Dating the Enemy

by Nicole Williams

  “You look like you’re in pain over here,” I called, realizing the smile on my face had formed of its own accord. That probably had to do with him looking like we were about to jump into a pool full of hungry sharks.

  “That’s because I am in pain.” He pushed away from the tree and moved toward me, still staying in the shadows. “Who picks a picnic in a park for a date?”

  Holding up the basket, I shrugged. “Me.”

  Jimmy glided up behind me, getting into a neutral position between Brooks and me. And the cameras were rolling.

  “Come on. No one ever died from spending an afternoon relaxing in a park.” I set down my bags and basket, then dug out the blanket.

  “I find that hard to believe.” Brooks shifted, the shine of his dress shoes flashing from the tree line.

  “You’re dressed like you’re either going to a wedding or a funeral.” I eyed his dark suit, complete with white button-down shirt and a leather belt that matched his shoes.

  “What is the standard outfit one should wear to a picnic?”

  The way picnic rolled off his tongue had me biting my lip to keep from laughing.

  “I don’t know. Jeans, T-shirt, sneakers?” I watched him inch closer as I finished smoothing out the blanket on the ground.

  “I wear sneakers and T-shirts to run in. And I haven’t owned a pair of jeans since college.” When I kicked off my shoes to let my feet feel the grass, his brows lifted into his hairline.

  “You’re a big runner, right? Surely you run in parks some of the time.”

  “That’s right. I run through them. As fast as I can. I don’t loiter to eat lunch and ‘relax.’” He paused at the edge of the blanket, watching me dig through the picnic basket to get everything laid out.

  “If I’d realized how much you hated communal outdoor settings, I would have proposed this idea from the start.” After setting out the plates and silverware, I glanced up at him. Even through his sunglasses, I could make out his eyes; they were focused on me in the kind of way that made something in my stomach compress.

  I made myself look away.

  “You actually made lunch?” Brooks stepped closer. “You didn’t pick something up from a restaurant or store?”

  “Well, everything came from the store, but I had to do some peeling, mixing, and cooking to make it resemble a meal.”

  Brooks crouched beside me, his presence rolling over me like an invisible wave. Jimmy floated around the blanket, making sure he had a good view of the two of us.

  “You cook?” he asked, sounding astounded, like I’d just admitted I was a cliff jumper or something.

  “I also eat,” I said, lifting out the stack of picnic fare I’d made for today. “Unlike the women you’re likely used to.”

  “The women I’ve been with eat.”

  “Yep,” I said with a smack of my lips. “They order a side of kale with their ice water.”

  Brooks sighed, reaching into the basket to help me unload the rest. He studied the sealed glass bowl of potato salad I’d made last night. “I’m impressed.”

  “I’m a real oddity. I cook and I eat.”

  “More like a rarity.”

  “Just because I can cook doesn’t mean I’m going to stand for someone expecting me to cook. I’m not down with that domestic detail as an expectation when it comes to a relationship.” Finally, I unpacked the bottle of sparkling cider and plastic wine glasses.

  Brooks’s mouth worked when he saw the beverage I’d chosen. “Your grandma taught you?”

  “She was the kind of cook who won blue ribbons at any fair she entered a dish into. She never used a recipe, did it all by memory or instinct.” I peeled off the foil wrapper on the bottle before prying the metal cap off with my bottle opener.

  Brooks held out the two glasses for me to pour into. “My grandma was a great cook too. Used to do Sunday dinners with ten times more food than all of us could eat.” He let himself settle onto the edge of the blanket. “It’s too bad all of that talent is disappearing.”

  When my gaze cut to him, he lifted his hands. “I mean that in the least chauvinist way possible. Good food . . . I don’t know, it brings people together. It’s a bandage for a whole slew of family tensions and problems. It makes a bad day better with just one bite.”

  I made myself take a breath before firing my initial response at him. He wasn’t saying it was a woman’s job to live in the kitchen; he was merely lamenting the loss of home-cooked meals that brought people together.

