Flirting with the Frenemy

by Grant, Pippa

  “It was none of his fucking business.” She huffs. “That didn’t come out right.”

  I start to smile, but she chews on her bottom lip, which simultaneously sends blood flowing straight to my cock and puts my pulse on high alert, because the Ellie I’ve always known would’ve rolled her eyes and said she was fine.

  “Can I tell you something?” she asks.

  “Why me?”

  “Because if you tell anyone else, I can deny it because of our history.”

  That’s the Ellie I know, and for the first time in my life, I’m finding her huffiness utterly adorable. “Then absolutely.”

  “I don’t know what I want to do with my life.”

  “I recommend not marrying your ex-boyfriend.”

  She kicks me under the table, and I feel marginally better about myself for that smart-ass comment just popping off my tongue.

  “When I graduated high school, I told myself I’d have a master’s degree in five years, a husband in eight, and kids in ten,” she tells me, which isn’t a surprise in the least. “And that I’d work my ass off to earn every promotion I got with my parents, because I know they’ll leave me the company one day, but I don’t want it just because I’m their daughter. I want to fucking earn it. I’ve been saving up to buy them out five years before they think they want to retire because Beck’s right, they’re workaholics and they don’t realize how old they’re getting.”

  “You should probably not use the word old when you approach them.” Fuck, I’m terrible at this. “I mean—”

  She cuts me off with a flutter of her hand. “I have two years to practice. I’ll get this.”

  “Of course you will.”

  “See? That’s the thing. I can tell you what I want professionally. But I don’t have a clue what I want in my personal life anymore.”

  “You don’t want a family anymore?”

  “I don’t know if I…if I can.” The words come out like they’re physically painful, and the sudden understanding hits me like a sock to the gut that pushes it into my chest to suffocate my heart.

  I never wanted to have kids, and then Tucker happened, and I can’t imagine my life without him. We talk every night during the school year—I got him a phone over Lydia’s objections, and because he’s seven, he doesn’t know yet he can push limits—and it’s the best part of every day.

  Ellie’s always wanted kids. Always.

  Life’s not fucking fair.

  I swallow hard. “The accident?”

  “I haven’t been…regular…since. And my doctor…doesn’t know yet. She says I need more time to heal, but the best way to find out is to…try. And I don’t fucking have anyone to try with, and I’m not in any position to do it all by myself, or even ready at this point, and I never wanted to do it by myself anyway. But I just—” She looks away and cuts herself off with a shake of her head.

  “Does your family know?”

  “Of course not. They’ve barely gotten over the trauma of the phone call. I’m not putting this on them.”

  “Ellie. They’re your family.”

  “And they can’t fix it.”

  I rub a hand over my face, wincing when I accidentally hit my sore eye, and stifle a sigh. “I don’t know what all’s going on inside your head right now, but I know your mother, and I know she’s always been the best listener, with the best advice, and she might not be able to solve anything, but she can sure as hell make anyone feel better.”

  “I didn’t say I feel bad about anything.”

  “But you don’t know what you want out of your personal life,” I point out. Helpfully.

  “Never mind. Forget I said anything.”

  “You know your worth as a person is more than just whether you can have kids and walk without a limp.”

  The edges of her pursed lips go white as she glares over the railing at the park.

  “If anyone can beat this,” I say, “you can.”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Fuck, Ellie, Beck said the doctors weren’t sure you’d ever walk again, and look at you, being a dumbass and pushing your limits and giving them the double bird while you dance on tables.”

  I get a reluctant grin.

  “And scientists have made huge advancements in anatomically correct, realistic looking robots, so there’s even a chance you’ll be able to at least look like you’re married before you’re fifty,” I add.

  She spins in her chair and lunges for the ketchup, and before I know what’s happening, I’m staring down a squeeze bottle. “That wasn’t very nice,” she says primly.

  Her eyes are dancing behind the bruises, and dammit, she’s pretty when she smiles.

  And when she threatens me with a ketchup bottle.

  “You can try it,” I tell her, “but I’m a quick draw with the mustard.”

