Still Not Into You: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

by Snow, Nicole

  I duck into the trees, staying out of sight, and take off at a ground-eating run.

  I hurt all the fuck over, but I don’t care.

  I’m pissed, thoroughly sick of this, and pure rage and adrenaline are pumping enough endorphins to numb the bruises and devour my pain. I don’t even stop when a branch catches my robe and rips it half-off, the belt coming loose and the robe falling down one arm.

  I'm past caring if these assholes get an earful and an eyeful.

  I come bursting out of the trees like a juggernaut, barreling toward the front door. Before I lay a hand on it, though, it snaps open – and a petite figure steps out.

  At first I don’t recognize her. Not when this slim, leggy young woman is nothing like the awkward little thing with huge frames who used to followed me around like a lost puppy.

  McKenna.

  Kenna Burke.

  Reb.

  Standing there all poised and prim and sexy as hell, her green eyes wide and startled behind the kind of librarian glasses that make you wonder what she’d look like with all that chestnut hair pulled free from its tail and rippling around her face and shoulders.

  Fuck. Again.

  Even though she’s clearly surprised, poised like a faun ready to bolt, she’s still completely put together and gorgeous in a pair of slim jeans and a loose, pretty silk tank top that clings to her in ways that promise things those dreamy eyes can’t quite follow through on. Kenna’s always been a bit of a dreamer, lost in the stars, and she's wearing that look right now.

  Almost like she’s seeing other worlds when she looks right through me.

  And I’m standing here half-naked with my robe torn up, leaves in my hair, cock practically falling half out of my boxers. She opens her mouth to speak, but then closes it a second later.

  This is off to a great fucking start.

  * * *

  We’re just staring at each other for what seems like forever. Her lips stay slightly parted like she still wants to say something, but the shock tore the words from that glistening pink mouth.

  I’m no better, breathing hard from running, standing here with my jaw hanging like a damn fool. For a minute I’m teleported back five years ago, and all this anger comes boiling up inside me again. I haven't seen her up close like this since the day I cursed her name.

  Not since little Reb became the only other human on the planet to know what I was planning.

  I don’t know what to do. That's rare.

  I’m sure as hell not going to unload on her just yet. Not when she’s already mumbling something like an apology, a nervous strain in her soft, low words.

  I can’t even look at her.

  I can’t fucking have her here.

  So I turn my back on her, dragging my phone from the pocket of my loose robe and pulling the terrycloth up to belt it securely around my body again.

  This is Steve's fault. No mistake. When my best friend said he had the perfect person in mind to handle the house, I had no idea he’d gone this fucking loco, sending Kenna here as if he didn’t know exactly what he was doing.

  I’m already pulling his number up in my contacts, ignoring the faint, flustered sounds behind me.

  First, I'm going to murder Steve.

  And then I’m going to send McKenna Burke packing. Right back where she came from.

  III: You Had Me At Hello (Kenna)

  This wasn’t how I wanted our reunion to go.

  I thought I’d have time to prepare for something a bit more formal in a setting where there were appropriate social rules and conventions to keep this from blowing up in my face.

  Like a brunch on the patio or something. Objects between us to create proper distance and remind us to be polite, instead of stabbing at each other with words and butter knives and possibly a breakfast fork or two.

  Instead, I have this. This insanity.

  This behemoth of a man charging out of the trees at me like freaking Tarzan, half-naked and his eyes lit up with crackling electric blue storms.

  He’s thicker than I remember. All corded muscle bulking out his frame. Writhing with more tattoos than I remember. He looks like the devil himself with his chin bearded and scruffy, and nothing like the boy I’d once idolized.

  That boy sure as hell hadn’t been this much of an asshole.

  He’s practically in a tantrum, giving me his back and snarling under his breath as he stabs at his phone and then waits, this bristling mess of raw male energy and thorny irritation. I’d bet what little is left in my bank account that he’s calling my brother.

  If I could, I’d double that bet when the call ends without picking up. He just growls and tries it again.