  “What was your favorite dish she made?” I asked as I popped open the container of roasted chicken segments.

  “Cheese manicotti,” he answered instantly. “My grandma was Italian, so she made everything from scratch. The noodles, sauce, sausage, everything. She made some complicated, beautiful dishes, but the simplicity of cheese manicotti was perfection.” He was starting to relax, no longer looking like he was about to be drawn and quartered.

  “My grandma was Irish, and she made this stew that was out of this world. Carrots, potatoes, onions, beef—some of the most boring, basic ingredients out there, but somehow she turned it into magic. Anytime I was sick or having a rough day, a bowl of stew would find its way onto the dinner table and I’d walk away feeling better.”

  Brooks was watching me, his expression almost peaceful. His sunglasses were still in place, but his stare was penetrating. I could almost feel it moving inside me, searching deep.

  My head felt woozy, probably from skipping breakfast. “Do you like the breast, leg, or wing?”

  Brooks smirked. “Take a guess.”

  I refused to give him the response he was hoping for. “Here. Have a wing.” I smirked right back.

  “Did it hurt when they ripped off your wings and sent you down to earth?”

  Brooks laughed when I chucked a napkin at him. “How immature are you?”

  “I’m a guy. We die with a little boy still living inside us.”

  I made a face as I scooped some potato salad onto our plates. “More like a horny, hormonal teenager.”

  My lips clamped shut as soon as I remembered Jimmy’s presence.

  “Don’t give away all of my secrets to the world.” Brooks tipped his head toward Jimmy and the camera. “You might play a role in one or two of them.”

  My cheeks heated, knowing what he was hinting at.

  “So?” His head lowered toward mine. “Have you fallen in love with me yet?”

  A single-noted laugh escaped from me. “No. Sorry to burst your bubble.”

  “You know it’s only a matter of time.”

  “Before our three months are up and, lo and behold, I haven’t fallen madly in love with you?” I plopped one more scoop of potato salad onto our plates. “Yeah, I know that.”

  He held out my glass of cider, scooting closer. “Am I really that offensive?”

  “Taken as a whole, no, you’re not.” I moved on to the macaroni salad, happy to be kept busy by any distraction, given the topic. “But taking this whole set-up into account, along with your beliefs that love is for weak-minded ninnies, then yes. You really are so offensive.”

  A half smile emerged as Brooks stabbed his fork into the potato salad. “What do your readers think about this whole thing?”

  “My readers definitely don’t want me falling for you,” I answered, glancing at Jimmy. I wondered if I should make him a plate too.

  “But your readers love romance, and some handsome, roguish fellow taking your hand in a park while you’re dressed in a white dress is the definition of romance.” Right then, Brooks’s hand covered mine where it was resting on the blanket.

  Instead of stiffening or whipping away, I found myself relaxing under his touch. The camera’s presence screamed at me from the corner of my eye.

  “My readers believe in finding the one.” My hand slipped from beneath his, reaching for my fork. “Not the one who takes your hand and pretends to like you so he gets the promotion.”

  “Who says I couldn’t be you
r one?”

  I laughed. “Even I don’t need to run the numbers to know that has about a one-in-an-impossible chance of happening.”

  Brooks slid his glasses onto his head, his eyes unapologetic in their stare. “You and me? You couldn’t see it?”

  I had to look away. “Not even a little.” Tearing off a chunk of my chicken, I popped it into my mouth and plotted how to change the topic. “When it’s right, you know it. You feel it.”

  Brooks’s head shook before he took a drink of his cider. “I admit, it’s a nice idea. But don’t you feel it inside? The realization that it’s just not true?” He stared out at the park and the people in it.

  I gazed with him, trying to ignore that pit opening up in my stomach. “I’d rather spend my life chasing a dream than swallowing a cruel reality.”

  “You’d rather spend your life lying to yourself than being honest?” Brooks asked after taking a bite of the potato salad. “Side note? This is quite possibly the best thing I’ve eaten in months. Maybe even years.”

