Flirting with the Frenemy

by Grant, Pippa

  He laughs. “You got it.”

  I hang up and finish the dishes, clean out the fireplace, and take out the trash before settling in to listen to an audiobook in the darkened living room.

  Because if Ellie’s coming home tonight, we’re going to talk.

  About everything.

  Seven

  Ellie

  In addition to my brain reeling from trying to keep my story about Wyatt straight all night, my thigh and hip are full-on throbbing by the time Monica pulls to a stop beside Wyatt’s SUV in Beck’s driveway. A single lamp shines in the front window and the porch light glows bright in the dark, starless night. Once she has the car in park, she turns to look at me. “Sorry I didn’t get you home in time to take advantage of Wyatt.”

  “Parenting is exhausting. We’ll have plenty of time later. And Wyatt knows I’m here for you this week. Like I know he’s here for Tucker to see the Pirate Festival. It’s just a bonus that we get any time at all.”

  Gag me. But she’ll freak more if she knows I’m faking this, and I do not want to distract her from the joy of her pirate wedding week.

  She leans over to hug me tight. “Thank you so much for being here this week.”

  “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

  “Am I a horrible person if I say I could really like Sloane if she wasn’t dating Patrick?” she whispers.

  “Patrick’s going to be your brother-in-law. So probably.”

  “I meant the being disloyal to you part.”

  “Oh, stop. I have Wyatt. Patrick has Sloane. The world has moved on. Besides, I think I could like her too. Did you hear her story about the patient who kept trying to trade her chocolate bars for tequila? That was really funny.”

  “But I’m still on Team Ellie.”

  “We’re not on teams.”

  “But I’m totally on Team Wyatt. I swear, Ellie, if he turns into a douche too after all this build-up—”

  “What build-up?”

  “You don’t spend years claiming to hate a man, then screw his brains out, then nearly get yourself killed in an accident and refuse to even admit you screwed his brains out for months afterward, and not have secret feelings for him. You just don’t.”

  I gape at her.

  “This isn’t about the accident, is it?” she asks, her brow furrowing in the dim light. “Because if he’s doing this because he feels guilty, and not because he’s always been unable to handle knowing that you’re his soul mate, then I might have to slice his balls off. And I don’t want to do that. Not when I think of the trauma to his kid.”

  “You are such a nut.”

  “And you love me for it.”

  I really do. She’s like a female version of Beck. Fun, intentionally obtuse, and sometimes annoying, but always with good intentions, and always there to have your back.

  I could do without the inference that Wyatt and I are soul mates though, because while it’s fantastic for a cover story, it’s horrible for my indigestion. “I hope I can be as good a friend as you someday,” I tell her.

  “Hush your mouth. Who’s limping around on pirate boots to appease the bride?”

  “I’m not limping.”

  “You will be when I kick you out of this car so I can go back to town and break into Jason’s room for crazy parrot sex.”

  “Crazy parrot sex?”

  “Huh. I was going for monkey sex with a pirate theme. That didn’t quite work, did it?”

  I give her one last hug before I swing the door open. “I love you, you goober. Go seduce your fiancé until you can’t walk tomorrow.”

  “Well, if I must.” She winks. “Help you to the door?”

  “No. I’ve got this. You go.”

  “And you go have crazy parrot sex too. Understand me? And call me if you need a ride tomorrow. I mean, if Wyatt’s willing to let you out of his sight again.”

  I lift the bag of two burner phones I grabbed to keep here, because no guest should ever be without access to a phone. “I should be fine, and my phone will be all dried out by tomorrow night. But thank you.”

  After I assure her that yes, I also now have her phone number, Jason’s phone number, and Grady’s phone number written on a piece of paper to give to Wyatt and program into both of the burner phones I picked up at Peg Legs and Planks—yes, the hardware store here sells burner phones—I climb out of her car.