  Her gaze darts to the yellow squirt bottle on the table, then back to me. “You think so?”

  “I could definitely sword fight you with it.”

  “If you want to get stabbed in the heart with a ketchup spout.”

  “You’d go for my heart?”

  “I’m ruthless, Morgan. Ruthless.”

  “But have you studied the art of war?”

  “I’ve studied the art of not getting trampled by my dear brother, which is the same thing.”

  “Is not.”

  “Oh, please. It is—hey!”

  I snag the mustard bottle and point it at her while she’s distracted with arguing.

  “I should squirt you,” she says, but she’s smiling so big she can’t get it out without a laugh.

  “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “Oh, like yesterday was my fault?”

  I want to kiss her.

  I want to lean across this table and kiss her until neither one of us can breathe, and then I want to kiss her more.

  Because she’s strong. So fucking strong. She’s what I want to be. What I try to be.

  Unstoppable. Undaunted by a challenge. Fearless.

  “All your fault,” I say. “You set me up.”

  She’s leaning in like she feels it too. Like she would kiss me too.

  She’s still pointing the ketchup bottle at me, but it’s Ellie, so naturally.

  “You are so full of baloney.”

  She’s a Siren, beckoning me with her wide smile and daring insults. She’s bold and driven and fun.

  Fuck, I miss fun.

  “You like baloney,” I remind her.

  She wrinkles her nose.

  “You did. When we were kids.”

  The ketchup bottle wavers. “How do you even remember that?”

  “It was horrifying.”

  “You used to eat canned meat. You can’t talk.”

  We’re so close, the nozzles on our condiment bottles are touching. “And how do you remember that?”

  “My mother tells the story every time your name comes up. That poor Wyatt Morgan, we had to introduce him to real lunch meat. Think what would’ve happened to the boy’s diet if he’d never moved in down the street.”

  “Lies. All lies.” So very close. I could kiss her. I shouldn’t, but I could.

  Her gaze dips to my lips, a smile growing, and I’m nearly there when she suddenly jerks back and squirts ketchup across my shirt.

  She gapes for a minute at me, suspended in shock. “Oh, shit,” she gasps. “I didn’t mean—”

  I squeeze my bottle and get her with mustard across her chin and neck.

  She squirts again, and I dive out of my chair to miss the red stream. “That was an accident, you jerk!” she shrieks.

  “Likely story,” I retort, aiming the mustard just to her right.

  A bird squawks indignantly. “Motherfucker, kiss my ass.” There’s a flap of wings, and Long Beak Silver shoots into the air with a streak of yellow that wasn’t on his feathers before.

  We both stare at the bird.

  “Oh my god, you shot Long Beak Silver,” Ellie whispers in horror.

&n
bsp; “All your fault,” I repeat, hastily stealing her ketchup bottle and moving all the condiments two tables away.

  She’s wiping the mustard off her face when Davis appears at the top of the stairs. His man bun is freshly straightened, his beard thick enough to be hiding a squeeze bottle, and he’s shaking his head. “Foreplay?”

  “Shut up,” Ellie says.

  I grab a napkin and wipe the mustard she missed under her jaw.

  “How’s the patient?” I ask him.

  “Sitting pretty with Ellie at 802,700, but I could change that to my name.”

  “You are a god,” Ellie tells him. “I could even kiss that flea-infested beard. Sit. Lunch is on Wyatt.”

  “So generous,” Davis replies. “Where’s your kid?”

  I point to the treasure dig. “With the human parrot.”

  “Ah. Anyway, bill’s in the mail. I’m heading home.”

  “But you just got here,” Ellie says while I add, “Kick up your feet and stay a while.”

  “No can do. I’ve got a reactor to hack.” He turns his gaze to Ellie. “We’re even now. Don’t break it again.”

  “Swear on the penalty of having to watch Beck do a photo shoot, I will not touch Frogger again for the rest of my life.”

  “Kiss her for me,” he adds to me. He gives us both a salute and disappears down the stairs again.

  “You are not kissing me,” Ellie whispers.

