Married to the Enemy: A Small Town Enemies-to-Lovers Romance (Bliss River Book 2)

by Lili Valente

“Why would I do that?”

  “Most body builders do.”

  “I’m not a body builder,” he says. “I’m a fitness enthusiast.”

  “Is that right, Meaty?” I smile, my cheek still on his chest.

  “That’s right, Red.” He cups my bottom through my sleep shorts. “I’m also an Aria enthusiast.”

  I giggle. “No way. We can’t bang again. You’ll break my privates.”

  “Wouldn’t want to do that,” he says seriously. “I really like your privates. A lot.”

  “I could tell,” I say, still grinning. I reach down between his legs, beneath the waist of his pajama pants, wrapping my fingers around his already semi-hard cock. “I like yours, too. I will call him Mr. Magic and I will love him and pet him and give him kisses.”

  “Kisses?” Nash asks in a voice so hopeful and eager I can’t help but laugh.

  I push up on one arm, arching a dubious brow. “Seriously? You think Mr. Magic can handle kisses right now? Hasn’t he had enough?”

  “When it comes to you,” he says, kissing my forehead, “there’s no such thing as enough.”

  And that’s how we end up christening the couch.

  And it is wonderful.

  Almost as wonderful as this man.

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  Melody March

  Being a grown-up is waaaay harder than my parents made it look when I was a kid. I’m about to turn twenty-three, the same age my mom was when she had my eldest sister, and I’m not even close to having the whole adulting thing—or myself—sorted out.

  But there are a few things I know for sure:

  1.I’m not the kind of girl who drinks three margaritas in less than two hours.

  2.I don’t stay out past eleven, or wear dresses that emphasize my already far-too-abundant chest, or delete texts from my ex-boyfriend without bothering to respond.

  3.I don’t wear eyeliner and lipstick at the same time, or dance when there’s no music playing, or take off my shoes to wade in the fountain at the quiet end of downtown, ignoring posted signs that clearly state—No Wading Please.

  The fact that at the present moment I’m guilty of all of the above would be enough to make my head spin even without the tequila pumping through my bloodstream.

  I don’t know what’s come over me lately.

  Oh, yes, you do, the inner voice slurs. It’s him, the jerkiest jerk who was ever a jerk. It’s all his fault.

  The inner voice is so right.

  This is all his fault. Him, Nick Geary, the bad boy who kissed me senseless against his car a month ago, awakening the sleeping sex beast inside me, only to treat me like a sweet baby sister ever since. Before Nick and I locked lips, I had no idea I could feel hungry for someone’s kisses.

  Sure, I liked kissing, but I didn’t hunger for it. Hunger was for food—cheese, avocado toast, and extra dessert, in particular.

  I was a fool. A naïve, ridiculous fool, twirling innocently through the world with no idea that she would soon be starved to death for another taste of Nick Geary’s lips.

  That’s what it feels like…starving.

  I would literally give up cheese for an entire year for a chance to make out with Nick again, but he’s decided to be a huge, hairy, kiss-withholding jerk.

  Okay, he’s not a jerk.

  He’s mostly nice, but even his niceness is awful, a sucker punch to the ego every time I try, and fail, to pique his interest.

  And I have tried to pique it, boy have I, but no amount of flirting or cookie baking or cute dress wearing in his vicinity has caught his eye. He seems to like hanging out with me—he’s always underfoot in the kitchen at work, stealing a taste of my dish-in-progress, teasing my sisters, and laughing at my jokes—but his feelings seem purely platonic.

  Ugh. Platonic.

  It’s enough to sour even my usually cheery disposition.

  I kick a leg in frustration, sending fountain water spraying onto the sidewalk, inches from where my best friend, Kitty, is still standing.

  “Hey! Watch it.”

  “Sorry!” I say, laughing as she points an accusing finger at my chest. “I thought you were in already! Get in!”

  “I will not.” Kitty, one of my oldest besties, shakes her head, sending her long brown ponytail swishing back and forth. “It’s against the rules. And I might drown.”

