Still Not Yours: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

by Snow, Nicole

  Only, I find her standing there covered in spattered coffee grounds, dripping wet, her short, silk bathrobe clinging to her body in translucent patches. The kind that make it crystal clear whatever she’s wearing underneath is paper thin, enough that her skin swells in soft, curving mounds against the soaked fabric.

  She freezes, staring at me guiltily. I stare back, caught between surprise at finding her here half-dressed and stunned confusion at why the hell my Keurig is smoking on the kitchen counter.

  Her cheeks flush. It’s funny how when women blush, their cheeks turn the same color as their lips – and hers are a sort of velvety strawberry, natural red without any lipstick.

  Liv bites her lower lip, then ducks her head sheepishly, lacing her fingers together behind her back and peeking up at me through her lashes with her shoulders hunched.

  “Sorry,” she mumbles, scuffing one foot against the floor. “I just wanted to help, but I’ve...I’ve never done this before. This thing just exploded everywhere. It’s usually Julia, our live-in housekeeper, you know, and she makes the best French pressed –”

  “Enough.”

  I don’t want to hear about this.

  Nothing about this pampered life she had growing up with a silver spoon in her mouth, unable to even make coffee for herself.

  I especially don’t want to feel sympathy for her over it, when I should be disgusted.

  Hell, whatever else I should be feeling, there's one thing I know damn well I shouldn’t.

  I can't stand seeing this woman in my house, underdressed, looking at me sheepishly in that flimsy little robe. I can't be here, hyper-focused on this beautiful, too young, dick-hardening mess while we should be sweeping up the real mess she's just created.

  Swallowing a growl, I tear my gaze off her and stalk past to a cabinet.

  I’m just going to help her and then get out.

  And hope like hell she doesn’t burn my house down with me and my daughter in it.

  There’s an old Moka pot in the cabinet, one from before I replaced it with the Keurig. I pull it down and set it on the stove. “Over here. You’re going to learn how to make your own coffee,” I say. “Chateau Woods doesn’t come with espresso service or turn-downs.”

  She laughs a bit shakily and leans in to watch. “Okay, fair enough. What's that thing?”

  “Moka pot. It’s a little different from a normal coffee pot, but the same result. Here.” I open the pot and ladle in grounds, then run it under the sink to fill its well with water. “You just fill both compartments – don’t forget the filter – then put it on the stove and keep an eye on it.” I set the pot down on a burner and turn it to medium high heat. “Try not to explode this, too.”

  Rather than sulking at me like I’d expect a spoiled little rich girl to do, she lights up with a smile, like this is some kind of inside joke between us. “What’s the harm? The kitchen’s already ruined.”

  I just arch a brow.

  Turn away.

  And pull the broom off the hook by the back door, thrusting it at her without a single solitary word.

  She blinks at me like I’ve just tried to give her a live snake before she reaches out tentatively, her slender fingers grasping loosely at the broom, soft skin brushing against mine with a tingle that raises the hairs along the backs of my knuckles. I let go quickly, and she clutches tighter, catching the broom and then pulling it against her. Her wide eyes look up at me, blue as a clear morning.

  “You...you want me to sweep?”

  “You made the mess,” I say. “You clean it. House rule.”

  I wait for the whine. The protest. The demand that I be her servant and do it myself, like witness protection is a luxury five-star hotel and she’s just here for us to wait on her hand and foot.

  Instead, she only gives me a fierce, determined little smile, looking almost happy about the prospect, and whips around.

  Her robe flashes to the side for a moment, and I catch an edge of scalloped pink lace and a taut, curving cleft. My dick jerks under my towel. She grips the broom firmly in both hands and starts pushing the patch of coffee grounds on the floor around, gathering them up clumsily, and...whistling.

  The girl is whistling.

  Even more, I recognize the tune from some of the DVDs Em used to watch when she was a little girl.

  It’s Whistle While You Work.

