Page 24 of Enemies to Lovers

“One, nothing,” I say like an arrogant jerk, like I have any right to brag after losing every game up until this point. But hell, I’m going to take any win I can get.

We play a volley of a game, scoring one on each other, back and forth, back and forth. I push the sleeves up on my shirt, ignoring the sweat building at the nape of my neck and the excitement curdling in my gut. Her cleavage is a distraction, every time she leans over to whack the puck. I don’tknow why thehell I have to battle with that. But she’s watching my arms, and I try to flex, pretend I’m worth looking at so she messes up.

Her teeth sink into that bottom lip again, her gaze locked on my forearm. I take advantage of her distraction, hitting the puck in the other direction. It slips past her unmoving hand. The clunk of victory is muffled by the singing lights from the machine, and her jaw drops.

It worked.

“I won.” I straighten, hardly believing the words come from my mouth. Then they come again, with much more force. “I won!” I’m suddenly the kid on the playground, swinging across those monkey bars. My arms go into the air, like I’m declaring a touchdown.

I’m five years old. I don’t give a shit.

I’m celebrating the one and only victory I’ve ever had against this girl.

She drops her paddle next to mine, and her arms wrap around my torso, sending my heart into a frenzy. My arms fall naturally around her, and I hold her close, let her feel this excitement, feed off of it, share it with her. It’s a little overwhelming, and I don’t know what to do with it.

She tilts her head up, resting her chin on my chest. “I want to say I let you win.”

“You didn’t…” My eyes narrow.

“No, I didn’t.” She lets out a long sigh and pinches the forearm she couldn’t stop looking at. “Damn you.”

There is too much boiling inside me that it spills over. I take her head in my hands and smack a kiss to her forehead. “Victory is mine!”

“Guess it was bound to happen sometime.” She lets out a breathy laugh, her round cheeks pink, her chest flush.

The power I have to cause that reaction is humbling—and surreal. I land smack dab back on earth. I swallow hard, slithering from her grasp and taking her hand instead.

We’re too close. Too much. It’s too much.

“So…” My chin itches, but I refrain from scratching. “You want to call it a night? Or…”

“Do you want to help me give this to Brewster?” Her cheeks are as red as her shirt as she nods to the squid she set at the base of the air hockey table. “Have a nightcap at my place?”

My hand twitches in hers, and she gives it a squeeze. “Um… you sure? It’s Christmas Eve.”

She nods, her eyes wide and serious, determined and steady. I wish I had that kind of confidence. I wish I knew what it meant. Am I taking advantage, am I actually starting to like her, should I forget the whole thing and ride this out?

My voice answers before my brain can.

“Okay.”

I’ve had sex a total of three times.

First time was with Billy Mockner, senior year of high school. Graduation, technically. At the after party, he took me out to his dad’s boat parked to the side of the house. We had sparkling cider in flute glasses, and he admitted he’d always had a thing for me. I admitted I thought he was cute. It was awkward, but sweet, and honestly, the only thing I remember being painful about it was the edge of the seat digging into my back. He went his way, I went mine. For first times, it wasn’t terrible, and I think of it fondly.

Second time was with Remington Turner, a guy I met online halfway through college. We spent a total of twenty-four hours together face-to-face, and he ghosted me after that. He was good, I mean, judging from the little experience I had to draw from. He was no Rabbit, but he knew what he was doing.

Third and last time was Nathan Yost. First year of vet school. We were lab partners in Dr. Herbert’s class, and I thought for sure I was finally getting a boyfriend. He asked me out, and I jumped into bed with him immediately. It’d been a long time, and I thought he liked me.

I woke up alone, and when I teased him about it during class, he gave me a lackluster chuckle, and then he never spoke of it again. He had me half convinced I dreamt the whole thing.

The turn of the key in my front door clicks in my ears, and my heart pitter patters so loudly I wonder if Miles can hear it.

He’ll never know—and if he ever asks, I’ll deny the hell out of it—but he’s been the star of every solitary sexual moment I’ve had. In my experience, they’ve been the best ones.

Brewster bounds to the door, his nails scratching across the tile in the kitchen before they hit the carpet. I wave the squid at him, hoping my voice sounds normal and not scared to death. “Look what I got you!”

I invited Miles Stoll to my place. He’s in my condo. A few stairs more, and he’ll be in my bedroom. Do I invite him there? Do I take advantage? This is date number two—we haven’t kissed, but I’m afraid that if we do, I won’t stop myself. Would he pull a Nathan and deny it once we’re back in class? Will he pull a Remington and completely disappear? Or will he be just someone I remember and wish for when I ultimately end up alone?

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