  I fought a smile as I took my own bite. Just the right balance of spices and tang. “I don’t think any of what I believe is a lie. Soul mates, unconditional love, happy endings—it’s all real.”

  “Fairy tales,” he muttered before taking another large bite of salad. “So explain why a marriage dissolves after twenty years because of fifteen minutes of indiscretion.”

  Reaching for my glass, I answered, “It wouldn’t have if he kept it in his pants.”

  He blew out a sharp breath. “No, that’s like saying twenty years, our kids, our house, our finances, everything is worth less than that fifteen minutes of fucking.” His arms threw out, his tone rather impassioned. “That’s not unconditional love. That’s the very conditional kind.”

  “You’re right. It is the conditional kind. On the part of the one who engaged in the fifteen minutes of extra marital . . .” I just caught Jimmy’s hands flailing before I said, “Screwing. That was one-sided unconditional love, and that never works in a relationship.”

  One of his brows rose. “That’s a convenient explanation. But I’ll stick to my beliefs that all of that unconditional love junk is worth its weight in bullshit.”

  I shot Jimmy an apologetic look. “Then how do you explain the couples it has worked for? The ones who live a long, happy, committed relationship together.” Pulling my floppy sunhat from my bag, I dropped it on my head to cut the sun.

  Brooks appeared amused by my hat, but he kept his thoughts on it to himself. “I call it a case of two determined people willing to overlook each other’s weaknesses and not be hell-bent on changing or fixing the other, who’ve figured out a way to laugh at themselves, forgive easily—not to mention often—perfect the fine balance of selflessness and selfish, and on top of that, won the relationship lottery.” Brooks clinked his glass against mine before finishing what was left of his cider. “That’s how I explain that.”

  I blinked at him. “Wow. Don’t hold back or anything.”

  “That’s just half of it.” Brooks refilled my glass, then his before taking a swig as though he’d forgotten it was cider, not gin.

  “And how ‘bout that picnic lunch?” I shifted so my feet were touching the grass. It had been a long winter of close-toed shoes and pantyhose; I was going to soak up this perfect spring day.

  Brooks picked up his wing and tore off a bite. As he chewed, his eyes landed on me. “Damn, woman.”

  I pulled another bite of chicken free. “Good?”

  “If you define good as being life-defining, then yes, this is ‘good.’” He licked his fingers. Like really got in there and sucked off the juices. I didn’t think Brooks North was capable of a proper finger lick. “No matter the outcome of this little experiment, can we schedule a standing monthly meeting like this?”

  “Only if you’re cooking every other time.”

  “Cooking?” Brooks cringed. “I’m better at swiping my credit card at the local deli.”

  We made some more small talk as we finished our lunches, Brooks managing to down a breast, leg, and another wing. It was nice sharing a meal with someone else, and I felt an odd thrill that Brooks was enjoying the food I’d made. No way in hell I would ever speak that out loud, but it was there, that swell of pride that I’d managed to take a bundle of raw ingredients and turn them into something that had an uptight man like Brooks practically moaning out loud. That must have been Grandma in me—she’d always said good food had magic powers.

  “Where do you put all of that?” I asked when he went in for one more scoop of macaroni salad. My gaze wandered to his belt, where not a pinch of stomach was folding over. Even with the fraction of lunch I’d eaten in comparison, I was thankful I’d worn a loose dress.

  “I don’t need to put it anywhere. I burn it off before it gets stuck to my gut.”

  “How many miles did you put in today? Twenty?” I said sarcastically as I packed away the remnants of lunch.

  “This morning was a swim practice. Five thousands meters.”

  My nose wrinkled as I roughly calculated how many miles that was. “What time do you have to get up to finish that kind of a workout?”

  “Five a.m. Every morning, swim practice or not.”

  My throat cleared as I recalled one morning he’d slept in past five o’clock.

  “Tonight, I have a forty-mile bike ride to squeeze in.” As I was about to snap the seal closed on the chicken, he snagged one last leg. “The challenge is to eat enough to keep up with my energy requirements.”

