Sleeping with the Enemy (An Enemies to Lovers Collection)

I’m actually quite jealous, too, now that he mentions it. I realize this is Wilder cleaning the house because that was the deal. He cleans the house, cooks a few dinners, cleans the cat litter, and I make an effort to get along with him.

I really don’t see why it’s so important. I was just pulling all that stuff out of my ass because I thought there was no way Wilder would actually do it. Any of it.

“Okay, now listen up. Those boxes are sparkling perfection. Purr-fec-tion. Get it?”

Wilder laughs hard at his own joke, and I know it’s totally pathetic, but it makes me feel all soft and squishy, like freshly whipped potatoes. Not just mashed but whipped.

“I don’t want to come back tomorrow morning and find poo on the floor because that is totally unacceptable and unnecessary. I don’t need a poo offering. I know you’re going to find this hard to believe, but I can get by without. Thank you for the thought, but kindly, no, thank you. Got it?”

The cats are completely silent.

“Oh. Oh, good lord. You’re really getting in there. You’re really going to do that when I’m standing right here? Right in front of me?” Wilder cough-gags.

It’s not hard to figure out that one or maybe more than one of the cats just climbed into the fresh litter and decided to christen or punish it, depending on your perspective. They do that to me all the time. There’s nothing like freshly scooped litter to produce a sudden poop emergency.

I have to put my hand up to my mouth to stifle my laugh this time. I love my cats. They’re so predictable. I love that Wilder is actually in there talking to them because I find it quite amusing. There’s nothing in my own rule book that says I can’t find him amusing, is there?

I guess there isn’t, but I also don’t want to risk him coming out of the room where I have all the cat litters—which is just down the hall from his room—and finding me standing here. Also, not intentionally, but note to self: Dirty cat bombs are a great way to chase unwanted roommates from the house.

Anyhow, I have work to do.

I have an entire cutting table of fabric just waiting to be sewn into wonderful creations and mailed out. I’m already behind, seeing as I’ve been off my game since Wilder moved in. And no, it’s not because I find myself thinking about him. At least, not in a good way. It’s more in an annoying way as I’ve spent more time plotting how to get him out than actually working.

The rest of the time, I’ve spent battling with my sewing machine, which reminds me about the other part of the deal I dropped on Wilder last night—fix my sewing machine. Yeah, right. No one on earth could fix that old beast. I swear, if it gives me trouble today, it’s going straight out the window.

Or maybe just to the dumpster.

I guess it depends on how pissed off I get before we get to that point.

I walk quietly down the hall, past the kitchen, and up the stairs. My crafting room door is shut to keep the cats out, so I slowly push it open without a sound.

I’m ready to let loose on my machine with a lecture just like the one Wilder gave to the cats, but I stop short.

There, on my sewing desk, is an imposter.

That’s. Not. My. Machine.

No, there’s no old brown beast there. In its place is a beautiful, sparkly, pearly, white machine. Pristine. It’s pris—freaking—stine. I’m so stunned that I’m practically cemented to the floor for a few minutes before I catch my breath and run over. It’s so crazy to find this new machine in place of the old one that I literally dig the nail of my index finger into my inner arm just to make sure I feel the twinge. Nope, this isn’t some really good dream that’s going to end with me waking up super disappointed over how the machine of my dreams isn’t, in fact, in my crafting room.

It’s really here.

This isn’t just any machine. This is a ridiculously high-end machine that costs upwards of three grand. I know because I’ve been eying this line. They do make budget models too, and I had one of those in mind, but even that was still going to be unattainable for a very long time.

“What the actual chicken leg?” I breathe as I stare at the machine. “No. He couldn’t have. He really couldn’t have…”

Wilder didn’t just scoop the cat litter. While I was spending the morning with Pappy S, Wilder also replaced my sewing machine. How the heck could he afford this? Why? Why would he do this? This isn’t normal. No one should want to be friends with me that bad. How does he even have the money for this? Something about this makes no sense at all.