Love/Hate: The Complete Enemies to Lovers Series

by Lilian Monroe

  I know there are cameras everywhere, so I do my best to smile and talk to the runners around me. One young mother jogs beside me, pushing a stroller. She’s wearing a tight purple running top and a matching hat.

  “Beautiful day,” I say to her, smiling.

  She blushes, and I grin.

  Maybe being at the back of the pack isn’t so bad. I’d rather be surrounded by young, fit MILFs than the serious lanky runners at the front of the pack. At least back here, I have something nice to look at.

  That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway.

  My heart trembles and my smile fades. I nod to her and slow down, running on my own again. A tremor in my chest always sends fear pumping through my entire body. I put one foot in front of the other, trying to keep the worry from creasing my forehead.

  Nobody wants a picture of Liam Maguire collapsing at his own fucking race—especially not me or my family. This is supposed to boost my brother’s campaign. We’re presenting a united front, as my mother keeps reminding me. Then she usually says something about the cost of my heart surgery to remind me how much I owe her and my father.

  I had an atrial septal defect—a hole in my heart.

  But I could have told anyone that a long time ago. I used to think I had a hole where my heart should have been. I’ve never cared about love or relationships or matters of the heart. I’ve never cared about anything except running and winning.

  And then that was taken away from me.

  So, here I am. Running a ten miler for the first time in six years, gracing the back of the pack with a big, dumb fucking smile on my face.

  When I’m sure that I won’t drop dead in the middle of the race, I pick up the pace again.

  There are bands playing on the side of the road, and big banners from our sponsors. My name is plastered everywhere. People are lining up on the side of the street, and I stop for a minute to take a picture with them. A woman thrusts her baby into my arms, and I smile for the selfie.

  This is what I’ve been reduced to.

  I’m not winning anything. I’m just a poster boy for heart defects.

  A teenage boy with tears in his eyes sticks out his hand. I shake it.

  “What’s your name, buddy?”

  “Nolan,” he beams. His face is pale and he’s leaning against a man who looks like his father. “I wanted to say—” he wheezes. “I have a septal defect, too. I hope I can run in this race next year.” He wavers on his feet, and his father catches him.

  A lump forms in my throat, and once again I feel like a fraud.

  Who am I to give hope to these people? This poor kid might be dead next week, and he’s looking at me like I’m some kind of hero.

  I’m not a fucking hero. All I did was survive. I was just lucky that my family is filthy rich, and I could afford the best medical care this country has to offer. I’m a product of my upbringing, through and through. This kid is, too, but he’s on the other end of the spectrum.

  He doesn’t have billionaire parents and a trust fund to pay for a team of world-class doctors. I pat him on the shoulder. “You’ll beat it,” I lie.

  I give Nolan my card and tell him to email me, and then I keep running.

  After a torturous hour and a bit, I finally make it to the finish line. There are more cameras, more sponsors, more cheers and celebrations of my wonderful achievement of putting one foot in front of the other. This race wasn’t my idea. My mother and father put me in charge of this foundation, and my brother has leaned on it ever since the start of his mayoral campaign.

  We’re one, happy, big-hearted family. We give back. We’re pillars of the community.

  … We’re frauds.

  And the biggest fraud of them all is me.

  I don’t care about these people. I don’t care about fundraising or running this foundation. I don’t care about the thousands of babies that die of congenital heart defects.

  I don’t even care about this race.

  All I care about is the fact that I’ll never get the chance to win another medal in my life. If I could trade all this fundraising, all the praise and the accolades for one more shot at an Olympic medal, I would.

  All the good that this foundation is doing for people like Nolan—I’d trade that in a heartbeat.

  Maybe that makes me selfish. Maybe that makes me the asshole who’s still hanging onto the past. Maybe it makes me a heartless bastard.

  Like I said, I always knew I had a hole in my heart. I don’t think the surgery fixed me up completely. It patched up the heart in my chest, but it couldn’t change who I am.