  I make it to the front door without limping despite the pain shooting from my knee to my tailbone, but I refuse to let Monica see me hurting. It’s her wedding week, and she doesn’t need to worry over me.

  I wave as I push open the door. She reverses in the darkness to head back down the mountain to town, and as soon as I’m inside, I crumple to a heap against the wall beside the door and let out a soft groan.

  The bedroom is a long fucking way away. Past at least seven massive floor tiles in the foyer, then down a hallway the length of six football fields, through the door, and a walk from here to China to get to the bed.

  Or so it feels.

  Five minutes.

  I just need five minutes to sit here, kneading my twisted thigh muscle and resting my achy hip joint, and then I’ll be fine.

  “Need help?”

  I shriek in surprise at the voice coming out of the semi-darkness, and I realize I’m not alone.

  Wyatt’s up.

  Dammit.

  “Just wondering the last time Beck’s maids dusted the floorboards. Plus, you get a totally different angle on that artwork.” I point to a row of prints on the wall outside the kitchen.

  “The three-piece selfie of Beck’s nostril?”

  “Most people think it’s a cave.”

  “Most people don’t know Beck very well.”

  He’s barefoot, in cargo shorts and a polo with a military-looking logo on his breast pocket, and when he tucks his thumbs in his belt loops and leans against the wall, my ovaries do a backflip, because yes, Wyatt Morgan is quite the handsome man.

  And possibly I shouldn’t have had that glass of wine three hours ago. Clearly it’s still affecting my judgment.

  “Overdid it?” he asks.

  My eyes narrow and I start to scowl, and then the oddest thing happens.

  Instead of narrowing his eyes right back at me, his lips twitch like he’s holding in a smile, he lifts his eyes to the ceiling, mutters, “Dammit, Beck,” and suddenly I’m more curious than I am irritated.

  Until he squats down and picks me up, that is.

  I yelp and try to twist, but I jolt my leg wrong and I end up gasping for breath and gripping him around the neck instead. “What are you doing?” I grit out.

  “Annoying you,” he says as he straightens and moves toward the hall.

  He hasn’t shaved. I could try to count his short whiskers if I wanted to. He’s always clean-shaven. Maybe he’s being a pirate this week too.

  “You are not welcome in my bedroom.”

  “That’s seventy miles away or so, isn’t it? Which part of Copper Valley is your house in again?”

  “Quit being a smart-ass.”

  “There’s no shame in taking help when you need it.”

  “I don’t need help.”

  I am such a liar. Every step he takes closer to the bedroom is like a weight being lifted off my shoulders. One less step I have to take…two less…three…

  “It’s your boyfriend’s duty to carry you to the bedroom.”

  “Don’t even—” I start.

  His lips twitch again.

  Right there. Right in front of my face. His lips are twitching.

  Like I amuse him.

  I don’t amuse anyone. Annoy them, yes. It was one of the reasons Patrick broke up with me. Ellie, you’re just…so perfectionist, it’s annoying. I’m well aware that my project managers back home at work are relieved as hell that I’m on vacation, but I also know that having high standards is the only way I’m going to continue my parents’ legacy and grow their business when they retire in a fe
w years.

  Which is in a few years.

  Not right here.

  Tonight.

  With Wyatt not even breaking a sweat or straining while he carries me into the master bedroom, despite the weight I’ve gained since the accident.

  “Thank you,” I grumble when he sets me gently on the bed.

  “You’re not really welcome.”

  I gasp in surprise.

  He purses his lips together and turns, but not before I see his gray eyes twinkling.

  Twinkling.

  Like he’s enjoying being a shit.

  “I should ask you to fetch my pajamas, but I sleep naked, so there’s no point,” I announce.

  “You want a cowbell so you can call me to hang up your dress when you’ve flung it across the room?”

  There’s no heat in his words. It’s like we’re playing a game not to see who can be more insulting, but who can be more outrageous.

  Because there’s no way in hell anyone would give me a cowbell.

