Love/Hate: The Complete Enemies to Lovers Series

by Lilian Monroe

  “You would be okay with that?” My voice is choked with emotion. Nicole is so beautiful, inside and out. So many women wouldn’t want to be reminded of Brianne.

  Not Nicole.

  Nicole runs head-first into the memories, into the grief, and she shines her beautiful light on all the sadness. She obliterates all the badness around her. She’s completely, utterly good. Her goodness heals me, strengthens me, teaches me what it means to be compassionate and caring.

  “It’s perfect,” I say. “Jacqueline Brianne Henderson.”

  “I was worried you wouldn’t like it.”

  “I love it.” I kiss Jacqueline’s head and my chest feels so good it almost hurts. “And I love you.”

  She smiles at me, and I fumble in my pocket. When my fingers touch the little velvet box, I suddenly feel nervous. What if she says no?

  This is a ridiculous time to propose to her. I should have done something more romantic—something big. A grand gesture to show her what she means to me.

  But then, Nicole slides her hand over my cheek and I know that this is perfect. She wouldn’t want something big. She just wants honest, true love.

  So, I pull the ring box out of my pocket and flip it open.

  “Make me the happiest man in the world, Nic,” I breathe. My voice is choked with emotion.

  Her eyes widen and tears start falling again. Her breath hitches and a laugh tumbles out of her. She nods, closing her mouth and nodding harder as the tears spill down her cheeks.

  “Is that a yes?”

  “It’s a yes, Martin. It’s a yes,” she laughs. I take the ring and slip it over her finger. She watches it catch the light and then nuzzles against our baby girl’s head.

  “You hear that, Jacquie? You daddy’s going to make an honest woman out of me.”

  The nurse comes to swaddle the baby and take her away to be cleaned up and checked. I watch her go and then wrap my arms around Nicole. She shifts in bed, and I climb onto the tiny single hospital bed beside her. With my arms around her, and her head resting against my chest, I feel like the luckiest man alive.

  She looks at the ring and I kiss the top of her head.

  “You’re wrong, you know.” I rub my hands up and down her arm.

  “About what?”

  “I didn’t make an honest woman out of you. You’re the one who made an honest man out of me.”

  She turns to me, smiling. Her hand slides up my cheek and I kiss the woman of my dreams, the mother of my child, the love of my life.

  Thank you for reading!

  If you’d like access to the Lilian Monroe Freebie Central, which includes bonus chapters from all my books (including this one!), just click the link below:

  LET ME IN

  Loathe at First Sight

  Love/Hate: Book 2

  1

  Ashley

  I wasn’t expecting Police Chief White to knock on my door. I try to keep my face steady as a cold current crawls down my spine. He’s gained a bit of weight since last year—the stress of the job, no doubt. His wobbling jowls dip down in greeting.

  “Mrs. Thompson,” he says, taking his hat off and smoothing his hair.

  “It’s King,” I answer automatically. I never took my husband’s name, but that didn’t prevent anyone from calling me Ashley Thompson from the moment we said our vows. Randy never corrected anyone. I think he resented me not taking his name.

  Police Chief White opens his mouth and closes it again. “Ms. King,” he mumbles. He shifts his weight from foot to foot as I tighten my grip on the doorknob.

  Last time I saw him, he was handing me a folded American flag and the Denver Police Department Medal of Valor. I was in a haze of grief, relief and confusion after my husband had been shot in the line of duty.

  Now, the Chief stands before me again in full uniform, and the memories of that day start to flood my brain.

  “May I come in?”

  My hand squeezes on the doorknob as I try to steady myself. I swallow past the lump in my throat and nod, opening the door wider to let him in.

  Police Chief White’s boots thump on my old wooden floors as he makes his way inside. He’s at least six inches taller than me, towering over everything in my cramped old house. His eyes glance around the room as he stands stiffly.

  “Please,” I say. My voice is strangled as I motion to the couch. He nods and takes a seat. “Coffee? Tea?”

  “No, thank you,” he says. “I just came here to give you my condolences. Today is one year since—”

  “I know what today is.”

  “Right.” He clears his throat. He won’t meet my eye as he thumbs the edge of his hat. “I wanted you to know that you still have the full support of the DPD behind you. Losing Superintendent Thompson is still something the department feels every day. And I’m sure the past year has been… difficult for you.”

  I sit down across from him and smooth my hands over my legs. “Thank you.”

  I can’t look at him. I can’t look him in the eye and keep pretending I’m sad that the man who abused me for years is now dead. I pretended enough last year. I went through the wake and the funeral, through the awards ceremonies and the newspaper articles about how brave and valiant and good my late husband was.

  He wasn’t.

  He was a violent, jealous, angry man. He was vengeful, and he had a short fuse.

  And somehow, he hid it from everyone. Even me. It wasn’t until we were married that the mask started to crack. The first time he hit me was our one year anniversary. When that happened, I was ready to leave him. I had my bags packed and one foot out the door.

  Then the tears started, and the apologies, and the promises that he’d never do it again. He was ashamed of himself, he said. He’d never do it again, he promised. He was tender and loving; he was the man that I’d married.

