The surge of anger I felt over being told what to do gave me a fresh burst of energy. “No. You don’t get to ‘tell’ me anything.” I pushed against him, my hold on the handles edging into death grip territory. “And I walk this hill all the time.”
“Pushing a wheelchair?”
“Yes,” I grunted as the top of the hill came into view.
“Last time she did it, she gave herself an attack,” Mrs. Norton added.
“It wasn’t an attack.” I fired another glare at Brooks when he looked like he was about to step in again. “It was an episode.”
“One that took you ten minutes of lying on the ground to get over.” Mrs. Norton waved at a patch of grass as if that was the very place I’d collapsed last month during my “episode.”
When we finally crested the top of the hill, I exhaled with relief, feeling as though I’d just won Olympic Gold.
“You don’t look so good.” Brooks studied me as I kept walking down the level pathway.
“Coming from you? I’ll take that as a compliment.” I kept my gaze forward and tried to ignore the way my limbs felt like putty and my chest was tightening in a familiar way.
“No, really. You’re white as a sheet.” When Brooks’s face lowered to mine, there was actual concern on his face. Not the manufactured kind.
“I’m fine.” I wheezed, eyeing the bench up ahead and wondering if I could make it.
“Of course you’re fine. If by that you mean you are not at all fine.” Brooks didn’t play around this time when he moved in behind Mrs. Norton’s wheelchair, wrangling me aside in one lithe movement. “Can you make it to that bench?”
“Of course I can,” I answered, though I wasn’t half as certain as I sounded.
“You have your inhaler, right?” Mrs. Norton eyed my purse slung across my body.
I nodded because I’d sound like a dying frog if I opened my mouth to answer.
“Hannah, for Christ’s sakes. I’m going to throw you over my shoulder and run to the first emergency room I can find if you don’t sit down and catch your breath.” Brooks stopped pushing Mrs. Norton, eyeing the patch of grass next to us.
“The camera isn’t rolling. You don’t have to pretend you care.” I managed to make it to the bench and pawed through my purse once I collapsed into it.
“I’m not pretending.” He fixed the brakes on the wheelchair and crouched beside me still struggling to unearth my inhaler. He stuck one hand in and pulled it right out. When I grabbed it from him and took my first puff, he let out a long exhale. “If you die, I get the job, and then I’ll always be known as the guy who got the job by default. When I get it, I want to be because I earned that title.”
As I leaned forward and continued to focus on my breathing, I bumped my knee against his. “If. Not when.”
“You poor thing.” Mrs. Norton rubbed my back. “Let’s get you inside once you feel ready to move.”
“I’m fine,” I said, shoving off the bench, embarrassed Brooks had witnessed what he had. I didn’t want him to know I possessed any sort of weakness.
“Give yourself a minute,” Brooks said, rising with me.
“I don’t need a minute. I’m fine.” No sooner had the words snapped out of my mouth than my legs crumbled beneath me.
Brooks’s arms flew around me before I made it far. “Why do you make it your mission to do the opposite of what I ask?” He adjusted his hold around me right before heaving me into his arms entirely.
I gasped with surprise. I wasn’t used to being thrown into a man’s arms against my will—especially a man moving with the kind of ease that suggested I was packed with feathers. “Put. Me. Down.”
Brooks ignored my death stare, glancing at Mrs. Norton. “Will you be okay here for a few minutes on your own while I take her inside?” He tipped his head at Glendale Assisted Living facility.
“No, she will not be okay. And neither will you if you don’t set me down before you finish taking that breath.” I wiggled against him, but all that did was cause his arms to tighten.
Mrs. Norton waved us off. “I’ll be just fine. I’d love a few more minutes of fresh air anyway. Take your time, handsome.” The way she winked at him made me wonder if there was some kind of hidden message behind it. “Just inside the doors, there’s a sitting area, or you’re welcome to my room if you’d like some privacy.”
“We don’t want privacy,” I said as Mrs. Norton dug around in her purse for her keys.
“I’ll be right back,” Brooks told her before turning up the walkway that led to Glendale’s entrance.
“Put me down,” I repeated, trying on my most no-nonsense look.
“No.”
My nostrils flared. “Please put me down.”
His pace picked up. “No.”
My hand whacked his chest. “You’re a cretin.”
“And you’re no princess either.”
An annoyed grumble spilled from me as we whooshed through the sliding glass doors. Under other circumstances, being carried by a strapping young man wouldn’t have been so infuriating. In fact, this was Ms. Romance gold if I could have traded out the man, but instead, I found myself mired in Ms. Romance sludge.
Thankfully, the sitting area was empty and, other than a few residents staggered around the hallway waiting for afternoon coffee service, no one was present to witness the spectacle.
“Would you put me down already?” My voice echoed in the empty room as I slugged him one more time in the chest.
“Fine,” he snapped, dropping me.
Onto the couch. Whether or not he knew it was there, I couldn’t say.
Not saying anything else, he marched out of the building, presumably to retrieve Mrs. Norton. That gave me a few minutes to collect myself and decide how I would greet him when he reappeared: with gratitude or contempt.
“Miss me?” His voice echoed through the room a few minutes later.