  There’s also no way in hell he’s flirting with me, which is the other possibility reeling through my mind.

  “I prefer a foghorn.” I bend to tug my boot off, and another splinter of pain makes me suck in a breath.

  I really, really overdid it tonight.

  Without looking at my face, Wyatt bends over my feet and tugs my boots off, first my right foot, then ever-so-carefully my left foot.

  I duck my head, because there’s a sudden burn in my eyes that’s drifting into my sinuses as well. “Please don’t be nice to me,” I whisper. “Not when we’re alone. Though you owe me pretending to be my boyfriend this week, because that was a shitty thing to do to Grady.”

  “I just wanted to confirm your feet stink. And they do.”

  I shove him without thinking, because that’s what we do. “They do not.”

  “I called you.”

  And now I want to hit him for real, because the shift in his tone means he did just say exactly what I thought he just said, about exactly what I’ve been afraid he’ll want to talk about, and we are not talking about this. “My phone got busted in the accident. It’s apparently a recurring problem.”

  “Beck had you a new phone with your same number sitting by your bed the minute you were conscious.”

  “So?”

  “So, I tried calling you for weeks.”

  I swallow hard, because he’s not taking my easy excuses. And the truth isn’t nice. “I didn’t want to talk to you.”

  “You usually don’t. But—”

  “No buts. Thank you. I can get my dress.”

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “All water under the bridge. You were right. It was a mistake. Didn’t happen. Moving on. Okay?”

  He takes my chin in his fingers and lifts my face until I can’t help but look at him while he studies me with those intense gray eyes.

  His lashes are stupidly thick. They’re not long, but they’re thick. And his nose is slightly off-center, but not in a weird way. Just in a rugged way.

  And his lips—

  I’m breathing too loud. And he’s watching me too closely.

  Like he can see way down deep to the fourteen-year-old girl inside who turned around one day and realized that one of my older brother’s best friends was cute. And a little awkward, and still annoying with the way he always seemed to know everything, but also reliable and familiar but…new.

  And dating Lydia Baker, who was smart and pretty and on the cheerleading squad. Not the head cheerleader, but still a cheerleader.

  He was seventeen to my fourteen, which was basically illegal, and because I’ve always been that girl who knew everything, yes, I knew he was illegal, and I knew why I got all warm in my belly when he looked at me, and I was also pissed that I couldn’t control my body’s reaction to him.

  But I don’t feel like I know anything tonight.

  I don’t know who I am.

  I don’t know why I’m here.

  I don’t know what I want.

  Not past the next five minutes, anyway.

  It’s not the first time I’ve felt this way.

  And the last time ended with me broken.

  “Was it my fault?” he asks.

  “You weren’t driving the car, Wyatt.”

  “But it was my fault you were.”

  It wasn’t. He didn’t force me into the car. He didn’t choose my route. He didn’t make me do anything.

  He even tried to stop me.

  “It takes two. Quit being the martyr.”

  “Nobody trusted Beck to give us the truth about how you were doing. And you wouldn’t answer your phone. I was scared shitless.”

  “I’m fine. Same old annoying Ellie.”

  And there he goes again, seeing right through me. “Yeah. Same old annoying Ellie.”

  Fuck. I whimper out a laugh, because it’s so damn normal to have Wyatt calling me annoying that I’m in danger of crying. “Shut up.”

  “Annoying, know-it-all Ellie,” he adds.

  I reach out to shove his shoulder, but there’s no speed or force behind my hand, and I end up resting it on his bicep instead. “Mansplaining Wyatt,” I whisper.

  His eyes are boring into mine the same way they did that night while he plants his hands on either side of my legs. “Planner Ellie.”

  “Stick up your butt Wyatt.”

  “Refuses to take help Ellie.”

  “Refuses to admit anyone else can know how to do anything Wyatt.”

  Our faces are drifting closer. This is a bad idea. We’ve been here before, and it ended in disaster. Worse than disaster. I need to shove him away for real.