  I let out a grumble. “My problem has been the total opposite.”

  Brooks shot me a funny look. “Okay. Crazy.”

  “So where does one get the insane idea to compete in triathlons?” I asked.

  He set the leg on his plate. “I didn’t say I competed in triathlons.”

  My heart stopped when I realized my error. He hadn’t mentioned that—Quinn’s and my research had dug up that fact. “Don’t you? I can’t imagine anyone spending that much time running, swimming, and biking if they didn’t compete.”

  Brooks watched me for a moment, searching. Then he leaned back. “I guess I like the feeling of challenging myself, my body. I like the high that comes with pushing myself for hours on end, riding the line between conscious and unconscious.”

  I tipped my sunhat a bit back since the sun was higher in the sky. “Sounds fun. Said no one on the planet besides you.”

  Brooks laughed, shrugging like he wasn’t disagreeing.

  “Why can’t you be like everyone else and go to the gym a few days a week and lift weights or something?”

  “For a hundred different reasons. And even though those meatheads might look good, welcome to the stamina party. VO2 max.” Brooks bobbed his brows at me. “It’s a thing. Especially when it comes to sex.”

  “If you do say so yourself,” I said as I pulled a couple bottles of water from the basket. It was getting warmer, and he was still dressed like he was attending a semi-formal gala.

  “So what now?” he asked, glancing around. “What else is there to a picnic?”

  “I don’t know. You take off your shoes and jacket. You relax.”

  “You relax?” Brooks repeated.

  “Yeah, you read a book or take a nap or maybe play a little Frisbee if you feel like moving.”

  “Did you bring a Frisbee?”

  “I don’t even own a Frisbee. I prefer the as-little-movement-as-possible picnics over the ones where you jump from one activity to the next.” After clearing the blanket, I lounged back. “Just lie down and try to take a nap. You might find you actually enjoy the art of relaxing.”

  “I don’t relax,” he replied even as he lay back beside me.

  “I said try.”

  After a few seconds, he exhaled. “Did you at least bring a book?”

  “Nope.” I adjusted my sunhat so the sun could hit all of my face. “Not really a fan of those reading marathon picnics either.”

  “You’re a fan of th
e eating and napping ones?”

  I made a clucking sound to answer him.

  He managed to be quiet for a stretch. For all of thirty seconds. He sat up with an exasperated sigh. “I’ve got to do something.”

  My nose wrinkled. “Ugh. You’re one of those people who can’t relax, aren’t you?”

  “Isn’t that what I just said?”

  “You sleep, don’t you?”

  Brooks peeled off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. I guessed it had more to do with the heat than getting comfortable. “Sleep is not the same thing as relaxing. It’s the opposite.”

  “They don’t seem so different to me.”

  “For starters, one is done consciously, the other is unconscious. One is recuperative, the other is idleness.”

  My eyes snapped open. “Idleness?”

  Brooks shook his head as he rose.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “I recognize an argument when I see one coming.” He indicated the direction of an ice cream vendor across the park. “I’m practicing losing-argument avoidance.”

  As he backed away, Jimmy got up to follow him. I guessed going with Brooks was more exciting than my relaxing.

  “What do you want?” Brooks asked.

  “You’re judging me for relaxing while going for ice cream ten minutes after inhaling six pounds of food?”

  “You want something or not?”

  I folded my hands over my stomach and closed my eyes. “Or not.”

  As Brooks and Jimmy wandered to the ice cream vendor, I tried to relax. It wasn’t happening. Inside, I felt fidgety. All of Brooks’s restless energy must have rubbed off on me, I thought, as I sat up with a grumble.

  Since Jimmy and that confounded camera were with Brooks, I let myself watch him for a minute. Even from a distance, he was easy to look at, that aura of confidence almost visible to the naked eye. My eyes narrowed as I really focused, attempting to look hard or long enough to extinguish that unsettling clench in my midsection I felt whenever I looked at him.

  In fact, it only seemed to get worse the longer I watched him.