  My brother greets me at the finish line with his posse of campaign staffers. They’re carrying his placards, wearing wide smiles and pins that say ‘Adrian Maguire: My Mayor’.

  Adrian claps me on the back and turns me toward the cameras. He always knows where to find the photo opportunity. And once again, I look like the sick, weak brother as he props me up.

  Once again, they’ll talk about my heart defect instead of talking about me.

  Tragic. A waste of talent. So brave.

  I can see the headlines already.

  My brother squeezes my shoulder and leans in toward me. “Well done, little brother.”

  “You owe me one.”

  “The press is lapping this up.”

  “You’d better win this election, Aido.”

  He squeezes my shoulder again and turns us toward another mass of reporters. His smile is unwavering, and his stupid little dimple is angled perfectly toward the cameras. I take a deep breath and do my best to smile with him.

  Yes, he definitely owes me one. This whole thing—the foundation, the run, the fucking holier-than-thou Good Samaritan Mother Theresa bullshit that he has me doing—it better help him win this election.

  And once it does, I’m going to bury myself in drugs, alcohol, and pussy until I forget the word ‘Olympics’ even exists.

  3

  Ashley

  “Thank God you’re here,” Becky breathes as soon as I walk into the fundraiser venue. She grips my arm and makes an exaggerated sigh, dragging me toward the drinks table. “If I have to hear one more middle-aged white man tell me about ‘high level projections’ and ‘KPIs for this quarter’, I think I’m going to explode.”

  “Remind me again why you’re in this industry?”

  “The paycheck.” She hands me a tall glass of white wine and takes one for herself. “And I naively thought that a male-dominated industry would be a great place to meet men.”

  We look around the room at the swaths of overweight, balding, sun- and wind-damaged faces and I grin into my wine glass.

  “Quality over quantity might be a better strategy.”

  Becky grunts, sipping her drink. “I walked onto site this morning—me, the senior engineer on the fucking multi-million dollar high-rise project—and the demolition contractor called me cutie.”

  “Ew,” I laugh.

  “I know. I just stared at him until he walked away.” Becky smiles at me and shakes her head. “I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m insane, but I don’t even care. ‘Cutie’? Are you fucking kidding me?” I laugh and Becky shrugs. “What am I supposed to do? If I cause a scene, I’m the unreasonable one. You don’t see him calling any of these guys ‘cutie’.”

  We both stare out at the mass of men in ill-fitting suits and Becky sighs. “At least we have each other. You’re the best work-wife a girl could ask for.”

  “Same to you,” I say, elbowing her gently.

  My boss, John, walks over with his arms spread. Wine sloshes in his glass as he makes his way toward us. “How are my favorite two girls tonight!”

  “Women,” Becky corrects.

  John clears his throat. Judging by the redness of his nose, that isn’t his first glass of wine. “Of course. Of course. Now, Becky, you’re up for a big award tonight.”

  I can tell she’s trying to not roll her eyes. “Yes, Woman Engineer of the Year,” she says. “I don’t know if I should
be insulted at how patronizing it is, or flattered that people have noticed I’m actually an engineer as well as a woman… Or should I say despite being a woman?”

  John just nods stupidly. “Right, well, if she wins, make sure you let the world know, Ash. You don’t get paid the big bucks for nothing!”

  The big bucks… yeah, right. I nod. “Will do.”

  He waddles away and Becky lets out a sigh.

  “I might barf if I have to accept an award called ‘Woman Engineer of the Year’. The grammar isn’t even right! It should be ‘Female Engineer of the Year’.”

  “Just don’t barf on stage.”

  She giggles and drags me toward the main room. “They sat us together, at least.”

  “If you hate your job so much, maybe you should change?”

  We slide into our seats, and Becky sighs. “Maybe. I don’t know…” She smiles sadly and I understand how she feels.