  I sigh, hands on my hips.

  Sure, Landon caught me off guard, but this is ridiculous. He could have at least tried to be civil, instead of treating me like unwanted trash.

  Does he expect those fierce glares to make me afraid of him?

  Does he think I'm the same little girl who'll be disarmed with that look?

  Like hell.

  He hasn’t managed to frighten me away yet, and I’ve seen him at his worst.

  Known him at his darkest, and his most depraved.

  I march right up to him and take a firm grip on one of his shoulders. Obviously, I can't budge a titan as large as Landon, but at least he won't ignore me.

  And he doesn’t. Ignore me, that is.

  He whirls around so quick it makes my heart stumble, and jerks back until I’m no longer touching him. He’s in full beast mode, upper lip curled in something between a snarl and a sneer, his glare cutting into me.

  I lift my chin, pride more than anything making me brave. “The word you’re looking for,” I bite off, “is ‘hello.’”

  The word he gives me instead? “Fuck.”

  And then he says, “Are you out of your mind? What was Steve thinking, sending you here?” Those brilliant blue eyes narrow. “Or was this your idea?”

  I scowl. “It wasn’t. Steve was trying to do you a favor, if you'd let him.”

  “A favor,” he scoffs. “Like sending you here is helping me gain anything besides a headache. You can’t be here, Kenna. It’s absolutely ridiculous. You and I, we don’t –”

  “Don’t what?” I demand. Anger, right now, is easier than the ball of hurt knotting in my chest.

  He goes still. There’s something strange in his eyes, before they ice over and he looks at me oddly, remotely, distantly. More standoffish than I ever could've expected.

  “Just don't,” he says, as if that’s the final verdict.

  He’s written me off with a snap of his tongue. Not even a chance to talk things out.

  I’m not the little girl I was back then, but all he sees is a nuisance sent to disrupt his orderly life and expose his secrets. But if I’m not that little girl anymore…

  Then I’m not afraid of him anymore, either.

  Not like I was then.

  Back when his Dad died.

  Overnight, Landon became a different person. A person I didn’t recognize. A person who terrified me, terrorized me, and ran me off with a promise never to come back.

  Well, I’m back now. And I didn't show up just to go full circle.

  Yes, it’s his property. His place. His life.

  He’s the one who needs me – this glorified housesitter-catsitter thing I signed up for. If I have to, I’ll go crash on Steve’s couch and leave Landon to deal with his problems on his own.

  “Now look,” I say firmly. “If you’re done with your little roid rage explosion, how about we try talking about this like two rational adults?” I square my shoulders. “It’s just a job. I didn’t come here to screw up your life, Landon. And I didn’t come here to dig into old wounds. I’m helping you, you’re paying me with room and board, and since you’ll be gone soon, we don’t even have to see each other. All I need is a week or two to handle my affairs. By the time you get back, I’ll be ready to leave.”

  It’s a tight timeline. Two weeks to p
roduce a novel, instead of a month?

  Ugh. But maybe the pressure will light a spark under me. If anything, it’ll just give me more incentive to get it done so I can get away from this asshole as soon as possible.

  I let Landon Strauss break my heart once.

  I won’t do it again.

  He’s still watching me with that same measured look. Assessing every second.

  I feel like I’m suddenly in hostile territory, and he’s sizing me up as the enemy. Like he's back in his military days and I’m just another obstacle to overcome with tactical assessment and a little strategic finesse. But just as quickly that look fades, leaving him looking almost bewildered, and then annoyed.

  He grunts something under his breath, then looks away, staring across the sand to where choppy waves have turned to lead under the storm blowing in, the sky all steel and silver-shot lightning.

  There’s something dark in his eyes.

  Something haunted.

  Something damaged.

  The boy I knew doesn’t live in this hardened, scarred beast. Not anymore.

  Landon's fists clench. He drops his phone into his bathrobe pocket.