“Like a leech pried off of my ass,” I muttered.
“A blood-sucking hermaphrodite.” He rested one hand over his chest. “Again, one of the nicer things I’ve been called.”
“Where’s Mrs. Norton?” I asked, tucking my inhaler in my purse.
“Making her move on the single males club circled around the coffee station.” He hitched his thumb over his shoulder where the lobby was. “What are you doing hanging around with people four times your age anyways?”
The high from my attack was draining away, leaving me tired and woozy. “My grandma lived here for about five years before she died last year. I can’t seem to kick the habit of hanging around a happening place like this.”
Brooks slowed his pace as he approached me. “You two were close?”
“She raised me from the time I was eight, so yeah, we were close.” My throat moved as I wondered why I was telling him this.
Brooks settled onto the edge of the chair beside me. “You didn’t live with your parents?”
“I did.” My tongue worked into my cheek. “Until they passed.” When I chanced a look at Brooks, I found nothing distinguishable on his face. No pity. No judgment. Just . . . recognition. “After that, I moved in with Grandma until I left for college.”
Brooks was quiet for a moment, but it was a relief to have someone not feel the need to fill the silence when they found out about my parents.
“How did they die?” he asked.
“In an airplane crash,” I said, surprised he’d been so direct. People never asked me how they died; they found out through a friend. His honesty was as refreshing as it was unexpected. “Dad had his private pilot’s license, and one of their favorite things to do was spend an afternoon flying. They flew hundreds of times, without so much as an emergency landing, until that day . . .” Images of my parents flooded my mind. “They died doing what they loved, together.”
Brooks shifted, the scent of sweat and man hitting me. “That’s why you believe what you do, isn’t it? Because of them?”
“I suppose so.” I stared at my clas
ped hands. “Because they were a real life example. They proved that love and commitment and romance are real. I believe what I do—I write what I do—because of them.”
Had that inhaler come laced with truth serum or something? I didn’t usually open up like that, and certainly not to a brigand like Brooks.
“I believe what I do because of my parents as well. At least part of it.” The chair whined as he moved, his voice sounding a key deeper. “My parents married straight out of high school, and I came along a few years later. Dad was working construction while Mom stayed home, until he got the grand idea that he was going to go to college and make something of himself. Mom supported the idea . . . by working two jobs and still keeping up with the household chores while he ‘chased his dream.’” From the corner of my eyes, I could see him staring out the window, his expression vacant. “Once he graduated, Mom exchanged two jobs for three so he could start his own architectural company. It was years before he was able to turn a profit, and a few more before it was a considerable one. A few months after finally ‘arriving,’ he served her with divorce papers as a thank you for years of hard work and commitment.” Brooks cracked his neck, his posture stiff. “Even after the divorce, she never gave up hope that he’d come back to her. That they were ‘soul mates.’ She never stopped believing that, even when he married a woman half her age who looked like she’d been sprung from a life-size Barbie box.”
I found myself scooting down the couch toward him, unsure why. My body seemed to be making the decision for me.
“Mom was diagnosed with cancer a couple years after the divorce. She died still loving the man who likely hadn’t spared a single thought for her since walking out.” Brooks shook his head, still staring out the window. “That’s the tragedy. That’s why I refuse to lie to my readers about what is and isn’t real. A harsh truth is more merciful than a pretty lie.”
My teeth worked at my lip, not sure if I should say something or stay quiet. “You don’t believe your mom actually loved your dad?” I asked softly, scooting to the very end of the couch.
Brooks didn’t seem to notice I’d closed the gap between us. “Mom loved the idea of him. The version of him she’d built up in her head. She didn’t love the real him, because there was nothing there to love.”
When I found my hand moving toward his, I pulled it back. “Just because it didn’t work out for your parents doesn’t mean it isn’t real.”
“Real?” Brooks snorted. “Love is about as real as my stepmom’s lips.”
I covered my mouth to hide my smile. “I guess that’s what we’re going to prove, one way or another.”
“More than half of marriages that vow ‘til death do us part wind up in divorce. You’ve got your work cut out for you.”
“Yet when polled, three-quarters of the population believe in true love.” I shrugged. “You’re the one who’s got work to do.”
“Your life is going down in the annals of weird.” Quinn shook her head as we moved up in line at our morning haunt, both of us eyeing the stock of chocolate croissants.
“It’s not that weird,” I replied, second-guessing myself for detailing yesterday’s events to her.
“You spent your morning chilling with people who were alive when Babe Ruth was playing, proceeded to have an asthma attack pushing a ninety-pound woman up a five-percent-grade hill, had to be carried to safety by the—”
My hand flew up. “I did not need to be carried anywhere.”
“Fine. You were swept off your feet by the very guy you’re pretending to date on live television for some job you’re both vying for. Then you wind up heaving a dizzying amount of dirty laundry on each other in the brunch room of an old folks’ home.” Quinn shared a wince with me when the lady in front of us ordered a couple of our standard breakfast. Nothing like kicking off a Monday with a boring old regular croissant instead of one stuffed with chocolate goodness. “Then to finish off your Sabbath, you head to a Renaissance festival with Martin, your neighbor one floor up.”