  I glance down and back up at her with an arched brow. “In less than two feet of water?”

  “Maybe.” She hiccups and grins. “I’m pretty tipsy.”

  Kitty only had two margaritas, but her cheeks are flushed and her blue eyes glassy. But then, Kitty weighs about forty pounds less than I do. I’m a curvy girl, a state of being that’s not likely to change anytime soon. I love to cook and to eat what I cook—and what my sisters and co-workers at Ever After Catering cook—way too much to ever fit into a size two.

  Cooking is more than a job, it’s one of my passions, and for a long time, it was enough. All I needed was my family and my lucky apron, and I was a happy camper.

  But now…

  “Do you think I need to lose weight?” I ask, staring down at myself, shocked again by how enormous my breasts look from this angle. Really, the universe could have pulled back on the boobs a little. Small woodland creatures could get lost in that cleavage and never be found.

  Good thing I stay out of the woods most of the time.

  “Oh, shut up,” Kitty says with a snort. “Quit being crazy. You’re gorgeous. Every guy in the restaurant was staring at you when we walked out.”

  “Really?” I wrinkle my nose. I hadn’t noticed, but I also haven’t been paying much attention to the male population lately.

  I’ve only been interested in Nick’s attention.

  Or lack thereof.

  “Totally.” Kitty reaches back, tightening her ponytail with a firm yank. “I was invisible. As usual.”

  A hard-core tomboy who owns her own auto repair shop, Kitty hates girly things with a passion I reserve for loving cheese, and I rarely see her out of jeans and a tee-shirt.

  Tonight is no exception.

  But Kitty makes dark wash jeans and a tight black tee look edgy and cool. She has a tough, lean, sexy thing going on that makes it hard for me to understand why, aside from myself, Kitty is the only other girl from our high school graduating class not coupled up, engaged, or already married.

  Hard to understand, but still, I’m grateful not to be the only odd girl out. Since my eighteenth birthday, I’ve been a member of ten wedding parties and was just asked to join our friend Dinah’s bridesmaid crew last week. At this rate, I’ll have a dozen bridesmaid dresses collecting dust in my parents’ garage before my birthday in October.

  A collection of bridesmaid dresses, but not even a hint that a wedding of my own might be in the near future. The past few months, my dating life has been dismal. Even before I started crushing on Nick. Every allegedly sweet boy my matchmaking nana set me up with proved to be more annoying, self-centered, and uninspiring than the last.

  It’s enough to make a girl want to give up on the opposite sex altogether…if there wasn’t an irresistible bad boy in tight black jeans strutting around under her nose every day at work.

  Geez…the strutting! It would be laughable if he didn’t look so darned good doing it.

  “If I ever want to get laid again, I guess I need a makeover or something,” Kitty says, pressing her hands to her flushed cheeks with a groan. “But I hate makeup soooo much.”

  “You don’t need it! You’re pretty the way you are, mama.”

 
; “Right.” Kitty rolls her eyes.

  “You are!” I insist. “If I liked girls, I’d be all up in your business. I think you’re smokin’ hot.”

  “And I think you’re drunk and falling out of the top of your dress.” Kitty snorts and points at my chest.

  I glance down again, blinking in surprise to discover even more unruly boob-age spilling out of the V-neck of my purple dress. I chose this dress for this exact effect, but it’s still a little shocking to see so much of myself on display.

  Shocking and a little exciting…

  It isn’t just feeling starved for another taste of Bad Boy that’s been different lately. I’ve felt restless, experimental, tempted to push the limits and bend the rules in a way I never have before.

  A part of my brain insists it’s just a risqué dress and not a big deal, but another part wonders what the heck is happening and how far this will go before I revert to my old self?

  “Tug that thing up and get out of there,” Kitty presses. “Let’s go have coffee and donuts. Sober up. I shouldn’t drive right now.”

  “Me either,” I say, my stomach rumbling at the mention of donuts. I could definitely go for a fresh glazed or two.

