Dear Enemy

“Then hurry up and explain.”

“Going out on a date brings speculation away from the accident and focuses it on your love life.”

“Seeing as I don’t want anyone focusing on my love life, that’s hardly an inducement.”

Timothy sucks the inside of his cheek as if he’s trying to hold back a retort. “Anya Sorenson. Do you know her?”

The question catches me off guard. “Yeah, sure. She’s doing great work on Gauntlet.”

“Yes. But she’s new. She needs some good press.”

“And you think being seen on a date with me will give her that.” I snort. “Come on. Really?”

“Yes, really.” He smacks my forearm. “Stop being obtuse. You’re hot right now. Could be hotter. But you’re still one of entertainment’s most desirable single actors.”

I roll my eyes.

“So if you go out with Anya, it will both help her with a PR boost and get people talking about you in a new, upbeat way. Come on; she’s great and a huge fan of yours. Her publicist says they’d really appreciate the help.”

I hate that he makes sense. And that he’s set me up to feel guilty if I turn Anya down. There’s only one problem. “Man . . .” I rub my tired eyes. “I don’t think I’m up for dating.”

“I get it. But it isn’t dating. It’s a date. Basically an acting job, if you think about it. You’ve done it plenty of times.”

I have. Numerous fake dates set up by my publicist. All to create an image I’m not sure I like anymore. It would be a lie to say I didn’t enjoy some of the dates. Truth is, I enjoyed the fringe benefits of them a bit too much. Oftentimes, they started as an arrangement, but both of us had been more than willing to end the night with casual sex. A nice release from all the pressure with someone who knew exactly how the system worked.

I have to force myself not to look toward the kitchen doorway that leads to the hall and, beyond that, Delilah’s room. Going on a date with Anya shouldn’t feel like a betrayal. I’m not cheating. Delilah and I have only just called a truce. Hell, she’s my employee. The fact that I can’t stop thinking about her doesn’t matter. Nothing can come of this . . . whatever it is, anyway. So why not go out, get on with my life? Get her out of my head.

“All right. I’ll do it.”

“Great,” Timothy all but squeals. Thankfully, he keeps it to a minimum before picking up his phone. “How about tonight?”

I choke out a laugh, the pressure of an unwanted emotion sitting heavy on my chest. “Don’t waste time, do you?”

“What’s the point in that?” He shrugs, busy texting Anya’s rep, if I had to guess. “It’s not like you can get time back. When it’s gone, it’s gone.”

Delilah

“Delilah.” The voice drifts through layers of warm sleep, peeling them back and tugging at my elbow. “Delilah . . .”

Frowning, I burrow down farther into my bed and ignore it. I know that voice, and I don’t want to listen to it. Sleep is my friend. My happy place. A blunt-tipped finger grazes my neck. The touch skitters over my skin and down my spine. With a strangled cry I flail around, my arms caught in the covers.

A masculine chuckle has my eyes popping open. Macon sits on the edge of my bed, grinning down at me with evil satisfaction.

“You ass chapeau,” I hiss. “You know how ticklish I am.”

Thus far, he’s never used this particular ammo on me, though I dreaded it in my younger years.

“Ass chapeau is a new one.” He glances at my neck as if contemplating another go at it.

I narrow my eyes and haul the covers up. God, he smells good. I want to curl over and inhale him. No, down girl. Bad, bad, bad Delilah. “Why are you in my room?”

He’s sitting too close. Close enough that I feel his body heat. Now I know from experience that he’ll feel warm and strong. A perfect perch to rest on. I pull my blanket up higher in defense.

“You wouldn’t answer your texts.” Macon holds up my phone as evidence. “You have this on silence.”

“Yes, I do that when I don’t want to hear my phone,” I deadpan. “Hooray for technology.”

He cuts me a sidelong glance and flicks the phone off silent mode. A barrage of questions comes at me in an authoritative clip. “Why are you still in bed? Did you know it’s eleven thirty? What’s wrong?” He crosses his big arms over his chest and waits for an answer with impatience.

Something about Macon tugs at my core. I am aware of him on a level that I’m not with anyone else. Is it because of our past? Or is it just base attraction? Likely both. I know he wants to be friends. Friends who flirt. I know this, but I can’t yet trust it.