  “Playing Cinderella now?” I ask, leaning against the counter next to the stove and just watching. She’s doing something, all right. Not sure I’d call it cleaning, but she’s trying determinedly.

  She stops for a moment and flashes me that fierce little smile, oddly self-contained in how she expresses herself. “It’s Snow White, but thanks.”

  “Whatever. I’m not a dwarf.”

  I almost swear the look she flicks over me lingers, that it isn't just amusement, right before she suddenly looks away. Back down to watch the broom scoot across the floor, her cheeks reddening again. “Maybe not, Riker. But you’re sure as hell Grumpy. Don’t you want to go put some clothes on?”

  Not really.

  My house, my space, and I’m comfortable here. I keep my mouth closed and just watch her as she putters around with the broom.

  She’s making much more work of it than she has to, but Snow White here seems determined to get the coffee grounds into a single pile. It’s mostly working. The water splattered everywhere, not so much. I don’t quite have the heart to tell her there’s a mop that will do that, or paper towels.

  Because it’s actually kind of adorable, watching her determinedly try to sweep water into a single puddle in the center of the floor.

  She keeps peeking at me in the silence, though, past the fringe of soft honey-blonde hair that falls over her shoulders and into her face. It's the color of summer wheat.

  I grumble to myself, then look away, glaring toward the window, where the sun is coming through the curtains in soft, misty wisps.

  Fine. Small talk it is.

  “Why are you up so early, anyway?” I ask.

  It’s Saturday, for one – and while my tension had me up early today, normally I like to sleep in on Saturdays. Before Em turns into a little tornado, dragging me over every hill. For two, I expected her to be lying in bed until noon, a sleep mask over her eyes.

  She blinks, then straightens, leaning on the broom. “Oh, well, I normally get up before everyone else. It’s the only quiet time I can find to do some writing without people hovering over me or wanting my attention.”

  Writing? I tilt my head, folding my arms over my chest. “What do you write? Landon’s wife writes these chick flick reads –”

  I’ve never seen someone light up so fast at the very mention, like a teenager coming face to face with a music idol. She’s practically got stars in her eyes. “I know! I love Kenna’s books. She’s what made me want to try writing. If I could write as well as she does, maybe I could...”

  She trails off. An odd glow flashes over her features, wrinkling between her brows, and she stops the broom’s regular sweeping.

  I know I shouldn’t ask, but she looks so damn vulnerable. Hell, she looks so damn vulnerable all the time, and every time I want to snarl at her for fucking up my life this thing inside me yanks me back because I can’t stand to bruise or crush fragile things, especially when this situation isn’t her fault.

  So I make myself ask her, bridging the quiet between us. “Maybe you could...what?”

  She says nothing, until she shakes herself and flashes that soft, self-contained smile at me again. “Nothing. I don’t really write like Kenna, anyway. I write more Nicholas Sparks type romance. Ugly cry books for masochists in love. Love over all, fighting through tragedy together, natural disasters, lost kids, dying wives.”

  Dying wives.

  Fuck. You’d think it wouldn’t hit so hard.

  But it does, like she picked that broom up and jammed the handle right into my solar plexus.

  I let out an odd wheezing sigh before I’m aware of it, th
en turn away quickly. The Moka pot saves me with its low cry, and I push everything out of me until there’s nothing but the simple robotic actions needed to pour us two steaming cups.

  My jaw won’t unclench, though. I can’t get words out. I can feel her watching me, and the silence between us is far too heavy for two people who just met the day before.

  Finally, she ventures softly, “I’m sorry.” A pause, then a faint, worried sound. “Riker, I didn't mean...I know Em’s mom isn’t around. I don’t know what happened, but if I was insensitive, just know –”

  “It’s fine.” I can’t stand to hear excuses.

  Can’t stand to hear her tiptoeing around invisible land mines. Unspoken traps I’ve put over this topic so that rather than ever having to look at it, I’ll just raze it to the ground if anyone treads too hard.

