Don't Marry the Enemy: A Sweet Romance (The Debutante Rules Book 2)

by Emily Childs

I hate this place and I certainly hate Mr. Zac Dawson.

  1

  Jo

  I tie my hair off my neck. The gold in my hair is more vibrant in the summer sun. My pale cheeks can’t say the same, but I’ve been indoors for weeks it seems. But making up the extra hours at the clinic is necessary since I’m being forced on leave against my will.

  “Emmitt, have you seen my toiletry bag?” I call from the bedroom. No response. Rolling my eyes, I hurry to the wide front room of my New York apartment. Emmitt is on the white sofa, lost in his cell phone, still dressed in his green scrubs from his late shift. “Emmitt?”

  “What’s up, babe?” he asks innocently. Emmitt isn’t brawny, but he has a strong chin and it fits his lean body.

  “Have you seen my toiletry bag?”

  He glances at his screen again. I hate that stupid game app. He shakes his head. “Sorry, sweetie.” Gunshots ping from the phone and his tongue pokes out in concentration. “I haven’t. Do you really need a separate bag?”

  “I need toiletries, Emmitt.” I take up my second round of searching. “You know, makeup, deodorant, toothpaste. I’m not going to slum it like those people the entire four weeks. Emmitt, can you please help me finish up if you’re driving me?”

  He groans and drags his heavy footsteps into our room. “Jo, put a smile on that face. It’s not going to be so bad.”

  I glare at him. “Not that bad? Emmitt, I’m staying in a place where people hate me, and I will be required to work around dirty, sweaty, nasty men. Doesn’t that worry you at all?”

  He kisses my forehead, but it feels almost businesslike more than affectionate. “No, I’m not worried. You can handle yourself. And I think you don’t want to go back for other reasons.”

  I sigh. A piece of that is true. The day I stood in front of the judge in a muggy courtroom was one of the worst. I spent thirty-six hours in a terrible cell. I’d been grungy, exhausted, and almost grateful my case was expedited. Until I saw the judge.

  A judge who grinned all too friendly at Mr. Zac Dawson. The worst man in existence.

  I don’t know much about the legal system, but I’m heavily suspicious there’d been a conflict of interest somewhere in the mix. At first I thought Emmitt had something to do with the rush on my sentencing, but now I know it had everything to do with Zac. All to fix his stupid shop, he humiliated me and forced me into a situation I can’t escape.

  Not a fine, like a sensible consequence. No, the judge tossed out the big guns. I’d work off my debt. And not anywhere. I’m working my community service for Zac Dawson. At his shop! Yes, working for the man who caused this whole thing.

  Well, except the part where I smashed into the pole, but that is beside the point.

  Emmitt’s father is a defense attorney, and I’d immediately asked for help. All that came of it was a laugh-fest between father and son. Mr. Baron thought it was hilarious the southern court would make me work in the shop. He encouraged me not to fight the order, or risk ending up with a hefty fine, or something worse.

  So here I am. Ready to fly out to my sentence and hating every second of it.

  I settle for a Ziploc bag as my toiletry case when it’s nowhere to be found. Emmitt is too cheerful about this entire thing, and I can’t help but feeling a little resentful. He was the one who’d forgotten my plane ticket, forgotten to register his stupid car, and now I’m paying the price.

  He apologized, of course, and only asked me to pay half the damages to his car. He covered the rest and made sure I had two weeks of paid vacation time to help cover the absence from work. Some vacation. But the real problem is the way my boyfriend of three years thinks my distress is funny.

  “Ready, babe?” he calls to me thirty minutes later.

  I drag my suitcase to the front door. It’s a little early, but Emmitt is due at the clinic and insisted on dropping me off on his way.

  “You’ll call me when you get settled in the motel?” he asks as we pull into the terminal twenty minutes later.

  “I’ll probably catch a disease wherever they set me up, so I’m likely not coming back.”

  Emmitt laughs and kisses the top of her hand. “Jo, come on, they’re not a third world country. You’ll be fine. There’s a reason it’s called southern hospitality, right?”