  “I’ll think,” he mutters, a drawling rasp darkening his sultry, deep voice.

  Then he turns and walks away, leaving me standing alone on the beach. The first mist of storm spray washes in, kissing my cheeks in cool beads that feel like the tears of the little girl I refuse to ever be again. Not for him.

  I don’t know what kind of mess I’ve gotten myself into, but it’s already hurting like hell.

  I almost want to laugh, give my throat something bitter and jagged. Whatever it takes to dislodge the lump forming there.

  God, I really can’t control anything in my life, can I? Not even one confrontation with a wild man who still holds the map to all the wounded places in my heart.

  I’ve never been in control of anything. Why should this be different?

  Because I want it to be. Just this once.

  Because my heart feels like it’s cracking, splintering in two, going back to a dreadful place I swore I'd left behind.

  But this time, there's a difference: I’ve gotten pretty damned good at taping it back together.

  IV: Love to Hate You (Landon)

  Somehow, I’m not surprised Steve’s still not picking up his phone.

  He may be a complete prick for putting me in this position, but he’s got a sense of self-preservation.

  It’s been hours. At least a dozen phone calls.

  Half a dozen voicemails before I quit wasting my voice and just hit redial until I got sick of it, chucked my phone across the desk, and settled back in my chair to stare out my office window.

  I’ve been watching her all day, catching hints and flashes. Glimpses of her moving through the windows. A ghost I thought I'd chased away years ago, who shouldn't even be here.

  She's not quite the same, true. This Kenna is older, more collected. That awkward young thing blossomed into an adult with that first entirely enticing, entirely maddening blush of new womanhood clinging to her like some heady perfume the second I got in her face.

  Too bad the little things about her body language are too much the same. Still familiar enough to jolt me, until all day I’ve been out of sorts, close to making mistakes every time someone on my crew checks in with me about setup for the Milah job.

  Skylar, my lead and logistics manager, tells me the singer wants us helping her entire entourage of stuck-up groupies. Whatever, I say, as long as Milah Holly understands we're security and not their damn servants. Skylar drops off as soon as she catches the edge in my tone.

  The one Reb put there without trying.

  Fuck. This isn’t going to work.

  She’s already got me off my game, detached from my job, and I hate it.

  I hate how grown-up she looks.

  How her eyes, behind her sleeker, thinner glasses, are still the same clear, liquid green that seems to expect something more from me. Hate how it's the same pool I could lose myself in too long. Hate how one phone call from Milah’s manager, later, tells me I have no choice but to rely on Kenna when Milah needs me in Sonoma by Saturday afternoon, and it’s Friday now.

  I fucking hate everything about this. About her. And about the demanding brat signing my next six figure check.

  I've tried to come up with a work around all day, but it’s just not happening. I’m backed into a corner, and I can’t even get my head around what’s happening now.

  Not when I keep remembering. Reliving what happened years ago – on the day I truly met the girl who shouldn’t be here tormenting me.

  * * *

  Ten Years Ago

  Sometimes, teenagers can be complete and utter pricks.

  That’s the first thing I think when I see her crying. I barely know her; she’s just a shadow who hangs around my best friend now and then, someone I vaguely identify as his little sister, McKenna. Kenna, right?

  I probably shouldn’t even be talking to her. I’m eighteen, close to graduating, and she’s this dorky fourteen-year-old freshman.

  But she looks almost afraid of me. I find her out behind the bleachers on the football field after school, sobbing her eyes out. Like someone hurt her and she thinks I’ve come to deliver the killing blow.

  Something about that look makes me want to fix it, even if I’m not the one who fucked it up. It's not my business, true, but for some screwed up reason I want to make it mine.

  She’s curled on the grass, leaning against a post. I sit down on the other side and rest my back against the wood. That way she doesn’t have to feel like I’m looking at her, judging her.

  “You want to talk about it?” I ask.

  “No!” she forces out, sniffling, her voice thick.

  “Okay. Whenever you're ready, I'm here.”