I rubbed my temples as I remembered last night. “I felt bad. The girl he was supposed to go with canceled at the last minute.”
“You can feel bad for him without sacrificing yourself on the altar of knights and damsels, you know.”
The moment we made it to the counter, a familiar face emerged from the kitchen.
“Justin the Jacked is looking extra jacked this fine Monday morning,” I whispered to Quinn, who had been hit with a sudden attack of attention deficit disorder. She was looking everywhere but forward as she pulled out her phone and punched random apps.
“Good morning, ladies.” Justin beamed that glorious smile of his, dimples and all. “The usual?”
I waited for Quinn to say something, but she’d been struck with an acute case of mute as well.
“One of these days we’re going to surprise you and order something different,” I said, tapping the case. “But that day is not this one.”
Justin held that glorious smile as he reached for a set of tongs to bag our breakfasts. With his attention on the pastry case, I elbowed Quinn.
“Ow. What?” she hissed, rubbing her arm.
“Say something,” I whispered.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to.”
“You want to have his children. You might have to actually open your mouth and say something to him.”
Quinn’s mouth fell open as she checked the line behind us. If anyone was listening to our conversation, they were doing a good job pretending to be otherwise occupied.
“Okay, two chocolate croissants, two coffees. Anything else?” The way he said it, I could just pick up on the undercurrent. Quinn was immune to it though.
As I dug in my wallet to pay—Quinn and I traded off on footing the breakfast tab—I tried to think of any excuse I could to stall. “How was that basketball game you had tickets to?”
Justin seemed to be making change at an especially slow pace. “It was good. The Knicks won.”
“Did you ever find anyone to take that extra ticket off of your hands?” I made it a point to nudge Quinn as I asked him.
“Nah. I just went by myself.”
As he handed me my change, I went with tapping my foot against Quinn’s. She wasn’t taking any of the hints I was throwing at her.
“That’s too bad. I bet that was boring.”
One of Justin’s massive shoulders lifted. “It was okay. I’m used to it,” he said as he handed us our coffee cups. “I think I’m going to get the hook-up on a couple more tickets for a game later this month. You know, in case you hear of anyone else who likes the Knicks.” He might have been talking to me, but he was looking at Quinn.
Who was staring at her feet like her sneakers were the Mona Lisa in shoe form.
“I’ll keep my ears peeled. I’m sure I can find someone.” I lingered at the counter, blinking at Quinn, who had a barely visible blush bleeding through that bronze skin of hers.
She’d gone from awkward to a stage-ten disaster around Justin. At least she used to be able to carry on something of a conversation with him, but now, she couldn’t even look in his direction, let alone open her mouth to say something. I didn’t miss the annoyed looks we received as we navigated down the line of customers toward the door—like the pastries, Justin was a hot commodity.
“What was that back there?” I asked Quinn after we started down the sidewalk.
She let out a rush of air as though she’d been holding her breath. “I don’t know. I just froze. I couldn’t think of a single thing to say to him.”
“Hello or good morning are nice options.”
“Ugh, I know. That was pathetic. He probably thinks I’m some kind of freakazoid now.” Quinn’s posture slackened. “I’m going to die alone.”
“Would you stop that? You are not going to die alone. You just need to figure out a way to read between the lines when a guy like Justin is asking you out. Also, speaking is something yo
u might want to work on.”
She grimaced as she looked to be reliving the play-by-play in the café. “That’s easy for you to say, Ms. Romance. Especially when you’ve never come close to feeling so flustered over a guy because you have yet to find one perfect enough to fit your standards.” Quinn’s eyes got big after that, immediately followed by her hand covering her mouth.
Swallowing my bite of croissant, I blinked at her. “Excuse me?”
“Just forget it, Hannah. My brain’s only firing at ten percent this morning.”
“No, please. Explain.” I took a sip of my coffee and braced myself. Quinn was known for her honesty—the brutal variety.
She let out a heavy sigh. “All I’m saying is that it’s easy to see what everyone else is doing wrong when it comes to the cut-throat world of dating, but for all the advice you give, you never actually take any of it.” Quinn glanced my way, and whatever she saw didn’t stop her from continuing. “You seem to hold all potential suitors to this level of perfection no human could achieve, and I’m not sure if it’s because you’re afraid of being hurt, scared of opening yourself up to someone, or actually believe someone with perfect flowing in his veins is waiting for you. You’re a romance professional without any real life experience.”
My feet had stopped moving a few steps back. “Next time you’re being honest with me, try to keep in mind I have these delicate things called emotions.” I caught back up to her and chugged a solid drink of coffee. “And I’m not scared or biding my time for perfection. I’m just waiting for that feeling, you know? The one that can’t be explained, but we know it when we feel it.”
Quinn plucked her coat collar up around her neck. “What feeling is that?”
“The feeling,” I said, sweeping my arm in front of me.
“In quantitative terms please.”
“You can’t quantify feelings,” I said around a groan. “Especially the feeling.”
“If you can’t measure it, then it isn’t real.”
My eyes rolled. “Says the sports writer who only deals in scores and stats.”
Dating the Enemy Page 9