  I wince. That’s the last thing Zac said to me. “Yeah, I got a great glimpse at their type of hospitality.”

  “Do you know who is supposed to pick you up?”

  “In the summons, I was told a court appointed pick-up would be waiting and if I was more than an hour late, a warrant would be issued. Like I’m some violent criminal.”

  “Sweetie, if I can give you some advice, I’d keep your tongue lashings to a minimum. I think that’s what got you into this mess in the first place.”

  My jaw tightens. No, it was your unregistered car! Okay, maybe a little bit of my temper had played a part, but still.

  “I’ll behave,” I promise. “You’ll keep an eye on my patients, right? Greta is good, but . . .”

  I don’t finish. The thought of the ditzy PA handling my caseload makes my stomach sour.

  “Greta will do fine,” Emmitt says with a grin. “But I’ll still check in while you’re gone.”

  “Emmitt, remember, I don’t want everyone at the office knowing the details, okay?”

  “It’s kind of funny, Jo.” He holds up a hand when I shoot him with a glare. “Okay, I’ll keep the rumors toned down.”

  The SUV—my other enemy—hugs the curb. Emmitt helps me with my suitcase before checking the time on my phone. He kisses me quickly, leaving me wanting more, then waves. “Call me, sweetie. I’ve got to go.”

  I watch him leave the terminal and whisper, “Love you.”

  Shaking off the hasty farewell, I enter the airport. My determination switches on. Four weeks. I can survive four weeks. One thing is certain, I’ll make sure Zac Dawson never forgets the day he messed with Josephine Richards.

  2

  Zac

  I glance at the clock, mutter a curse, and try a little harder to scrub the grease off my hands. I’m going to be late.

  “I thought you were long gone.”

  I look over my shoulder at Rafe. “Trying to leave now. How was the first day back?”

  Rafe Whitfield is my closest friend. It helped to have August back at the shop while Rafe was on his honeymoon, but August is married too, with a rowdy one-year-old. It’s not like we did a ton of hanging out.

  “I’m jet-lagged,” he says. “But it’s good to be home.”

  “Yeah? Still a fan of married life?”

  Rafe rolls his eyes. “You think after two weeks I’d be sick of it?”

  “No,” I tell him as I dry my hands. “No, you and Ollie are nauseating.”

  He grins. The same smile the man has worn since the day he proposed to Olive. “I’m glad I’m living up to my purpose in life and making you sick every day. I am a little disappointed I missed all the fun back here, though.”

  I snort and stare at the recently repaired pole in the front parking lot. “It wasn’t all that exciting. More aggravating. Trust me, when you meet this woman, I think you’ll see we’re being punished. I’m not sure what McKinnon was thinking having her work it off at the shop. Why not pick up garbage on the roads or something?”

  “Who knows? Probably showing his good side to impress your mama.”

  Can’t argue with that. Still, McKinnon needs to get a clue. My daddy died when I was eleven—twelve years later, my mom still isn’t interested in the plum-faced judge. But at least he expedited the court date for Zac, and that meant the repairs were in place by the end of the next week after the accident. I’m still waiting for her insurance company to send a check, but I suppose if they don’t, I know right where she’ll be to get what I’m owed.

  “She’s awful, man,” I say. “We’ll all be insane by the time it’s all over.”

  Rafe laughs. “You’ve said that about a hundred times today. You sure she�
��s as awful as you say?”

  I strip off my jumpsuit and slug his shoulder. “Watch it. Not all women are like Ollie, fiery and kind at the same time. This one will let us know how insignificant we are for living where we do, and for how we talk. Oh, and don’t forget she’s dating a doctor. She threw that in my face again when she got her sentence handed out, as if that would make some sort of difference in her being a snob.”

  “Maybe she’s had time to cool down.”

  “Doubt that.”

  “You going to throw it back at her that you do just fine for a lowly southern mechanic?”

  He’s trying to keep his tone light, but I know Rafe has little patience for those who look down on others based on money. Olive comes from old southern money and it nearly came between them. Rafe won’t take kindly to Jo Richards tossing careers and status in our faces. And he’s right. I do well with the shop.

