Sleeping with the Enemy (An Enemies to Lovers Collection)

No one.

No one but Wilder.

It doesn’t matter how nice Wilder is. It doesn’t even matter that I do freaking notice he’s chisel-y, muscly, and super toned, even though I don’t want to notice. It doesn’t matter that Wilder is delicious. He’s not delicious like a salad or a good fruit. Rather, he’s delicious like cake or ice cream or pie or chocolate, and all those things are bad for you. Even if he was a yummy pineapple or a delicious Greek salad with extra feta and black olives, he’s still leaving. He’s only here temporarily, and I’m tired of being the one who gets moved on from.

So, I need to batten down the hatches on the temporary insanity going on in my vagina, ovaries, and chest. Oh yeah, maybe in my nipples, too, because they’re practically cutting my bra to shreds.

Sewing machines are sexy, okay? Scooping cat litter might be too. And Wilder just baseline is. He doesn’t even have to try. Also, he cooked me that freaking omelet. Plus, I think I know where Connie was when I came home. She was probably in the room with Wilder because she actually likes him, and she doesn’t usually like anyone coming into the house. Outside, she’s fine, but inside, it’s her territory. I think the cats even like him. Freak, even my spider likes him. I bet my turtles would walk straight to his room if I gave them a chance, and the fish would probably blub, blub, blub their way down the stairs and go live in his sock drawer. If they could survive in the sock drawer by some work of magic, that is.

This house is full of traitors.

Even my body is traitorous, which sucks because I have to live in it.

“I can bring it back…” Wilder says again.

“No.” I brush at my eyes. “No. We’ll just discuss a repayment plan that’s feasible for my budget. I really do like it. I have…well, I have really no idea how to thank you for it.”

“It’s a gift.”

“Bribery?”

“No, not bribery. It’s just a gift.”

“But you don’t owe me anything.”

“I know. It’s a gift. No strings. No expectations. Oh, and I’m planning on making steak and potatoes for dinner, so if you’re against meat, you better speak up before it gets cooked in your presence.”

I want to tell him that I’m a vegetarian just to spite him for being so nice. For my sanity, I have to figure out why he’s doing this. I have to know because I hate mysteries. I seriously do. It can’t just be he wants me to be nice to him that badly. Or that he wants me to talk to him. He’s trying to buy me or pay me off or something, and it doesn’t add up. Unless he has something going on with Pappy S, but Pappy S dang well won’t tell me anything. No one is that nice, so he can’t be. This is totally suspicious.

I just wish Wilder was less talented, thoughtful, attractive, and man-beautiful. Oh, those last two are the same thing? Whatever. So sue me. It would make it easier for me to remain suspicious of him if he was less of all those things.

I just can’t help myself. I don’t know why I do it. Maybe it’s my massive distrust of all men, or I’m taking things out on him that I shouldn’t be, or I have a right to be suspicious, but I blurt out a reply before I can take it back.

“Actually, I invited a couple of friends over for dinner. I hope you bought enough steaks.”

Good gull, dang it, Wilder just winks at me. It’s like he saw it coming. How could he see it coming? When did he have time to buy steaks, between trying to get my machine fixed and buying me this ladyboner-inducing new one? If you don’t know what I’m talking about, then you haven’t become overly excited about anything before. Let me tell you, this sewing machine rivals Wilder in the sexual aura department because it’s easily the sexiest machine I’ve ever seen.

Just so you know, this machine is like the god of all sewing machines, and I’m pretty sure it can sew the cloth itself while I sit there and watch and drool.

“Sure. That’s fine. I bought a club pack, actually, and the bigger bags of potatoes were a better deal.”

He walks out of the room all casually after that like he didn’t change my entire world and knock me straight on my behind. Now I have to get my act together and see if Vera and Monique are free this evening. And who the bleepity bleep bleep worries about which bag of potatoes is cheaper when they buy someone a freaking three thousand dollar sewing machine?

Yeah, this is not right. It’s not right at all. Something fishy is going on, and I’m not talking about my cat’s breath either.