  I don't have time to dwell on the past. There's no fucking point.

  I take a deep breath, remembering how innocent she seems.

  “Don't apologize. We’re fine. It’s been four years and we’re good. You don’t need to say anything. I’m not some wounded beast with a fucking thorn in its paw.”

  “Wrong Disney film,” she offers with a sort of weak, gentle humor that has more understanding in it than I can deal with right now.

  I can’t be here. With her.

  This soft, young, lovely woman in my home, making herself fit in like she’s the last bit of color to make a stained glass window complete. It's wrong.

  Once, that window might’ve been beautiful on its own, but broken, missing shard changes the entire shade of everything. I'm not looking for a replacement.

  I’m not ready for how different things look when something and someone new is introduced into my life.

  Without a word I turn and walk away from her, heading upstairs.

  I’m not running away. Escaping, I’ll admit that. And I almost run smack into Em.

  I’m so wrapped up in my own gloom, I don’t hear her coming out of her room, and only stop half a second before plowing into her.

  Christ. I manage to pull myself back, and take a shaky breath before offering a smile. “Morning, love.”

  “Morning, Daddy.” She’s scruffy in pajama pants and a Lord of the Rings nightshirt, rubbing at her eyes, her tangled hair everywhere. “Are you ready to go?”

  I blink blankly. “Go? Where are we going?”

  Em frowns slightly. “It’s the first day of class? Remember?”

  Class? Oh.

  Oh, shit. That's right.

  The new self-defense classes at the expensive studio that just opened up down the road.

  The martial arts classes we can’t really afford, but when Em said she wanted to learn how to take care of herself, how to be tough, the last thing I could do was say no. Besides, she needs a physical activity to keep her body working as well as her genius mind.

  It’s a reminder why I agreed to let Liv into my house, so I can give Em the things she wants and needs. It helps me center myself and calm the hell down, and I offer a smile to the lovely little girl who’s growing up so fast, I'm more than a little freaked that soon I won't be able to keep up with her.

  She's got a brilliant enough head on her shoulders to know what she wants. Who am I to deny her?

  I'm counting on this place to provide the safety gear they said.

  Because if they let her brain get knocked around too much in class without the right protection, a few more people are going to need to learn to protect themselves from me very fast.

  I pull her into a hug.

  “Em, it’s barely morning,” I tease, ruffling her hair. “Class is tonight. I know you’re excited, but we’ve got time. Go shower up. Our guest is downstairs making a mess of the kitchen, and we’ve got to salvage it for breakfast.”

  “Okay, Daddy.” With a tight squeeze, she bounces away and into the bathroom, leaving me standing there just staring after her, wondering what the hell I’m doing.

  How the hell I got here?

  And what this raw, heavy feeling is in my chest, when I’ve been fine for years and yet suddenly fine feels like a pathetic front thrown up just for Olivia.

  Just so I'll believe I’m as okay as I say I am.

  Fuck it.

  I’m not okay. I’m a single father whose work could mangle or kill him any day, with a daughter who depends on him and him alone, and now suddenly she’s grown up enough to want to know how to fight for herself instead of relying on her old man to protect her.

  Everything’s changing too fast. Em's growing up. We have a woman in this house again.

  And she's brought all the painfully distracting things I notice. Everything from the softness of her skin against mine to the way her clothing clings to her curves, as if it has an obsession with that soft, smooth flesh to rival mine.

  Goddamn it.

  Get a grip, I tell myself.

  I can’t, I won't let this tear me apart.

  * * *

  I've never been more uncomfortable in my life than I am now, sitting next to Olivia, with the word “engaged” hanging over our heads.

  We’ve been avoiding each other all day, me outside fixing a rain gutter that came loose in the last storm, her holed up in her room doing her thing. Whatever it is she does when she’s alone.

  And now we’re officially engaged.

  I still can’t believe I said that out loud. To my daughter’s new self-defense instructor, too, a man roughly my age named Mike whose wiry build and spry way of moving makes me think of a chipmunk that can never quite hold still.