  “Now it’s a challenge,” I tell her.

  “I’m so freaking serious, Wyatt. We can be friends, but we cannot touch, kiss, get naked, take baths, or do any other thing that people who date do. We will literally die. The universe does not want us together.”

  And on top of that, she has a life in Copper Valley, and my situation is complicated.

  “We have to touch at the very least,” I point out, because I’m apparently a masochistic idiot. “I’m your boyfriend this week. Your wedding date. Remember?”

  “Fine. Touching. But only in public, and only when absolutely necessary. And we should probably both wear protective gear to bed—which we’re going to separately—and take shifts sleeping in case the house burns down around us.”

  I don’t bother trying to hide my grin. “Sure. We’ll set up a schedule.”

  “Don’t mock me. I’m serious.”

  “As a heart attack?” I prompt.

  She swats at my hand. “Do not tempt fate,” she hisses.

  “All right, all right. No touching, no kissing, no nothing unless absolutely necessary to sell your story.”

  “Thank you.”

  She smiles.

  I smile.

  Boundaries should be a good thing. I don’t have room in my life for falling for Ellie Ryder. Not with the added complications it would bring.

  But agreeing to her new terms feels more fake than pretending to be her boyfriend for the wedding.

  And I don’t want to think about what that means.

  Eighteen

  Ellie

  Because a wedding at the Pirate Festival is a big deal—especially since Shipwreck is competing with the Unicorn Festival in the small town of Sarcasm not ten miles away—Monica and Jason are guest judges for the pirate costume, ship model, and food contests, and the entire wedding party is invited along to help offer opinions. So Wednesday night, Wyatt, Tucker, and I join Monica, Jason, and their families at the Deep Blue Retreat Center, where dozens of pirate ship models are on display in the semi-circular conference room, which has windows overlooking the soft, hazy mountain ridges on either side of Shipwreck.

  “These are amazing,” Monica says as we walk along the curved row of tables holding the ships submitted by the school-age kids in Shipwreck. Some are made of Legos, some out of popsicle sticks, some out of clay, but they’re all adorable and really cool in which details the kids picked to highlight.

  Almost all of them have a fake bird, and at least half have signs added about no cussing on deck.

  My personal favorite is the one made out of recycled food containers, and I know Monica’s totally going to vote for that one too, since her day job is making art out of recycled materials.

  “Dad, can I make a pirate ship?” Tucker asks.

  “Sure. I’ve got some Legos for you at home.”

  “No, Dad, to enter in the contest!”

  “Next year, bud. They’re closed this year.”

  “I’ll judge your ship, Tucker,” Monica tells him. “And I’d bet it’ll be awesome.”

  They’re best friends since hanging out digging for treasure this morning.

  “How’s your leg today?” Monica’s mom asks me as we make our way to the next room, which has tables and tables loaded down with pirate-themed food.

  “Better than a peg leg,” I tell her.

  “Dad! Dad, can I have an octopus?” Tucker asks.

  Wyatt catches him by the shoulders. “Slow down, there, Captain Hollow Leg. See Miss Monica’s scoring chart? She needs to decide what’s pretty before we taste it, and then she has to rate how good it is.”

  “No need to worry, we have extras for the wee ones.” Pop Rock ambles over, dressed today like his ancestor, Thorny Rock. “Right this way, right this way.”

  My stomach gives a timely growl, and Monica laughs. “Go on, Ellie. All of you. We’ll be done soon.”

  “I’ve never eaten a hot dog in my life,” Mrs. Dixon murmurs to her husband. “This is the most undignified festival I’ve ever seen.”

  “I think it’s fun,” Sloane declares. “They say fun cures constipation.”

  Patrick shoots her a look. She smiles back tightly.

  And Wyatt and I share a look.

  So there’s trouble in Patrick-Sloane land.

  Pop opens the door to the center’s industrial kitchen, and oh my word, the food.

  So much food.

  Plates and platters of entrées, appetizers, sides, and— “Cookies!” Tucker exclaims.