  I wade to the edge of the fountain, enjoying the way the cool water swishes between my toes. My high-heeled sandals were killing me. I can’t wait for the late September heat to fade so I can pull out my comfy boots with the wool lining and slip back into cozy fall sweaters and, hopefully, a less tumultuous state of mind.

  Maybe it’s just the lingering summery weather that’s made me…hotter than usual.

  I step out onto the sidewalk and slip my damp feet into my sandals with a resigned sigh, wishing bare feet were socially acceptable. “Where to?” I ask, propping my hands on my hips. “Donut Time Diner or Dippin Donuts?”

  “Donut Time. Obviously,” Kitty says. “Having to dip my donut in coffee to make it soft enough to chew is sacrilege.”

  “Agreed,” I say, looping my arm through hers as we wander down the street toward the older part of downtown Bliss River.

  At eleven thirty on a Thursday night, the downtown area is quiet. The click of my heels on the pavement and the muffled music pulsing from behind the thick metal door of The Horse and Rider at the end of Main Street are the only sounds.

  The Horse and Rider is the only place—aside from Bliss River’s many churches—where a person can regularly catch live music in our sleepy little town. The bar also has a reputation for attracting a rough crowd after ten o’clock. I’ve been old enough to get into a bar for nearly two years now, but I’ve never even thought about going to the honky-tonk, even though I’ve been a huge fan of live music since my sister, Aria, took me to my first all-ages show in Atlanta when I was sixteen.

  But I’m a “nice girl,” and nice girls don’t go to places like The Horse and Rider.

  Nice girls volunteer at the retirement home, go to church at least once a week, head to bed before midnight, and watch their language in polite company. I try not to cuss, but when I really need to drop an “f-bomb,” I make darned sure it doesn’t happen in front of my parents, Nana, or anyone who might report back to the above.

  And that’s all good. I’ve always liked being a “nice girl.” It’s a way of life that’s come relatively easily for me.

  But for some reason, the throbbing beat pulsing from behind the honky-tonk’s door calls to me tonight in a way it hasn’t before.

  I want to know what’s going on in there. I want to check out the size of the dance floor, taste the allegedly awful draft beer, and feel the music pulsing through my bones.

  I’m about to ask Kitty if she wants to duck into the bar for a look around before we head to the diner—just to check it out for future dancing possibilities— when Kitty stops dead in her tracks on the sidewalk and squeezes my arm tight enough to make me squeak in surprise.

  “Melody, is that who I think it is?” she hisses beneath her breath.

  “Who?” I look around, but there’s no one else on the sidewalk on either side of the street. “Where?” I ask again in my normal voice.

  “Hush! There, in the tattoo shop,” Kitty whispers. “The red sign. Big. Glowing. Says Tattoo in all caps.”

  My eyes widen as I home in on the neon sign affixed to the brick edifice above the store to our right. The shop was a crafting supply store for about a year but has languished empty since Craft Happy went out of business. The Main Street area is a hopping place, but this end of downtown is older and more faded than the refurbished buildings closer to the square. The landlord of this store always seems to have a problem retaining renters. Every business that opens ends up closing within a year or less.

  Sadly, I doubt the newest tenants will do much better. They’ll be lucky to last until Christmas.

  “A tattoo shop.” I arch a brow, laughter in my voice. “In downtown Bliss River? What were they thinking?”

  “Maybe he was thinking he’s tired of working as a part-time cater-waiter. That’s Nick, right?” Kitty points a discreet, but jabby, finger toward the shop window.

  I follow the direction of the jab. There, on a rolling stool, tattoo gun in hand in the brightly lit shop, is none other than Nick Geary.

  As always, his dark brown hair is carefully spiked, sprouting wildly around his head, but instead of a tray of champagne flutes, his magnetic green eyes are focused on the beefy forearm of a bald man in a Harley Davidson tee shirt.

  The moment I lay eyes on him, my tequila-numbed synapses snap and flicker. I remember Nick said he used to work in a tattoo parlor in Atlanta, but I had no idea he was planning to open a shop in Bliss River.

  Did he mention that?

  Surely he didn’t, or I would have remembered.

