Page 13 of The Art of Falling in Love with Your Enemy
“Oh my g…of course, we can get you some cinnamon and sugar graham crackers. Etta’s responsible for the grocery list, so she’s got it handled.” Amelia crosses her arms and stares pointedly at Etta. “Right, Etta?”
Pursing her lips together, Etta’s cheeks flush pink. Did I push it too far? Honestly it’s not what I want to do, but she’s making me crazy. Just like Christa used to do.
She scribbles some notes before clutching the notebook close to her chest, averting her gaze from mine. “Done.”
“Good.” Amelia turns back to Lane, whose phone chimes, signaling a text. Lane whips his phone out of his pocket and checks the screen before looking at Amelia.
“Sorry to do this, but do you have a landline I can use?” He holds up his phone. “My signal is spotty down here, and I need to call in and let the team know we’re a go for the retreat next week.”
“Of course, I’ll show you where it is,” Amelia says, looking back at Etta. “Why don’t you and Zac go over details of what he thinks he’ll need and get that taken care of? And play nice.”
Amelia, the smart woman she is, turns around before Etta can react and takes off with Lane in tow behind her.
Spotting a picnic table by the lakeside, I tip my head in its direction. “Mind if we sit?”
Without so much as looking in my direction, Etta marches over to the picnic table and takes a seat. Shaking my head, I follow and park myself in a position across from her.
“So,” Etta hisses as she plants her hand firmly on her notebook and finally drags her eyes to mine. “Details?”
“You are a woman of many words, Etta McCoy, aren’t you?”
Silence.
“Okaaaay.” Half of me wants to laugh, the other half is in disbelief that an adult woman can be this stubborn. And cranky. Man, she’s cranky. “You want details. I’ll start with food. Let’s see…we’ll arrive midday and want a light lunch, please. Maybe a brown bag so we can get started right away. Also, we’ll need a late afternoon snack, dinner, and breakfast the next day.”
Etta nods, too busy to look my way (Ha. In my dreams.) as she takes notes. “Okay. And the s’mores, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
“Be good to get a list of any food allergies anyone may have, too.” Etta finishes her last note, puts her pen down, and looks at me. “Gluten, dairy, and all that jazz.”
“Who would be allergic to Chicago?”
The quirk of her lips is the tiniest of quirks if ever there was a tiny quirk in the world, but it’s a quirk nonetheless.
“I’d hope no one, because Chicago is a great musical. I’m tempted to say the best, but…”
“But…what?” She’s engaging, folks, and I’m not going to try to stop her and remind her she hates me.
Etta shrugs, and as she does, the loose top she's wearing slides down her arm, revealing her tanned shoulder. At this moment, I cannot help my eyes as they slide their way down her neck and across her shoulder, my heart happy when she doesn’t try to pull the fabric back up.
“I’m more of a fan of Les Misérables myself.” Still no smile, but we have comms people. “I know it’s silly…”
“I think Cats is the one that most true Broadway enthusiasts see as silly, isn’t it?”
“Huh.” Etta cocks her head to one side. “Now that you mention it, yes.”
“Well, would you look at that?” I acknowledge.
Etta’s brow furrows as she glances over her shoulder. “Look at what?”
“We’re talking like people do when they get along.”
Glowering, Etta shakes her head. “Don’t ruin it.”
“Don’t tell me don’t ruin it. That ruins it.” I shake my head back, wagging a finger in her direction. “It’s like if I told you to calm down when you really don’t want to calm down, or maybe you are calm and the fact I tell you to calm down is condescending.”
“I feel like you’re an overthinker,” she hisses.
