ANYTHING BUT ENEMIES

04. falling for him

I'M LATE.

Blame it on my makeup—which I'd spent forty-five minutes trying to perfect—a generally unnecessary feat considering I'll be sitting on a plane for the next three hours and likely taking a nap the second I get checked into the hotel.

Yep, blame my makeup for the reason I'm currently sprinting through the airport in platform stompers that rise up to my knees, a plaid mini-skirt that I'm really starting to regret right about now, and a baggy T-shirt with some stupid Super Mario design that I'd found at the thrift store.

Blame my makeup for the fact that TSA was a nightmare, the line stretching out for what felt like miles. And why I'd realized I hadn't eaten breakfast before leaving the house, so I'd stopped to grab a quick burrito, which I'd then speed-eaten outside a set of bathroom doors so fast that I'd gotten a little nauseous.

And let me just say, running does not help my queasy stomach in the slightest.

According to the numbers flying by my face, I'm getting closer to my gateway, weaving between families with their arms full of carry-on bags and people making amiable conversation before their planes arrive.

It must be so nice to have a relaxing moment before lifting off thousands of feet into the air. I'm a clown for not allowing myself the luxury.

"Seven, seven, seven," I chant under my breath, lips twisting at the number five that comes up. In fact, I'm so absorbed by this number five, that I don't notice I'm falling until I'm on the ground splattered in hot liquid.

"Goddammit!"

My knees hurt like hell, palms flat on the floor to catch me, shirt stuck to my chest with something burning my skin, brown seeping across tile with a crushed white cup about a foot away. It's only when I look down, though, that all the air really leaves my body.

You see, I didn't just fall for no reason.

There had to be something in my way.

Fuck.

Beneath me, a man's dark lashes flutter confusedly before eyelids pitch open to reveal hazel, brows immediately slashing downward as clarity starts to surface.

"Who...?" the asshole from Roselyn's croaks in a daze.

His hair is a little longer now, chocolate, fluffy curls that on any other guy I'd want to reach out and touch, white shirt stained an unbecoming shade of soulless coffee. The beauty mark's still exactly where I remember it—a dot under his eye right beneath darkness, but something's missing.

Glasses.

Glasses.

Where are his glasses?

He sits up suddenly, our faces hovering within an inch of each other, full lips pulled back into the disapproving frown I've come to hate—the frown I've found myself thinking about far too often for it to be normal.

You'll be sorry for this. Mark my words.

What are the odds that he would be here? What are the odds that he would be here while I'm here, running late after downing a burrito and dolling myself up to look like an extra in the band Kiss?

When he squints, I know he's made the connection. I know I'm absolutely screwed.

"You."

I hurry to make my own accusation before he can snap, "Are you stalking me?"

"Like hell, I'd stalk you." His hands feel around blindly beside him, eyes flickering between me and the sticky floor with disgust like I'm a car crash he can't look away from. "Where are my glasses?"