  “Let her think what she wants,” I say. “I’m just glad she’s going to get a chance to be knocked off her high horse. Maybe it is better than having her pay a fine.”

  I run water through my hair but give up when it refuses to settle how I want. My beard is trimmed, but longer than when I met Josephine. I hadn’t volunteered to pick her up, but when McKinnon suggested it, I didn’t say no either.

  Jo will be mad as a hornet. I’m looking forward to it.

  “All right, I’m out of here.”

  Rafe grabs a drink of water before heading toward the shop. “Don’t let her murder you. See you later.”

  * * *

  The airport is busy with Friday travel. I glance at my watch. She has twenty minutes until I’m supposed to report a no-show to the court. I drum my hands on my dark jeans and scan the vending machines. Maybe I’m wrong, but Josephine didn’t seem the type not to show. She’s too Type A.

  Then I hear a familiar voice. With the roughness of Brooklyn in the undertones.

  “I’m supposed to be picked up. Do you know where assigned cars pick up passengers?”

  There she is—sassy Josephine. Last I saw her, she slumped wearily in the defendant seat in the courtroom. Her hair had been braided, her cheeks almost sallow. I take a moment to admire her in a new light. Her long hair is pulled into a high ponytail, and her unique eyes are large and bright. She clutches a thick novel in the crook of her arm and tugs a roller suitcase behind her.

  I don’t like her. But I can admit she’s beautiful.

  I ought to tell her those needle stilettos aren’t going to suit when she joins the shop.

  The airport attendant she’s speaking with points toward the doors leading to the curbside pickup. I clear my throat and meander through the crowds, my heart thudding a little faster as I tap her elbow.

  Her eyes widen, before narrowing into slits. “What are you doing here?”

  I only pull out my pompous side for special occasions like today. “Heard there was a felon from Brooklyn who needed to be taken to her post for a few days.”

  Her lips pull tight. “I am not a felon. I imagined someone from the station would drive me.”

  “Well, you get me, Your Highness. Now, let’s go.”

  “Aren’t you a gentleman? You didn’t even offer to take my bag.”

  I study the carry on. It’s on wheels. “What for? Are you afraid you’ll crash it and topple the building?”

  She huffs, even pops a hip. And I like it. “Is this how it’s going to be for four weeks? You being a complete jerk?”

  I smile, and it’s genuine. She’s holding back with jerk. I’d like to know what brings her to cursing. “It’s up to you, Jo-Jo. If you lose some of your hoity-toity attitude, maybe I’ll let you get a peek at the nice guy inside. Now, are you coming? According to my information, you’ve got about nine minutes to be out of this airport and on the road or there will be a nasty warrant out for your arrest.”

  She grimaces. “My name is Josephine, Mr. Dawson. Not Jo-Jo.”

  “Whatever you say, Jo-Jo.”

  She complains about the humidity and pulls on sunglasses. I direct her to the parking garage, choosing to stay silent until we’re at my truck.

  “Just toss the bag in the back.”

  Jo gapes. “What? This is all I have. What if it bounces out?”

  “Bounces out? Is it packed with feathers? Or do you think the road is filled with potholes? It’ll be fine.”

  I’m growing fond of her little huffs and guess she has a ripe mouth on her. Probably colorful and fiery like her. She scurries along the sidewalk, balking at my blue pickup before bending over to grip the bottom of her bag. My Uncle Kent would smack me upside the head for not helping. It’s a little entertaining to watch, though, and I’m not ready to step in just yet.

  Jo wobbles on her heels, then with a grunt she launches the bag into the bed of the truck. She starts to fall back, but I do jump in now and catch her before she goes back.

  Her hands curl around my arms, and I didn’t intend for my palm to rest on the small of her back. I swallow the stirring in my chest. She smells like sweet cherries and vanilla. Josephine’s sunglasses slip down, so I meet her eyes. It’s unnerving how a single glance can wipe my mind blank. I’ve been told eyes are windows to the soul. If that’s true then there’s something more to this woman. Like a secret she hides in those eyes. Something she buries behind tough words and actions.

