Sleeping with the Enemy (An Enemies to Lovers Collection)

I feel myself stiffening. I’ve been waiting for a time to try and explain everything to Esme, all the things, which I like to call semantics, that I left out about my agreement with Silas. I’m half afraid she’s going to react with the good old tea bagging I was so worried about, but now I’m also worried she’s going to run. I’m fully aware that Esme is a bit of a flight risk emotionally because she doesn’t want to get lied to or burned again.

I didn’t mean to jump into bed with her, though I have zero complaints about what we do there. We fit together like we were made for each other, and I’m starting to be afraid that I’m one of those guys I always kind of despised a little. One of those who fall so hard and fast that there is zero hope for redemption. Everyone always said you’d know when you met the one, but that also sounds like nonsense if you’re a realist. I didn’t believe in one person for another person because I believed a person could get along with a lot of people. I still believe all that, and I think a person can get along with tons of people, maybe even date different people, and it can go well, but I didn’t know what true feelings were until I met Esme.

I really didn’t mean for us to dive into physical relationships. I wanted to be friends, and I wanted to earn her trust. As I said, I have zero complaints about how well we fit together, but I feel like we barely even know each other, or at least, it feels like I need to get her to open up. Sadly, I just don’t know how to do that, though I truly wish I did.

Telling her the whole truth would be a good start, the voice in my head says.

“What did you want to ask?” I hate that it comes out sounding strained.

“Oh. Just, you know…” Esme drops her gaze. “The normal stuff people ask each other when they meet and are thinking about getting to know each other better—stuff about family, likes, dislikes, and such. I don’t want it to sound so cheesy, though. How many siblings do you have, what are your parents like, what do they do, and what’s your favorite fruit and color are pretty corny.”

“Unless corn’s my favorite vegetable. Then it’s just apt.”

Esme studies me for a second, realizes I’m making the worst of all bad jokes, and bursts out laughing. “Yes, I guess that would be apt. Is it, though?”

“No. I like carrots better, but only if they’re uncooked. Cucumbers are good too. I’m not one of those guys who’s viciously and utterly opposed to salad, even if it has no meat on it.”

“I never understood that. What’s wrong with a little lettuce here and there? There are some salads that are absolutely amazing. And there are also lots that have meat, but some people still won’t eat them just because the meat touched the lettuce or other green things, which is weird.”

“Well, that’s not me. I like salad.” I wonder if this is Esme opening up and if it means she’s beginning to let her guard down just a little, at least beyond physically. I pretty much squirm in my seat because I really want to tell her all about the car. I know it wouldn’t make a difference at this point, but I’m not sure why I just can’t do it. “Also, I have two sisters, and they’re both younger. They gave me hell growing up. I tried to look out for them, but they’re smarter and tougher than me.”

Esme laughs again, and I realized I’d say just about anything to be able to hear the wonderful sound.

“My parents run a family business which my grandpa actually started. And we uh…we do stuff with toys.”

Esme frowns, but I can tell it’s because she’s concentrating. “Toys? Like what kind of stuff?”

“We actually…”

This is it. This is the line where things change, where people change. I’ve had it happen in the past, where people became weird when they found out I had money. Like women I wanted to date, friends, and people I didn’t know well. It was as if there was a line with a before and after difference that I would have to be a dead duck not to notice. Well, I’m not a dead duck, and I hope to never be a dead duck. I feel sorry for all dead ducks, both human or, well, actual ducks.

I want to tell Esme the truth, but now I’m the one who’s scared. I have been burned a couple of times too, and not just by the women I dated. It really could be anyone. I hate watching that change, and I hate how things get awkward. It’s honestly just better for people to assume I’m a weird grown-up dude who tinkers with toys and still lives in his mom’s basement, a very unsexy basement—the kind that smells musty.