Sleeping with the Enemy (An Enemies to Lovers Collection)

The house is bad enough, and the situation is intolerable, but the fact that Little Miss Life-Wrecking-Becki, Know-It-All, Better-Than-Thou. Don’t-Eat-Animals-It’s-Bad-You-Selfish-Prick seems to know things about my grandfather that I don’t is worse than anything.

She wasn’t smug when she was talking to me. No, she was anything but smug. Instead, she was compassionate and soft. It was worse than if she’d rubbed my face in my own crap, which she undoubtedly never does to any of her animals because they are perfect in her eyes, she’s also perfect in her eyes, and she was perfect in my grandfather’s eyes.

Years. Becki said she’d known my grandfather for years.

Either she’s making up one heck of a story because she thinks it’s funny to torture me as a new past time because her life of being a hippy (I know, I know, I shouldn’t use that word) is getting intolerably boring, and she never goes into the city, so she never talks to an actual human being, and she’s going stir crazy, or she’s telling the truth.

Considering I’m here, it’s probably the latter.

That burn behind my chest? It’s not heartburn, as far as I’m aware. I don’t have problems with that. But you know what I do have problems with? Finding out that I apparently didn’t know my own grandfather, who I treasured for so many reasons. I dedicated my life to his company. I love my work, and I love our family. I know it might not be conventional, but everyone (except maybe my mom) did the best they could by me. I’ve been given so many opportunities. I’ve worked hard, and yes, I know I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth and a bunch of other rich people privileges. I know that, but I don’t take any of it for granted, and I also never took my grandfather for granted either. Does saying that make it worse when I seem to know next to nothing about who he really was?

This is just going in a never-ending circle, so I let out a frustrated snort—not at all dignified, but nothing about this whole thing is—and flop back onto the bed. It’s hard, and I was right about the springs. They bounce, groan, and creak loudly. I turn off all thoughts of my grandfather, the funeral, the company, and his will, but it just leaves space in my head for unbidden thoughts.

Thoughts about Becki Wilkinson.

I’ve never met someone I found so messy yet so attractive. I say it with great reluctance—the attractive part—but I really can’t deny that Becki is pretty. She kind of looks like a little farmer pixie fairy—sort of. Even with dirt on her hands, smudges of grime on her face, no makeup to speak of, and wearing filthy, oversized clothing, she’s pretty enough to be a model. Perhaps in some farmer magazine where she advertises tractors or something. All she needs is better boots, a yellow straw hat, and the long grain of grass or whatever sticking out of the corner of her mouth.

I guess I kind of get lost in my own fantasy; I’m double ashamed to say. My happy stick doesn’t seem to mind, and my balls are basically on board with whatever my stick is doing because, you know, peer pressure. When the door downstairs opens and closes loudly, I jump off the bed with a loud protest of springs and look around guiltily—guilty about my thoughts and my body’s surprising response.

Becki isn’t quiet, just like she obviously isn’t into being organized and clean. Her house is so different from mine in that respect that it makes my teeth feel fuzzy. I hate fuzzy teeth. I have two cleaners who come to my house twice a week because I like things spotless, and I also like to be organized at work. Running a huge, multi-billion dollar company that produces and builds vehicles in America and sells them all over the world requires a certain degree of keeping shit in the right places, getting shit done on time, being able to find everything, and having access to everything at all times. It requires multiple departments and good communication across all of them. I could never afford to let things slide, or there would have been a disaster, and disaster is something I don’t let happen.

Until I moved here, apparently.

I know I’m going to have to face the terrible music sooner or later, and I pick sooner because it’s not like Becki is going to vanish or the six months are going to go by in the blink of an eye. I head downstairs via the creaking staircase with railings that don’t look like it could hold up a feather. I don’t touch it because I don’t want to break it and land in the kitchen. I get there soon enough, thankfully upright, and find Becki buzzing around making lunch.