  And then he did it again, and he apologized again.

  He did it over and over, until he broke me. I was a shell of my former self.

  Then, Randy Thompson was shot and killed. He was a hero, but I was still the same battered woman.

  White shifts in his seat, and I drag my eyes up to meet his. He’s staring at me with the detached suspicion that police officers always seem to have.

  He clears his throat. “Your husband was a good man, Mrs. Th—Ms. King. His loss is felt in the department every day. I just wanted to personally come here and make sure that you have everything you need. I know today may be tough for you.”

  The big man wrings his hands. He clears his throat, and I finally take mercy on him and end his torture by responding.

  “That was very thoughtful of you, Police Chief Wh—

  “Please, call me Charlie.”

  I smile. “Charlie. Thank you very much. It’s been a tough year, but I’m getting through it. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me since Randy died.”

  “Of course.” He heaves himself off the sofa and stands awkwardly in front of me, as if he’s not sure whether to hug me.

  Please don’t hug me.

  “Well,” he huffs, nodding. He puts his hat back on his head. “Have a great day, Ms. King. And let me know if you need anything.”

  We both breathe a sigh of relief as he turns toward the front door. His duty is done, and I won’t have to pretend anymore. The sooner he’s out of my house, the better.

  It’s not that I don’t appreciate the visit—I do. He doesn’t have to come visit me. A lesser man would forget about the wives of their fallen men. The police chief is a good person.

  I know that, but I’m just sick of pretending.

  Every time I meet someone who knew Randy, I have to keep up appearances. Even from the grave, Randy is controlling me.

  I’m sick of it.

  The police chief’s boots thud on the creaky floors, and he finally reaches the front door. This will be over soon, and I’ll be able to focus on my work. I’ll be able to forget about Charlie White, about Randy, and about that horrible day one year ago.
/>   But when he opens it up, another man is standing there with his finger heading for the doorbell.

  “Oh!” The man’s dark eyebrows arch upward. “Police Chief White! I wasn’t expecting—”

  “Councilor Maguire.” The chief’s face darkens, and he brushes past the man without another word. The man stares after him, jaw hanging open.

  I take the few seconds to look him up and down. He’s a good-looking man, with a well-tailored suit. His hair is parted on the side and perfectly styled. His fingernails are clean, and his shoes are polished. When he turns back toward me, he smiles genially. He has a dimple on his left cheek.

  “Good afternoon, Ma’am. My name is Adrian Maguire.” The name rings a bell. I nod. His teeth are perfect. “I’ve been a city councilor in our fine city for the past six years, and I’m running for mayor in the upcoming elections. I wanted to take the opportunity to introduce myself.”

  He smiles a bit wider, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He extends his hand toward me and we shake firmly.

  “I’m Ashley King.”

  “Ashley.” He hasn’t stopped smiling, and I wonder if his cheeks hurt. “Can I ask, how do you know the police chief?”

  Adrian Maguire has a way of making you feel comfortable—he’s mayoral. I’m not sure he’s sincere, but then again, he’s in politics. Sincerity isn’t part of the job description.

  “Well,” I say, considering not answering his question. More talk of Randy’s death means accepting more unnecessary condolences.

  But in a way, I want to know how Councilor Maguire will handle it. I want to see how good his poker face really is.

  I smile sadly. “My husband died a year ago today—he was on duty at the time. The police chief was offering his condolences.”

  “Well, let me offer mine as well,” Mr. Maguire says without missing a beat. “Is it safe to say that safer streets would be high on your list of priorities?”

  I smile inwardly. Smooth.

  “Why, are you going to be ‘tough on crime’?” I ask, arching an eyebrow. I’ve heard that one before—what politician hasn’t used that line?

  Mr. Maguire smiles. “I won’t feed you bullshit lines, Ms. King. You probably know more than most about the inner workings of law enforcement. I can promise you that I’ll do everything in my power to make sure that police officers are safe. We want to make sure that what happened to your husband doesn’t happen to any other serving police officer.”

  “That’s all anyone can ask for.”

  I try to smile. I’m growing tired of this conversation. It’s the same as the conversation I had with Police Chief White—it’s all platitudes and fluff. There’s no substance, no truth. I want to close the door and retreat to my living room where I won’t have to pretend.

  “May I ask if you’d be willing to vote for me in the upcoming election?”

  “It’ll take more than one conversation to secure this vote, Councilor Maguire,” I grin. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got dinner on the stove, and…”

  “Of course. Here.” He hands me some pamphlets, and I watch him leave before closing the door.

  I don’t actually have any dinner on the stove. I’ve been thinking of getting comfortable with a spoon and a jar of Nutella tonight. The jar of Nutella sounds even more appealing right now than it did fifteen minutes ago.

  My phone dings from the coffee table, and I walk over to look at it

  Reminder: Denver Construction Awards

  Tomorrow, 7pm

  I work as the Media Relations Manager for one of the largest construction companies in Denver. We’re up for a couple of awards, so tomorrow night will be important. Hansen Constructions is trying to bid on some major projects in Denver, so upping our image is very important right now.

  That’s why they hired me.