  “It’s hard to start over,” I say. She makes a noise in acknowledgement. I play with the stem of my wine glass and find myself opening up to her about my past for the first time. “You know, after my husband died, I pretty much had to start over. I’d been out of the industry for five years, and in PR terms, that’s a lifetime. None of the companies that I’d worked for even wanted to talk to me—I used to work with celebrities and fashion labels.”

  “Well, lucky for you, the construction industry is only about twenty years behind the times, so you are a forward-thinking, cutting edge genius as far as they’re concerned.”

  We both laugh, glancing around the dining room as people start to filter to their seats. Having a friend at these networking dinners helps so much. We’re always the ‘token females’ in a sea of men.

  We settle into our seats as the dinner service and ceremony start. Through the first course and first awards presentations, Becky and I distract ourselves with sarcastic quips to each other, and polite conversation with the rest of the table.

  Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see him.

  Him.

  I’ve never seen him before, but as soon as I lay my eyes on him, my body electrifies. It melts and freezes and burns all at once. He’s standing in the shadows beside the stage but even from here, I know he’s blindingly beautiful. He’s the kind of attractive that you only see in the pages of a Hollywood magazine. He’s walking around 24/7 with an Instagram filter on, and the rest of us mere mortals can’t even compete.

  He runs his fingers through his dark hair and then adjusts his tie. His suit fits perfectly over his muscular body, and my gaze runs from head to toe and back up again.

  I take it all in—the shiny black shoes, the deep blue suit, the skinny tie. He’s GQ, he’s Men’s Fitness, he’s Leonardo-DiBrad-Pitt and I am here for it.

  I’m staring and I don’t care. For once, there’s some eye candy for me in the room.

  He licks his lips and I die. I mean, I literally die and go to heaven. The drone of the man on the microphone doesn’t even register on my radar, because all I can hear are angels singing and Saint Peter at the pearly gates beckoning me inside.

  Maybe it’s because I’m on my third glass of wine. Maybe his Instagram filter is actually just plain old alcohol.

  Becky follows my gaze and I hear her exhale, and I know it’s definitely not just alcohol. This man is next-level gorgeous.

  Then, the Adonis looks right at me.

  Caught. Red. Handed.

  From across the crowded room, over the dozens of heads and tables that separates us, he looks at me. He stares long enough to see my entire head turn beet-red as I bury my face in my wine. My heart thumps and I take a big gulp, gripping the edge of my seat to steady myself.

  I take a deep breath, and peek through my lashes toward him.

  When I see that he’s still staring at me, my whole body bursts into flames. Desire soaks my underwear as his eyes sizzle over my skin. Despite my blush, despite my ruined panties, despite the crowded room, I lift my head and hold his gaze.

  Seconds tick by as we stare at each other, until his head snaps toward the stage and the crowd erupts into excited applause. He walks his perfect body up the steps toward the podium.

  When he gets there, his eyes drift out toward the audience—toward me.

  I almost don’t want him to speak. What if his voice is nasally, or what if he turns out to be an idiot? What if he’s one of those men that’s great to look at, but his attractiveness plummets as soon as he opens his mouth?

  It’s better to simply admire him from a distance. Why ruin the illusion?

  Then, he opens his mouth, and all my fears melt away.

  “Good evening, and congratulations to all of you,” he starts. His voice is like a raging fire, burning me up from the inside out. It’s hot, gravelly, with a hint of wildness in it. His lips flick up at the corners and I swoon.

  I literally swoon. I nearly fall off my chair.

  I think there’s something wrong with me.

  “Who is this guy?” I ask, leaning over toward Becky.

  “Liam Maguire. His brother is running for mayor.”

  “Ah,” I respond, leaning back in my chair and admiring the specimen on stage. So this is Adrian Maguire’s brother?

