The Enemy (It Happened in Charleston 2)
“Really? I thought she was charming.” Stacy’s voice sounds too innocent.
“Did you pick someone terrible on purpose? You’re like a little kid in an inspirational movie, trying to sabotage the sale so I learn my valuable lesson.”
Stacy shakes her head and smiles while popping a donut hole in her mouth. The fact that she’s not denying my accusation is telling. “I should really be worried about fitting into my dress on Saturday, but I can’t bring myself to care. Is that a bad sign?”
Okay, I see. We’re going to change the subject now because I was dead on with my sabotage remark.
“I think it means that you’re so confident in your relationship with Logan that you’re not stressing about the little things.”
She smiles softly, and I still find it ridiculously sweet how happy she looks when she thinks about Logan. “I think I could wear yoga pants and a stained t-shirt and he would still be happy to marry me.”
“He’d probably like it better than the dress. Your butt looks great in yoga pants.”
She laughs. “So I should just return the dress, right?”
I shrug. “It won’t stay on you very long anyway.”
We go back and forth like this for a few minutes, and I don’t let myself give in once to the sadness I feel under our laughter. I will miss her more than I miss Oreos on a diet. She’s my girl. My person. When she’s gone, who will make crude jokes with me?
Her mind follows the same track as mine, because after a minute, her face softens, and she comes over to cup my face dramatically, making my lips pooch out. It’s silly. But I love that even in the serious moments of life, she still makes me laugh. “Don’t worry, Junie. One day, you’ll find a man who tries to take your wedding dress off in the bathroom of your reception, too.”
“From your mouth to God’s ears,” I deadpan.
Stacy’s eyes catch on something over my shoulder, and she makes a hmm noise. “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”
I follow her gaze over my shoulder, and my heart shoots up into my throat. Crossing the street and heading straight for our shop is Ryan. He’s wearing a pair of cargo joggers with black Nikes and a zip-up hoodie. He has the same baseball hat on from the other day, but it’s sitting backwards on his head, and honestly, I just want to jump him.
Suddenly, I remember the text I sent him last night, and I wonder if I can pack my bags and move to Mexico before he finishes crossing the street. No? Fine. I’ll do the next best thing.
I hop up on the counter and slide across to the other side and then race to the front door of the shop just as Ryan is reaching out for the handle. I twist the lock and fling the OPEN sign around, so now the shop is officially CLOSED.
I look through the glass up into Ryan’s dark smirking eyes and shrug my shoulders innocently. So sorry, you just missed us!
“Funny,” he says through the glass. “Open up.”
I cup my h
and around my ear and squint like I can’t hear him through the glass. I’m a mime inside a box, and I’m just as surprised by these glass walls as he is. I mouth can’t hear you and then point to the sign again.
It’s childish, I know. But I don’t want him to come in here. This is my special place in life, and I’m proud of it. I’m just a little afraid that if I let Ryan Henderson—world-renowned chef—through my door, my confidence bubble will pop. What’s a donut shop compared to all he’s accomplished?
Ryan puts his hands in his pockets, and his shoulders twitch like he’s making himself comfortable. He’ll stand there all day, apparently. And a second later, when a woman and her two children walk up to the door, he smiles, and his devil horns pop out. I see a vague resemblance to the boy I went to high school with.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. They’re closed,” he says with a sunny smile that doesn’t fit the news he’s delivering.
Her brows furrow, and she looks at the store hours listed on the glass. “Says they’re open until three o’clock.”
“Oh, we are!” I say through the door.
“Not so soundproof anymore, is it?” Ryan says from where he stands beside the woman. I scowl at him before unlocking the door and cracking it open for the woman and her children to come in. Once they are inside, I hurry to shut it before Ryan can weasel his way in. But he anticipates my move and wedges his foot in the crack.
I will break his foot; don’t think I won’t.
He puts his baseball-glove-size hand on the glass and opens the door even though I’m using all my strength to push against it. I’m just a little gnat. He swats me away with a single push.
“You’re being ridiculous,” he says after he makes it inside.
“Takes one to know one.” I’m so mature I should win an award.