  “You all right?” I ask.

  “I’m fine.” She pulls away and straightens her billowy tank-top and sunglasses. “Would have been nice to have a little help before I nearly broke my ankle, but I figured I couldn’t expect as much from someone like you.”

  And just like that, I’m over those dazzling eyes and on the defensive. I about rip the door off my truck. “Get in. I don’t plan to spend my entire night babysitting.”

  She obeys, for once, and squishes as close to the passenger door as possible. She crosses her arms, even her knees, barring me out. The woman despises me, but I’m not her fan either.

  And serves her right, being her. If she’d take a little accountability instead of blaming everyone else, then I’d be more willing to help her out.

  Melting into traffic, I turn up the radio and start to regret pressing charges. The more tension builds between us, the more I feel like I’m the one who’s about to be punished a lot more than Josephine.

  3

  Jo

  I don’t like Zac Dawson. He’s cocky, rude, and I’m positive he does it all on purpose. My skin prickles being so close to him, while inside it’s like my body has a chemical reaction to his ruggedness.

  I hadn’t expected when I met him again that he’d show up in a tight T-shirt and smell like he’d come straight from a Christmas forest. I’d imagined a dirty, greasy guy with a wild beard filled with burs and food. He’s the opposite. Though his dark hair is a little tousled, it works.

  This tug-of-war doesn’t sit well. The strange conflict between my rational emotions and the kind that curl my toes when I look at him.

  Zac says nothing during the drive. He’s tense, obviously, by the way the muscles in his forearms pulse as he grips the steering wheel. He’s like a brooding marble statue. By the time silence shifts to borderline discomfort, I’m more than ready to escape the truck, and it seems the odds are in my favor. Zac pulls into a motel that popped right off a retro magazine cover. The pool is drained and filled with dead leaves and twigs. The outside furniture is avocado green and orange, and the sides are paneled in wood shingles.

  I shriek when a bug smacks me in the forehead after I step outside.

  “Careful now,” Zac says with a laugh. “Keep watch on those, they feast on face flesh.” He tugs my suitcase from the back of his truck.

  “Shut up,” I snap and take the bag as I follow him into the motel. Much like the outside, it’s still boasting puke-green shag carpet and dim lights with red shades.

  “Hey there, Miss Maggie,” Zac grins, and pats the countertop.

  An elderly woman with a peppery bun tied low on her neck limps
over to him with a toothy grin.

  “Zachariah, boy, you’re lookin’ more like your daddy every day.”

  I snort at his full name, and it must have hit a nerve since he glares at me.

  “Thanks. I’ve brought you a long-term tenant.”

  The woman lifts her gaze, the skin under her eyes puckers as she studies everything about me. By the time she speaks, she probably knows my middle name and worst fears. “I see. This is the one I was told to expect, huh?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You got a name, missy?”

  Clearing my throat, I step around Zac’s stupidly broad shoulders. “Josephine.”

  “Ma’am,” Zac murmurs under his breath, with a nod toward the woman who clearly had the name Maggie written on her name tag. If she wanted to be called ma’am the tag should have said ma’am.

  With a subtle eye roll, I speak slower. “Josephine, ma’am.”

  Maggie nods with a grunt. “You’ll be in room 201. It’s close to the office, I don’t want any shenanigans, you hear?”

  I scrunch my brow. This woman is ruder than Zac. Am I to be thought of as a horrid criminal the entire time? I doubt Zac even told anyone I offered to pay at least five times.

  “Jo will be on her best behavior, Maggie, don’t you worry,” Zac assures.

  “Excuse me,” I ask, scanning the small office. There is an old, rickety table with two wooden chairs painted different colors. “Where is the laundry facility?”

  Maggie lifts one painted brow. “I don’t follow.”

  “I was told I’d be placed in a motel with a laundry room.”

  With pursed wrinkled lips, Maggie hands a gold key to Zac and wheels around on her heel. “You’ll use the laundromat in town like the rest of the tenants.”

  I’m sure she says something about special treatment, but soon the office door slams shut behind the old woman.

  “You insulted her,” Zac says, but he’s grinning.