  But right now, thoughts of the police, of Randy, of the election are swirling in my mind. I had a hard week at work, and the last thing I want to think about is the unpaid overtime I’ll be doing at this awards ceremony. I swipe the reminder away and head for the Nutella before collapsing on the couch. I flick on the TV and try to stop my whirling brain.

  One year.

  It’s been one year since Randy was shot. One year since it happened. One year since the nightmare that was my marriage ended.

  One year since I got out.

  And frustratingly, it’s taken me almost a year to forgive myself. Not for what happened the day he died—I’m not sorry about that—but to forgive myself for letting him do those things to me. I’m just starting to feel like myself again, to open my eyes and realize that my life isn’t over.

  With every threat, every insult, every slap, every punch, every burn, Randy tore at the fibers of my identity. He unraveled me, thread by thread, until I was nothing but a tangled heap on the floor. And then he stood over me and laughed.

  Everything that I thought I was—strong, independent, loveable—he took it away from me.

  Maybe naively, I thought his death would give that back to me. I thought I’d be myself again.

  It didn’t. I’m not.

  A part of me grieved. It surprised me and confused me when I felt sad. He was my husband, and we’d been married for seven years. But a bigger part of me wanted to close that chapter of my life and move on. The sadness was more confusing than the anger or the relief.

  I stare into the jar of Nutella and take a deep breath. Something shakes loose in my chest and I stare vacantly at the TV screen.

  It’s time for me to move on. I can’t pretend anymore.

  I want to be free. Free from him, and free from the memories of what happened, free from the past.

  One year later, I’m stronger. I’ve landed on my feet. I’m alone, but I’m surviving. I’m more than surviving! I’m thriving. I have a good job, something that Randy never allowed me to pursue. I’m reconnecting with my friends, and I’ve even started playing music again.

  For the first time since I married Randy Thompson, I feel hopeful about the future.

  Maybe I’ll even be able to date again. Anytime a man has tried to come near me, I retreat into myself again. But now… I think I’m ready. Some men are good—I just happened to be fooled by one of the bad ones.

  I dig another spoonful of chocolatey hazelnut spread out of the jar and eat it slowly, sighing.

  The police chief’s visit rattled me. Just when I think I’m done with Randy, someone shows up on my doorstep to remind me of all the mistakes I’ve made.

  There’s one mistake that I’ll never admit to. I’ll take it to the grave with me—no matter what. I did what I did, and Randy got what he deserved.

  And now, it’s time to move on.

  2

  Liam

  Cameras flash as I put on my brightest smile. I adjust my athletic shorts and jump from one foot to the other. Music is blasting at the start line, with the announcer calling out the beginning of the race. It’s only a matter of seconds before the first annual Heart Start Race begins.

  I never thought it would get this big. We have over twenty thousand entrants for our first year, and we’ve been able to raise close to half a million dollars from the race alone. As long as today goes well, it’ll be a huge success for the foundation.

  It’ll be a huge success for me.

  At least it would be, if I cared. I’m just doing this until my brother wins the election, and then I’ll be done with this bullshit charity work.

  As another camera flashes in my face and I do my best to look happy and confident, the worry knots in my stomach.

  Ten miles.

  It’s not a huge run. Six years ago, I would have been able to manage it easily. But now, six years and one heart surgery later, and ten miles feels like a run to the end of the earth.

  I used to run ten miles multiple times a month. My longer runs were a compliment to the intense training I did for my main event: the 800m run. Middle distances had always been my favorite, even as a child. It is, in my humble opinion, t
he most challenging distance in any track meet—it’s too long for an all-out sprint, like the 100m, but too short to settle into an endurance pace.

  It’s two minutes of hell. Or if you’re like me and you’ve made it to the Olympics, it’s just shy of two minutes of hell. But after those two minutes, I got to stand on that podium with a solid gold medal between my teeth, and I was on top of the world.

  Click, flash, smile. Another photo.

  The announcer’s voice booms over the speakers and he starts to count down.

  “Three… two… one…”

  A gunshot sounds and the mass of humanity around me starts to move. Men and women in bright spandex start to run along the designated route. I watch people pass me with their running belts strapped with water bottles, energy gels, and snacks.

  Others have nothing, just old running shoes and the race bib pinned to their free t-shirt.

  I’m trying to take it easy. Ever since I had my operation, my heart hasn’t felt the same. If I push myself too hard, I get light-headed and my pulse goes through the roof.

  I’ve been cleared to run for months now, and I’ve worked up from short walks to now being able to participate in this race.

  It should be a celebration. I should be happy. Running in my own foundation’s race is a milestone I wasn’t sure I’d be able to achieve.

  I’m an Olympic medalist who was told he might never run again, but here I am.

  I won.

  I’m a champion.

  I beat the heart defect. I beat the surgery. I beat the odds.

  But as mothers with their strollers, children, and even toddlers start to surround me, I don’t feel like I’m winning at all.

  I’m slow.

  Victory isn’t the point of this race, but I still feel like a failure. I was an Olympic champion! Now, I feel old and useless. I’m only thirty years old, but I feel closer to death than when I was on the operating table.