  Now, I can see it. He doesn’t have the dimples, but he has the chiseled jaw and perfectly tailored suit. His hair is redder than his brother’s—dark auburn. It’s tousled, unlike the perfectly gelled hair that Adrian had. He looks like the bad boy version of the clean-cut man who was at my door yesterday.

  I’m still gawking at him when I feel a tap on my shoulder.

  “John,” I frown. “What’s wrong?”

  It’s not just his nose that’s red now, it’s his whole head. He nods toward the door, and then turns around and stalks toward it. I glance at Becky, whose eyes are wide. She shrugs one shoulder, and I take a deep breath.

  The man on stage—Liam—is starting his speech now, but I don’t hear a word of it. I follow my boss toward the exit as my heart starts to thump.

  I’ve worked with this man for a year now, and I’ve seen the temper he has. The level of temper tantrum he throws is usually directly proportional to the redness of his face.

  And right now, his face is very, very red. As we get to the door, he glances over at a man in the corner. His thick, grey moustache hides his lips, and he stares at us with black eyes. I shiver.

  As soon as we’re through the doors and in the lobby, John whirls on me.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  “E-excuse me?” I frown. I’ve seen him mad, but it’s never been directed at me.

  “The multi-story building project.”

  “What about it?” The company’s biggest project this year has been on every pamphlet, every pitch deck, every brochure that we’ve put out. This project is a gateway to a multitude of others that we’re planning on bidding on in the next year. Depending on who wins the election, there might be a whole host of public works that go to tender.

  But before that happens, we need a proven track record, and that means a successful multi-story building completion.

  “When were you going to tell me about the noise complaints?”

  “The what?”

  John huffs, running his fingers through his thinning hair. Even his scalp is red.

  This is bad.

  “Are you telling me you don’t know about the noise complaints from the Denver Philharmonic orchestra? In all your canvassing of the neighborhood, you failed to mention that their main practice space is located directly beside our active demolition site?”

  “I didn’t canvas—”

  He puts up his hand and shakes his head. “They’re shutting us down, Ashley.”

  “What?”

  “You should have seen this coming.”

  “I only started working here after we did the initial noise assessm—”

  “This is on you.”

  My mouth hangs open as his eyes darken. This is on me?! I’m not the environmental manag
er. I’m not the community relations manager. I’m only as good as the information that comes to me! I wasn’t even here when they did the initial community meetings.

  How could this possibly be on me?

  I try to get the words out, to protest, to say anything, but the words stay stuck in my throat. John huffs again and shakes his head.

  “Luckily, Martha has put together an action plan, and…”

  I don’t hear another word. Martha. From the first day I started at the company, she resented me. She thought I took her job, and it looks like now she’s making her move. She’s throwing me under the bus and covering up her fuckup by blaming me.

  And somehow, John believes her.

  “… it doesn’t seem like you’re able to handle the workload.”

  Anger flares inside me. “Not able to handle the workload? John, with all due respect, I’ve raised the profile of your company measurably since I started. From the website to the social media, you’ve told me yourself that you’ve seen a difference in how clients view us.”

  He sighs and shakes his head, and my blood boils.

  “Maybe it’s just not a good fit, Ashley.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “If you handed in your resignation, I wouldn’t refuse it.”

  His eyes harden, and my heart drops to my stomach. I feel like throwing up. Is this a joke? After all the work I’ve done—all the unpaid overtime, the weekends, everything—he’s asking me to resign?

  “I… what?”

  “I think it’s time we part ways. You can pick up your things on Monday. If you don’t want to resign, I’ll have to terminate your contract and you won’t get paid out all your vacation days.”

  Tears start to fill my eyes. “I…”

  “Are we understood?”

  I nod my head. John sighs and walks back into the auditorium. I flinch as the door slams after him, and then I stare at the closed door wordlessly.

  Did I just get fired?

  Someone clears their throat beside me, and I see one of the waitresses with a glass of red wine. She hands it to me, nodding to the table of glasses that they’re clearing out.