  I just stood there, shook his hand, and told him Liv was my fiancée, we were engaged.

  Then I watched the other moms, none of whom know Olivia and very few of whom know me, swarm her with congratulations and excited exclamations and questions about where’s the ring, before I was chided with stern looks about poor planning when you never propose to a girl without the ring.

  Why is this my life?

  And why do I now have to stop by a frigging jeweler’s soon to find a ring that'll make this bull convincing?

  On the bench next to me, Liv looks away from watching Em wrap up her cool-downs and studies me from the corner of her eye. I don’t know how to feel about the fact that on day one, they’re teaching my daughter how to disarm a man with a knife – but I know even less how to feel about the woman watching me as if she wants to say something but is just trying to be polite and not bother me.

  She’s trying so, so hard not to intrude on my life.

  Why does that annoy me?

  “Talk, Liv,” I mutter from the corner of my mouth. “If we’re engaged, people will have a lot of questions about our relationship if you look like you're afraid to even speak to me.”

  She frowns quizzically, then blinks as it clicks.

  “Oh,” she says softly, looking down at her knees. “I hadn’t thought about that, it's just...you don’t seem to want to talk to me.”

  “I never want to talk to anyone much. It’s not personal.”

  “I get that. I mean, like you said, we’re supposed to be engaged. It isn't easy.”

  Easy?

  I've forgotten what this is.

  Not when we’re having a conversation in sub-vocal whispers, making eye contact sidelong, set off far enough away from the other parents for some privacy.

  Not when she curls her little arm in mine, her fingers so warm through my shirt sleeve. There’s a soft hiss of skin and fabric.

  She tends to like these wispy, short little dresses, I’ve noticed. Whatever looks loose and light and gauzy until she moves, and they pull tight and translucent against her curving, delicate body. The pale blue sombre of her dress does just that now, molding against the outline of her hip, deepening into a starker curve as she draws her legs up next to her on the bench.

  And she leans into me, tucking her body against my side and resting her head on my shoulder.

  My blood ignites and my pulse drums like mad. A strange, wild thud, the lead shocks b
efore an earthquake. Fuck.

  I know it’s only an act. It's pretend. It's nothing.

  And it’s been a long goddamn time since a woman leaned against me in a gesture so sweet, so trusting, that the simple act becomes so intimate.

  Her hair tumbles over my shoulder and down my chest. She bites her lip, peeking up at me.

  “We should act like it's easy,” she finishes softly. “At least in public.”

  “I know.” I try to make myself relax. “You're right.”

  Part of me wonders if I should put my arm around her, rest my hand in that deeply enticing curve where her hip meets her waist, but she looks comfortable and I don’t want her to move from where she is right now. “I was thinking of getting you a ring,” I growl.

  My voice sounds tormented. Technically, it is, judging by the insane hard-on that's turning me into a poorly conditioned animal.

  She laughs softly under her breath. “Isn’t that going a little far? And aren’t rings expensive?”

  I tense, feeling like a boar with its hackles raised. “What? You think I can’t afford it?”

  “No, Riker.” And there’s something so innocent in the way she says it that I believe her.

  I believe there’s not a single bit of silver spoon condescension, that she doesn’t even think about how her money and family history make other people see her because she’s been too sheltered to understand how bitter the topic of money can be.

  She flashes me a faint, sweet smile. “Just thinking it’s not worth spending that on me when I’ll be gone soon. We don't need to go that far with this game, surely.”

  Sheltered or not, there’s a subtle undercurrent on it’s not worth spending that on me that speaks to a cynicism and worldly bitterness that has me more curious than I should ever be.

  I grunt under my breath and lightly jostle her with my shoulder. “Jewelry stores take returns. Engagements fall through all the time.”

  “Is that your story when I’m gone?” she muses lightly, shifting her gaze back to Em. “That our engagement fell through?”