Sleeping with the Enemy (An Enemies to Lovers Collection)

There’s quiet, then whir, whir, whir, clunk.

“Jesus Murphy! Fresh chicken legs! Bacoooooooooooooon bittttttttts!” Smack. Smack. Clank.

Whir, whir, whir, whir….

“Gerddarn it anyway! Why? Why do you have to act like this? Are you freaking kidding me? We’ve had a talk about this already—you and me, about you behaving and me not beating you senseless. You could just work, you know. Just for freaking once. I know you’re old, but that’s no excuse. The old machines are supposed to work better. Didn’t you get that memo? Muck on a duck anyway!”

Whir, whir, whir…

“Argh!” Stomp. Stomp, stomp, stomp. “I swear, I’m giving you one more chance. One more, and you’re out the window. Straight out. Don’t think I won’t do it. It’s an old window with no screen.”

Whir, whir, whir, clunkkk.

“What the ever living piiiiiiiiiiiickles!” Stomp, stomp, stomp.

By now I’m getting worried that a sewing machine is going to come crashing through the window at any given moment and make a not so graceful landing in the backyard. I leap out of bed, throw on my jeans and t-shirt from yesterday, and run upstairs. I fly over the steps, taking them three at a time.

Esme, surprisingly, has the door to her sewing room open. There’s a big mess in there, but I guess it’s just her daily workspace. She has things cut up all over, fabrics and patterns strewn everywhere, and two machines at two different tables. One looks like a regular sewing machine, while the other looks like a beast with too many confusing threads. There’s a third desk heaped up with different fabrics—folded, wadded up, cut up. And there’s also fabric on the floor—good fabric and cuttings. Essentially, the place looks like a well-used craft room, and it’s huge, with big windows all around, letting in lots of good light. It might be messy, and it might be chaos, but there’s a certain cheerfulness about the room.

Esme is sitting in front of the normal-looking machine, giving it a stink eye to end all stink eyes.

“Um…” I knock on the door.

Esme’s head snaps up. Her eyes are extra green, blazing like rare stones, which I guess is what happens when she gets really mad. They’re super beautiful that way, and my whole body feels like it’s really waking up for the morning if you know what I mean. Okay, I’m talking about my man stick. It’s enjoying this far more than it should, and the spider didn’t shrink my balls to raisins after all because suddenly, they feel big, heavy, and kind of achy. Not. Good. Very. Distracting.

“Don’t even say it,” she practically shouts at me. “Don’t you dare stand there and say it.”

“What? I’m so confused…”

“You’re going to stand there and ask me if I hate sewing so much, why do I do it?”

“Uh, I was just going to ask you not to throw your machine out the window.”

At my words, Esme flushes all the way to her raven hair. “Are you…did you…you could hear that?”

“I could, yes. I came up to see if I could save it from an untimely death down below.”

“It’s just that it…it keeps not working, fucking everything up. I mean farging it up, wrecking expensive fabric, and making me have to start all over again. I don’t know what’s wrong with it. I’ve checked everything a thousand times.”

“Maybe it’s time for a new one?”

“Ugh,” Esme snorts. “You sound just like my parents. There’s a reason I live in my Pappy’s house and use an old machine. Fabric is expensive, even the stuff I upcycle. It takes a lot of my time, and the other materials are expensive too. I would never be able to afford the rent I pay for the house, food, bills, car licensing, gas, all of it, and get another machine. The kind of machine I want costs over two grand, so no. I can’t just get a new one.”

“I had no idea they were that expensive.”

“Yeah, they’re that expensive. Oh, you can buy cheap ones, but they’re just as bad, or they break down right away. I want one that’s going to last, sew well, and have some decent features I can use for a ton of different applications…”

“I see.”

Esme’s eyes narrow. “You probably don’t because you know nothing about sewing, but thanks for listening anyway.” Those emerald greens rake over me, and she flushes slightly. There’s suspicion in her face, and curiosity too. She’s probably wondering if I’ve found the spider yet.

Obviously, she thinks I haven’t because she stops appraising me and looks back down at her work. She holds up a square of fabric that looks like a bath towel on one side and something else on the other. “See? Look at this!”

I can see the bungled-up stitches and a massive knot of thread sticking out of both sides. “I do see.”