  For better or worse, I tend to remember every word that spills from Nick’s smirky, sexy mouth.

  Silently, I wish this shop a long, happy life. Nick is even more handsome with that look of complete concentration on his face.

  I watch, mesmerized, as he deftly guides the buzzing needle across the man’s skin with an assurance that makes it clear he’s achieved mastery of his craft. The muscles in his arms flex deliciously as he works, drawing attention to the tattoos trailing from beneath the sleeves of his tee-shirt, making my breath come faster even before Kitty says—

  “We should go in and say hi.”

  I gulp and freeze, anxiety dumping into my bloodstream.

  Am I ready to face off with Nick right now? I never used to be nervous around boys, even boys I thought were cute, but that was B.N.G.—Before Nick Geary. Before he made me tongue tied. Before he remained unfazed by my gifts of mouth-orgasm-inducing cookies. Before he made it clear my flirting game isn’t nearly as solid as I’d assumed before he proved immune to it.

  I only dated a handful of boys during high school, culinary school, and the years since, but my affection was always returned. My crushes always crushed back.

  Until now.

  Now I’m off kilter, off my game, and anything but smooth. Every time I run into Nick outside of work, when I’m prepared for an encounter with the object of my unrequited affection, I feel like I’m stuck in an anxiety dream, the one where it’s opening night of the school play, and I don’t have a single line memorized.

  “Okay, but what do I say?” I ask, biting my lip.

  Kitty shrugs. “Um…hi? What’s up? When did you open the shop? Why don’t you want to have wild, passionate sex with me? Or I could ask for you.”

  I squeeze Kitty’s arm. “If you say that, I will kill you. Dead. Or at the very least carve out your tongue and keep it in my pocket.”

  “Gross.” Kitty giggles. “You never would have said something like that before. Seriously, woman, this crush is affecting you in strange and mysterious ways.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, feeling terrible. “Are you mad?”

  “Of course not. Don’t be silly.” She rolls her eyes. “I like the wilder Melody. She’s more fun to go drinking with, but you need to face
your fear.” She tugs me toward the door. “Come on, let’s go in. I’ll say I’m thinking about getting a tattoo. I want to meet this boy who’s too dumb to see how awesome you are and make sure he sees you in this insanely hot dress.”

  I grin. “You’re the best friend ever.”

  “True,” she says, before adding in a whisper, “Just let me do the talking and act surprised to see Mr. Hottie.”

  I suck in a breath and nod, keeping my gaze fixed on the wild, tattoo-inspired art tacked to the walls as we step inside the shop, setting off a tinkling bell that’s barely audible over the punk music pumping through the speakers.

  Still, Nick seems to have heard the jingle.

  “Be with you in just a second,” he calls over his shoulder, shouting to be heard over the buzzing of the tattoo gun. “Feel free to look through the books.”

  “Cool, thanks,” Kitty answers, winking at me before stepping up to the wooden counter where several binders filled with laminated pages of tattoo designs sit next to a thicker binder with “Nick’s Original Work” written in permanent marker on the cover.

  With a quick glance at Nick to make sure he hasn’t seen me, I reach for the last binder and flip it open. Inside is page after page of gorgeously drawn and executed tattoos. Aria mentioned that her new husband, Nash, the town Captain of Police and Nick’s oldest brother, is a talented artist.

  It must run in the family, because Nick’s work is breathtaking.

  He’s done a wide variety of tattoos—everything from a cute little unicorn with a rainbow mane to a giant, scary-looking robot that covered a man’s entire back—but he seems to specialize in animals.

  The feathers on his birds are extraordinary and the muscles on his tigers and panthers ripple with life, even in a still picture. But it’s the phoenix on the last page that really catches my attention. Nick used vibrant colors to capture every exotic detail of the mythical creature—turquoise for the scaled patches of skin, lush purples and greens for the feathers, and an orange so bright it looks like he dipped his needle in liquid sunshine for the flames. The expression on the phoenix’s face is equally captivating, somehow managing to be both pained and hopeful, at the same time.