Sleeping with the Enemy (An Enemies to Lovers Collection)

Everything looks just like I feared. Messy even in the attempted order, unkempt because it’s the only way a bunch of animals living on a plot of land can be, old and falling apart except for the new looking barn, and lastly, everything is covered in peeling paint, though I suppose the barn can’t be included in that either.

I shudder, imagining what the inside of the house must look like. I think, judging from the newness of the barn, that it would be preferable to stay there. The place is totally token, and I’ve traveled a lot, although never out to the country to live on a freaking farm. I have seen farms, though. You know, in horror movies and on calendars in antique stores and such. This one looks like all the rest, minus the new barn. The barn can be left out of the farm bashing for the moment.

I have no idea what to expect of the person called Miss Wilkinson. All the lawyer would tell me was that Miss Wilkinson was informed to expect me within the next two weeks and had already been compensated for my stay. That’s all: just the rules, a brief description of my host, and an address. But trust me, it was more than enough. She could have just stopped at the disastrous will because it would have been enough for a lifetime.

My life is so fucked up that it’s hard to even believe it’s real.

As soon as I park the car, I realize I’m about to get an introduction to my hostess who I never even wanted to meet ever.

The barn door bursts open, and a frazzled, tiny woman, who is just barely large enough not to pass for a twelve-year-old boy, practically stumbles out. She’s wearing overalls which are two sizes too large and stained in at least ten thousand places, while the parts that don’t have stains have tears and holes in them. She has her honeyed hair piled on top of her head in such a loose bun that it’s a mess as strands of hair trails down the sides of her tiny little pixie face in long, wispy tendrils. When I glance down, I see giant black rubber boots folded down at the tops since she was so small.

She slogs her way in those clumpy boots over the mucky driveway toward the car. When she gets within ten feet, she stops, lifts her arm, and sniffs her black t-shirt right around the cuff region. She then swipes the back of her bare arm over her face, leaving black trails of grime over her nose, eyebrows, and all over her forehead.

My god, how could one messy, tiny little person cause so many problems for my family and me?

I realize I can’t just stay in the car and hide, so I spring the door and start the process of unfolding myself from the tiny and cramped confines. I have to give this lady (and I use that word generously) props. She doesn’t shy away from my likely intimidating monster of a presence.

Just as I’m about to rasp out a thousand questions about what she could have possibly done to my grandfather—hopefully, seduction isn’t on the list—to make him banish me to this place, a rabid-looking white blur of fur comes bouncing up to me. I stumble back a step as it starts barking and slobbering all over, but I relax slightly only when I realize it’s a big shaggy white dog and not a wolf. However, my relief is short-lived. The dog sniffs me wildly while I stand as still as a statue, trying not to move a muscle just in case it decides to see me as a threat. Then, to my utter shock, it wags its massive tail furiously, eyes me up, and proceeds to hump my left leg.

CHAPTER 2

Becki

“Good lord! Little Missy! Down!” I rush toward the stranger, who can only be my unexpected/expected guest. Finn Batchbottom.

To his credit, he just stands there and lets the dog attempt to hump him. I say credit because I’ve seen people try to kick dogs or worse. He also doesn’t run off or start screaming in terror, but maybe he’s more of the type who likes to think if he pretends it isn’t happening, then it isn’t.

I think that’s probably how he’s tackled all of this so far.

I grab Little Missy’s collar and pull him away. “I’m so sorry about that!”

Finn stares dubiously at the dog. “Little Missy?” His eyes drop to the dog’s hind end, which is currently facing him as I step back, still holding on tightly to the bright blue collar. “If I’m not mistaken, that dog is clearly not little, and he’s certainly not a Miss.”

“No. He’s a he.”

“Don’t you think it’s slightly cruel to name a male dog Little Missy?”