Sleeping with the Enemy (An Enemies to Lovers Collection)

“I’ll be alright.”

“The grass can have some nasty stuff in it—hornets and whatnot. You should put on a long-sleeved shirt.”

“I’ll be okay.”

Becki rolls her eyes at me. “Alright. Don’t come crying to me when you get stung by a thousand angry, vengeful hornets or get eaten alive by horseflies out there.”

“I won’t. Cry, I mean. But I might come running for you to save me.”

Becki grins but bites down on her lower lip to hide it at the last second. We both stand there for a few more seconds. Again, I think about kissing her, running my tongue along her plump, sweet bottom lip, along the seam of her mouth, and her tongue.

Mother clucking chicken who always scares me.

I start walking fast, and now that my legs are working again, I clear the barn first. I’m eager to get mowing. No matter how many hornets and horseflies I have to face, I think the sting would be preferable to the extreme physical pain I have going on in my groin. Quite. Preferable.

CHAPTER 12

Becki

I don’t usually have time for reading, but with two of us getting tasks done again today, as well as mortification being a great motivator to keep me plugging away at an unusually high speed, I find that everything I have to do is completed early again. After bedding everyone down for the night and a quick shower where I was sure not to linger a second night in a row, I take a book down from my Great Aunt’s bookcase.

Décor-wise, I haven’t kept everything the same after she passed away and I moved into the house. Just the cumbersome furniture. And the bookcases fall under that category. They’re stacked with Great Aunt May’s books, and I’ve added a couple of my own over the years, but tonight, I’m in the mood for a classic. I take down a book by an author I’ve never heard of—a gothic sort of romance, or maybe it’s a thriller, I’m not really sure how they’re classified—sink down onto the heavy floral sofa, and crack open the cover.

It smells like old mildew as opposed to new mildew since the house is fairly warm in the summer and not cold or wet. I don’t mind. To me, that’s the smell of all old books, and it does make me a little bit sad to think no one has touched this book in years. The last person who likely ever held it was Great Aunt May, and I don’t doubt she read it. She was an avid reader.

The cover is plain red with gold writing on the back. I caress my finger over it while it’s open and turn to the first page. The print is so small that it makes me squint. I’m just starting in on the first few lines when the stairs creak in the back, and Finn’s steps trace a pattern straight into the living room.

I don’t look up from the book. Instead, I ignore him and focus on reading.

For one, I don’t think I could look at him, especially now when we’re not busy doing this or that. Because the real humiliation would sink in, and I’d turn scarlet again the way I did in the barn earlier. I know he overheard me. I just freaking know it.

I can’t tell him to leave, but I debate getting up when he takes the big comfy chair. Well, because that chair is usually mine, and I also can’t say a thing because the house isn’t off-limits to Finn. I can’t just banish and limit him to the upstairs section of the house. The only part of the house that is strictly mine is my bedroom.

And wow, would I really not like it to be. No! Seriously. Just. No.

“What’re you reading?” Finn asks in his soft, sensual, deep, dark, and shiver-inducing voice.

“I don’t know,” I blurt before I realize I should have at least rattled off something since he can’t see the cover or the spine of the book anyway. Now I’m caught, and I have to look up.

Finn has obviously just come straight from the bath as his dark hair is still wet and glistening. He looks fresh. And by fresh, I mean he has a new tan from working outside for the past couple of days. No, he thankfully didn’t get stung by any hornets or eaten by any flies. He’s got horseshoes up his…errr…never mind. I’m not supposed to be going there. Especially not on about pumpkins or blue ribbons. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to think about either of those things without turning scarlet again.

“So, you don’t ever talk to your grandparents?”

At his question, my mouth drops, and my jaw creaks along with it. Internally steeling myself, I snap the book shut. Finn just sits there in all his glory, and dang, he really is glorious. I don’t know how anyone does any work when he’s around. Or maybe they work double-time, just like I do, trying to burn off steam and find a way to ignore him.