  It’s the same food out on display—deviled egg ships with pirate flags, island pizza, quicksand dip, pirate eyeballs, hot dogs cut into wedges with the bottom half sliced to give it octopus legs, meat cannonballs—except there are paper pirate plates and napkins and a huge bowl of pirate punch that’s obviously been dipped into.

  “Eat up, me hearties,” Pop says. “That there be kiddie punch, because me blasted crew drank up all the rum last night.”

  “Are these meatballs made with chicken?” Mrs. Dixon demands, pointing to the pirate eyeballs.

  Monica’s mom smiles. She’s dressed like a hippie pirate, with a scabbard tied over her flowery muumuu and a pirate hat on her short graying hair. “Yes, Caroline, they’re chicken. I called ahead and checked because I knew you’d prefer it.”

  Wyatt and I both turn around before Mrs. Dixon looks at either of us. He dives for a plate to help Tucker make a few healthy choices before getting to dessert, and I take a minute to wipe the smile off my face as I pretend to decide between the quicksand dip and shovels—aka hummus and vegetables—and the grilled parrot—aka chicken wings.

  Ultimately, both win.

  We all load up our plates and carry them into the center’s dining room, where other judges are eating and discussing the festival. Monica’s mom takes the seat beside me at the rectangular table, and Wyatt and Tucker pile in across from us.

  Jason’s family sits at the table behind me, and I breathe a sigh of relief that I can make any face I want without fear of getting an earful of loudly murmured insults.

  “Ellie, honey, how’s work?” Monica’s mom asks.

  I tell her about a few of the projects I’ve been overseeing. My parents’ environmental firm has contracts to retrofit several aging buildings around Copper Valley to improve energy efficiency. We’re also working on initiatives with the local government to promote more recycling options around the city, and we’ve been branching farther and farther into other parts of Virginia, West Virginia, North Carolina, Kentucky, and Tennessee.

  She asks Wyatt about his job, a
nd he downplays the whole flies jets with untested systems thing, because god forbid the man toot his own horn. Tucker’s too busy chowing down on everything on his plate to talk. He has a smear of ketchup across his face, which makes me smile, both because Tucker gets cuter every day, and also because it makes me remember holding Wyatt at ketchup-point this morning.

  But then I’m frowning, because I’m not supposed to let myself find Wyatt attractive, since it’s bad for our health.

  And I probably shouldn’t get attached to his son either.

  Monica’s mom asks how we met and started dating, and we trip over each other telling contradictory stories that all make Tucker giggle, but we’re saved by Monica dropping into the seat on the other side of her mother.

  “Don’t listen to them,” Monica says. “Their relationship thrives on one-upping each other. The real story is that they’ve been in love since they were teenagers but were both too stubborn and scared to do anything about it until recently.”

  I open my mouth to argue, but I realize she’s boxed us into a corner.

  She grins at me.

  And Wyatt leaps up, uses his chair as a vault to fly across the cafeteria table.

  “Wha—” I start, turning to watch him leap across the table behind us too. “Oh, shit.”

  “Oh my god,” Monica gasps.

  Jason drops his plate upside down and rushes to the table too, where Wyatt’s lifting Caroline Dixon off her chair and giving her the Heimlich.

  Her eyes are huge, her face mottling, lips parted and bluing at the edges as she struggles to breathe.

  Wyatt thrusts his fist under her breastbone once, twice, and on the third thrust, a piece of meatball flies out of her mouth and lands square on Patrick’s plate. I don’t know where Sloane or Mr. Dixon are, but they’re not at the table.

  It’s just Mrs. Dixon and Patrick, who’s now rushing toward his mother too.

  She gasps and sags and makes a very unladylike expression that’s too garbled to fully be called an expletive, but I’m pretty sure she just said fuck.

  Wyatt helps her to sitting. “Okay now?” he asks.

  She gulps hard, panting, and nods without looking at him.

  “Back up, give her space,” Patrick snaps. He shoves Wyatt out of the way and squats. “Are you okay? Is anything broken? Did he crack a rib?”