Sleeping with the Enemy (An Enemies to Lovers Collection)

“Okay,” I say seriously to the five of them. “If you manage to keep all that beautiful, luxurious hair to yourself, I’ll give you some ham. Deal?”

I get a bunch of blank stares. They’re like a gang—a cat gang—one that’s ready to roll me for the ham on the counter. I have no bribes with me; no extra ham. There’s also no tuna in the fridge or salmon or anything else I can use to pay them off. I can tell there’s absolutely zero chance of them leaving.

I turn around, and the little one-eyed pirate cat licks his lips with his huge, long, dexterous pink tongue. Then, his one eye narrows, and my eyes narrow in response. As the cats wait, their tails twitch while their bodies remain perfectly, statue-like still.

“Aren’t you guys just a bunch of ‘hairrifick,’ epic hair, hairy, ‘hairynesses?’”

Maybe I should invent a cat hair net. I bet it would sell. If there was a way to keep cat hair off furniture and clothes, I bet people would take it and take it by the millions. I file that idea away in my brain under the category of possibilities of great inventions before getting back to cutting ham. I’m distinctly aware of all ten eyes on my back. Err, well, uh…I guess it would technically be nine. No disrespect intended. With a shake of my head, I keep on cutting.

“How many cat hairs could a cat shed if a cat could shed cat hairs?” Now I know I’ve officially gone insane.

The answer? I don’t need a definite answer because I know one is one too many, and this challenge matters to me. I can’t screw it up. It’s a battle of me versus the hairs, and it’s a battle I have to win.

CHAPTER 9

Esme

There’s no way Wilder is going to be able to pull off making anything in this house without there being some sort of hair or other in it. While he’s downstairs making whatever he’s making—and dang, it does smell good from up here—I give up on my chicken leg of a sewing machine. Instead, I feed my two turtles, check on Hector to make sure he’s still in his enclosure, and check my fish tank too. Everything is good up here, and I imagine Wilder is getting pestered by a bunch of hungry cats and a begging dog down in the kitchen. I suppose he’s okay with animals if he’s staying here, but I’m not leaving it up to chance. I don’t want him feeding them anything, especially Connie. It will throw off her stomach, and then I’ll have messes to clean up.

“Right on time,” Wilder says as I stroll as casually as possible into the kitchen. Turning back, he slides a delicious, perfectly fluffy, restaurant-worthy omelet onto a plate. “Order up,” he jokes, then goes back to making another one.

I have to walk by him to take the plate, but I take as wide a berth as possible, and I also grab the hot sauce out of the fridge as an insult to his perfect-looking cooking. Because maybe, it won’t taste perfect. It could be as awful as the ones I always make for myself, which means I’ll need the hot sauce to drown it out.

I sit down at the table, which is actually in the dining room just off the kitchen. The house is old, and it isn’t an open floor plan. I sit down in front of the steaming omelet. Darn it, it smells good, and my mouth is watering profusely.

I take my fork and chop the omelet into small bits, searching for hair. I have to find a hair. Come on, come on. I keep picking away with my fork, getting more and more frantic. I don’t think I’ve ever made something in this house, ever, without there being cat or dog hair in it. Maybe even a spider hair. Frick, if my turtles and fish had hair, I’d probably find something from them too.

I look and look again. Then, I look harder and chop more. Chop finer.

Well, fiddle my diddle, there’s no mother freaking hairs in this omelet.

I did say if I didn’t find any hair in it, but I wasn’t specific about what kind of hair, so I reach up to my scalp and pinch a strand of hair. With a quick and sharp pull, I drop it into the omelet, but it looks way too long and obviously planted there. Shooting a quick glance over my shoulder, I snatch it up and break it off. Wilder has dark hair too, and so do a few of the cats. It could easily have come from them once I break it up and make it tiny.

“Ah-hah!” I call. “There’s a hair in here! I found one!”

Wilder’s steps come fast from the kitchen. “No! That’s not…that’s not possible.” He looks at my plate and studies me. I manage to keep a straight face, but just barely.