  Or…we need to practice so that on the rare occasions this week when we have to be seen together in public for whatever reason—Shipwreck isn’t that big—we can fake affection.

  “Jumps to conclusions Ellie.” His breath tickles my nose.

  “Obnoxious—” I start, but I stop when our lips touch.

  A shudder races through me, but it’s not a bad shudder. It’s not a good shudder either. It’s my body craving human affection while my mind recoils in fear, because the last time I was here, with Wyatt, his perfect lips rubbing mine, his hot breath lighting up my veins, it literally changed the entire course of my life.

  Maybe this is what I need to do.

  Maybe kissing him will end this weird limbo I’ve been in. It’ll make the pain in my leg go away. I’ll find my balance at work again. The stars will realign, the man of my dreams will walk in the front door, I’ll start running again, and I’ll be living the life I always wanted to have.

  I won’t care that Patrick’s life went on perfectly with his nurse girlfriend. I won’t care that my injuries might be more than skin and bone deep. I won’t care that I have to pick a new future for myself.

  My free hand loops around his neck and drifts up to rub the prickles of his short hair. He suckles my lower lip and leans me back to the pillow, deepening the kiss as we go.

  This isn’t the kiss we had at Christmas.

  No, this is a who are you? kiss. It’s an I’ve been worried sick over you kiss. A let’s do this right kiss.

  I’ve hated this man most of my life, from the day his grandmother knocked on our door and asked Beck if he could come out and play with the short, wide-eyed, floppy brown-haired boy with the stained T-shirt, through my pre-teen years when he grew into an obnoxious know-it-all, into my teen years when he didn’t even acknowledge I existed anymore.

  I shouldn’t like kissing him.

  Last time he kissed me, he told me it was a mistake.

  And it was. It was the biggest mistake of my life.

  But now I’m stroking my tongue against his and my breasts are aching for his touch and my clit is pulsing with a desperate need for attention.

  I haven’t had sex in six months.

  Not since Wyatt.

  Not since the accident.

  I part my legs, and pain erupts in my left thigh. I break th
e kiss with a gasp, Wyatt and I make eye contact, and he leaps off the bed. A brief flash of terror skitters over his face before he rubs his hands into his eyes and takes one more step toward the door. “Do you have pain meds somewhere?”

  “That bad, was it?” I deadpan while I rub my thigh.

  He watches my hands and doesn’t even spare me a dirty look. “For your leg.”

  “I’m fine.”

  He mutters a curse and stalks into the bathroom. I hear him riffling through my crap, and I don’t bother telling him to stay out of my stuff since he won’t listen anyway, and a pain pill sounds like heaven.

  Not quite as much heaven as him kissing me, which is a paradox I don’t want to deal with right now, but I take some comfort in knowing he’ll see my vibrator if he looks hard enough, and let him think about that all night long.

  He returns, slaps a prescription bottle on the nightstand, and marches out of the room.

  My body sags, and I realize I must look crazy in my pirate wench costume. My mascara’s probably running, and who knows what’s happened to my lipstick.

  I’m unscrewing the bottle when he appears in the doorway again with a glass of water. I ignore it and swallow my pill whole, almost choke, because I hate taking pills dry, and then reluctantly gulp the rest of it down with a glass of water.

  “Give me your phone,” I say crossly.

  He hands it over wordlessly.

  I hand it back because it’s password-protected and glare at him.

  He unlocks it, still without saying a word, and once again gives it to me.

  Once I find Beck’s number—what the fuck? They freaking talked earlier. My brother is dead—I program it into one of the burner phones, then surrender Wyatt’s phone to him. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  We’re the most obnoxiously polite people in the world right now.

  He stares at me a beat too long.

  I stare back.

  You’re not a bad kisser.

  “You’re on the hook for playing my boyfriend all week,” I inform him. “My smitten boyfriend who adores me. And don’t try to get out of it. You asked for this when you ruined my plans with Grady.”