Enemies With Benefits (Loveless Brothers 1)

“It sounds a little like you’re dating,” she says.

I pause, wondering if I should tell her about the maid of honor, because it’s possible that even Adeline will think I’m insane.

“He might have slept with someone else in between,” I say slowly.

That gets her attention.

“What?” she yelps. “Eli’s a slut? Okay, I could see it. He did get hot.”

“Stop saying that,” I grumble.

“All the Loveless guys are hot,” Adeline says, like that makes it better. “Even Levi. And, you know, there’s always at least two girls fighting over Seth —”

“I’m not fighting anyone over Eli,” I say, sitting up straight. “No. Hell no.”

“I wasn’t suggesting that,” she says calmly. “Tell me about the floozy he might have slept with.”

I tell her: the drunk maid of honor, the elevator, her hands all over him, maybe even grabbing his butt, the look he gave me. When I finish, we’re sitting in the parking lot of the bowling alley right next to my car, and Adeline’s shaking her head.

“Yeah, that’s nothing,” she says.

“Don’t tell me that,” I say. “I’ve been making myself crazy.”

“That’s kinda your thing,” she admits. “Not all the time, but you do tend to get in your head with stuff like this. Remember the time you told Ellie Barker that her Shar-Pei puppy was adorable when she showed you a picture of her new grandson, and then you agonized about whether to send an apology card or flowers or something for a week?”

“No,” I say. “I’ve wiped that from my memory, and also, that was a very bad picture and the baby was wrapped in a blanket and really did look like a puppy.”

“Ask him if he banged the maid of honor if you’re so upset,” she says, unlocking my door. “It’s not a weird question if his tongue’s been in your mouth. Twice.”

I sigh. She shoos me.

“Go be an adult!” she says, and I finally get out of her car.* * *I haven’t even gotten to my office yet when there he is, sauntering down the hallway, a cup of coffee in each hand.

Act normal, I tell myself, even though the heat is already starting to creep up my neck.

He reaches my office door before I do, then stands there, coffee in hand, waiting. He’s got that same half-smile on his face as always, his hair still slightly mussed, his chef’s whites not on yet and his undershirt highlighting exactly what I’m missing out on.

“You wanted skim milk and ten packets of Splenda, right?” he says as I walk up to him.

I must make a face, because he just laughs.

“Kidding. Cream, no sugar,” he says, and I take the coffee from his hand, sip it.

It’s exactly right.

“Just the way you like it,” he says, one eyebrow barely raised.

“Yep,” I say, my face heating up more. “No sugar. None at all. Sugar’s really bad for you, you know.”

Eli gives me a long, searching look. He raises his own coffee cup to his mouth and drinks, even that simple motion somehow really hot.

“Well,” he finally says. “If you ever change your mind about needing something sweet, just let me know.”

Then he winks, turns, and leaves. My insides turn into goo. Thank God there’s no one else in this hallway right now, because now I’m staring at Eli’s back as he walks away, kind of looking at his butt and mostly wondering what on earth I’ve gotten myself into, regarding coffee deliveries and offers of sugar at eight o’clock in the morning.

I open my office door, toss my purse into a drawer, and flop into my chair.

My job is about to get interesting.* * *The moment I see the boxes on Friday afternoon, I know I’m in trouble.

First, they were delivered in an old Subaru, and I was expecting at least a pickup truck.

Second, there are only five of them, each labeled ‘100 cranes’ in careful, spidery handwriting.

“Where are the rest?” I ask the robed man.

He just tilted his head and looked at me curiously. Calm radiated from him, every movement absolutely infused with it.

“They’re all here,” he said.

I bend down to look into the Subaru, but aside from a few fleece blankets and one dog leash, it’s empty.

“This is only five hundred,” I say. “Unless they’re mislabeled?”

Please be mislabeled. Please be mislabeled.

I know they’re not. I’ve seen a thousand origami cranes before, and this is not a thousand cranes.

“Yes, the order was for five hundred,” he says, completely unruffled. “We thought it was a strange number, so we double-checked it. One moment.”

He ducks into the passenger seat of the Subaru and comes out with an invoice.

I read it twice, then three times, just to check.

It’s for five hundred cranes.

I feel nauseous.

How the hell did I only order five hundred? Was it a typo? Did I not proofread this?

More importantly, what the hell do I do now?