my wrists, and I feel like my veins are trying to tear out of my skin. I glance down at my hand just to make sure my veins don’t look like I’ve just run a triathlon. I’ve never done one, but I’ve seen people on TV finish, and their veins are scary. Thankfully, nope. My veins look normal.

I glance back at the house just in time to see a shiver of movement behind the window. Then the white front door opens, and a tiny, stooped, little old man is standing there with a huge toothless grin in welcome. Silas Graham is adorable. He’s one of those people who actually looks young again because he’s so old. Never mind the age spots on his bald head, his gnarled hands, or the gums that stick out when he grins. His eyes are so big and bright that they take up half of his face, and he has a look that instantly puts me at ease, though I’m not sure kindness will get me what I want.

I inch forward and raise my hand in greeting.

“Hello there!” Silas calls out from the porch. “Are you coming up or what?”

Silas is sharp. His letter, with his wavery handwriting, indicated that he might be ancient, but he hadn’t lost any of his faculties.

“Yes! I’m coming.” The house doesn’t have a white picket fence, even though it looks like it should, so I just walk up the sidewalk, straight to the porch.

When I approach, Silas holds out a gnarled hand. It’s spotted with age, and the skin has that thin, crepe paper appearance. It's so tightly stretched that it's nearly translucent. I shake it gently, careful about my grip and the pressure since I don’t want to crush his bones, which feel like dainty feathers in my massive palm. To my surprise, Silas responds with more pressure than I thought he was capable of. He’s probably one of those people who have been in pain for so long that they barely notice it anymore. He seems like a tough old bugger, and I know he’s going to drive one hell of a deal.