Sleeping with the Enemy (An Enemies to Lovers Collection)

“This is a problem. A real freaking problem. I’m going to have to undo all of this, and hopefully, the fabric isn’t wrecked.”

“What’s it supposed to be?”

“Reusable paper towel.”

“Why would anyone want to reuse that?”

“So, you don’t throw the old stuff away all the time. This is durable and absorbent, and it can be washed and used a ton of different times. I make a roll, and it snaps together. It looks cool in the kitchen too. I use nice fabric.”

“So, people want it just for that.”

“No, people want it to help save the environment.”

“Are you sure it really does?”

“Well, you’re not constantly buying something just to throw it away.”

“But the amount of water it takes to wash something—”

“I’m done debating this,” Esme growls. “This is what I’m making. End of story. I also make bowl covers—so you don’t burn the hell out of your hands straight out of the microwave—pot holders, oven mitts, feminine products, baby diapers, blankets, burp pads, quilts, mitts, makeup bags, cloth tote bags, purses—”

“Shit, you make all that?”

“I do, yeah. And people buy it.”

“You must be good at it then.”

“Oh, and handmade hand warmers, bean bags, table runners, placemats, cloth napkins, reusable baby wipes, reusable toilet paper—”

“You do not make reusable toilet paper!”

“I do,” she says firmly.

“Ugh.” I shudder. “I don’t even want to know how that works.” Screw everything else. I think that could feature in its own horror film.

Then, I remember I’m supposed to be up here killing with kindness and taking steps toward being friendly, not insulting her work, however gross and strange it might be, so I continue, “I’m going to make you breakfast. You seem like you’re having a tough morning, so it’s on me.”

In reply, Esme makes a garbled sound, and one of her hands curls around part of the machine while the other grabs a pair of sewing scissors. I imagine things getting real dicey real fast, but instead, she picks up the wrecked paper towel thing she was working on and starts cutting off threads here and there.

She either doesn’t want breakfast, and she wants me to leave so she can get back to work—or rather, get back to swearing at her machine in her own strange way—or she does want breakfast but doesn’t want to tell me that because she’s too proud.

“Tell you what,” she says. Her voice is jarring because it’s totally unexpected. She’s still looking down and snipping with her scissors. “If you can manage to make me breakfast, and there is no cat hair in it, I’ll take you up on the offer to be friends. We can take a walk or something as I’m about ready for a break in here anyway.”

“Is that a challenge?” How bad can the cat hair be?

“Oh, believe me, around here, it’s quite a challenge.”

“I accept the challenge then. Breakfast with no cat hair and a walk—half hour. And you have to talk to me, not just walk twenty paces ahead and pretend I’m not there.”

I almost get a smile out of Esme. Her lips wobble, and her cheeks twitch too, but it never actually comes. Instead, she bends over the fabric and pulls it up to hide her face. Maybe there is a smile after all, and she’s just hiding it.

“Okay. Fine. I know you’ll lose, so I’m safe.”

“Alright. One cheese and broccoli omelet with olives and salsa coming right up.” I’m basically asking her if that’s alright. The fridge looked like barren grounds when I got here, so I filled it up with groceries, but I have no idea what Esme actually eats. I haven’t noticed any of my stuff being touched.

She just keeps snipping away with those scissors and ignores me, so I take the lack of insults to mean she’s fine with an omelet.

I feel quite pleased with myself when I’m back down in the kitchen, rummaging in the fridge and cupboards, getting things ready, even with one of the cats—I’m not sure which one it is since I know there are six—watching me.

“Keep your hair to a minimum,” I say to it. “And we’ll be just fine.”

The cat is orange and white striped with yellow eyes. It blinks its big cat eyes at me then stares openly. After a few moments, it yawns lazily and settles right in the middle of the kitchen, where I can practically see the hair floating off its big cat body. Well, this might be harder than I thought.

I’ll have to double-check everything.

As I get the eggs, another cat, a black one with a multi-colored coat, joins the first. They sit side by side, watching me with their huge cat eyes, unblinking and on the verge of spontaneous shedding. Then I get the tomatoes, peppers, cheese, and ham. When I turn around again, there are now five cats, including one with only one eye, who stares me down with his one eye. He’s a hairy-looking little beggar.