  For some reason, that sets her off crying again. I just wait and listen.

  Sometimes people just need someone to be there with them when they’re sad, but I hope I’m not embarrassing her and making it worse. Thankfully after a while there comes another sniffle, and her breathing sounds easier.

  “Sorry, it's just...” she mumbles. “Thanks. I guess.”

  I look over my shoulder. She’s taken her tear-streaked glasses off to reveal the largest, widest green eyes I’ve ever seen, swimming and nearly glowing with their wet sheen. She’s busy stretching her bulky, ill-fitted shirt out of shape trying to clean her lenses before she darts a quick glance toward me, then reddens and looks away.

  “Not here to make fun of you,” I say. “It’s okay to talk. Really.”

  I think she'll clam up again, when she lowers her eyes to her suddenly motionless hands. But she lets out a lifeless shrug and whispers bitterly, “Just boys being boys. Assholes, I mean. And I’m an easy target.”

  “Did someone hurt you?”

  “No. Maybe?” Another shrug. “Just my feelings. Jonah McMillan thought it would be funny to –” Her voice hitches as if she’ll breakdown again, then smooths as she clears her throat and continues with a touch of stiff pride. “He pretended to invite me to Homecoming. Big fancy fake letter and everything. And when I went to ask him if it was a joke or something...”

  “He humiliated you,” I guess, a slight growl curdling my voice. “Like a fuckstick with nothing better to do..”

  “In front of half the girls in my class!” she finishes with a touch of ferocity, her eyes sparking. “God. I tried to say I knew it was a joke, a stupid one, but he was too busy telling everyone how pathetic I was...thinking he’d ever go out with me. Like I’d be interested in him.”

  “Real cute,” I offer, an awkward attempt to get her to laugh. It works, even if it’s just a kind of quick throaty hurting chuckle hidden behind a pinched smile.

  “He’s an asshole, is what he is,” she counters, but a bruised smile lingers on her lips. Slowly fading. “I just…I don't even know. Now, they’re all calling me Princess. Like I think I’m too full of myself when they’
re actually all too good for me.”

  “Princess?” I curl my upper lip. “Like you're somebody’s yappy fucking purse dog? That’s a shit name. And they’re shit people. Here, I’ve got a better name for you.” I stroke my chin, wondering if I should really put it out there like this.

  She eyes me warily. “…what is it?”

  “Rebel,” I say, and grin. “Let's make it 'reb' for short. That's what you look like to me, telling these kids where they can stick it. And I bet that's what you'd like to be.”

  Her eyes widen. Her blush returns. I eye her a second longer, deciding she’s kinda cute in a weird dorky little sister way. Of course, freshmen aren't something I'd be caught dead messing with – especially when she's Steve's own flesh and blood.

  “Hmph,” she says faintly, tilting her head. “I don’t know. I'm not really that much of a rebel.”

  “Bull. You saw through their crap, yeah? You’re too smart for this high school circlejerk, and too good for Jonah McMillan. He’s a limp-dick bully who probably gets off on hurting girls. You did the right thing serving up what he deserved. The world's full of dudes like him.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “Great. I'm glad I have so much to look forward to.”

  “Just telling the truth.” And if that's what I'm really doing, it makes me weirdly happy when she lets out this embarrassed little laugh, looking at me, then looking away again, bringing a hand up to scrub at her tear-streaked face.

  “Hey. Look. I’ve been through four years at this shithole school. I'll tell you right now that if you try to be someone you’re not, it’s just gonna chew you up and spit you out in pieces on the other side. So forget being royalty. Be the rebel you are. This smart, gorgeous girl with rocking glasses. You’ll have so many boys begging for you they’ll be lined up the whole west coast to Seattle, babe.”

  I’ve never seen someone blush so red in my life, right up to the tip of her pert little upturned nose. She ducks her head, tucking her loose, frizzy hair behind her ear.

  “You’re just saying that because you’re Steve’s friend. Trying to make me feel better.”