Dear Enemy

by Kristen Callihan

I could easily forgive his pride, if he had not mortified mine. ―Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

“A lady friend once told me that when a woman wears red lipstick to meet a man, it’s for two possible reasons. Either she wants him to fuck her, or she wants to tell him to fuck off.”

“Oh, really? Sending some chick a batch of cardamom cupcakes with lavender frosting made by a specific baker that I have to drive all the way out to Laguna Beach to pick up, because of course they don’t deliver, isn’t frivolous? Hell, I can make those myself. I can even put happy birthday on them in little gold letters like you wanted.” Frankly, I’m surprised he hadn’t specified what font should be used. “But they wouldn’t be from her favorite baker,” he tells me, then makes a sound of exasperation. “She’s my makeup artist. The woman I have to spend hours in the chair talking to. She needs to know she’s appreciated.” I roll my eyes. “You don’t have to bribe people with goodies, Con Man.”

I want to snort but don’t. There’s something about his manner that makes me feel as though he’s set me aside as easily as he did the fork. When am I going to learn? I’m pissed that I forgot how easily Macon can draw me in, only to drop me off a cliff when I least expect it. And I’m pissed at myself for feeling chastened by Karen, of all people.

“Let’s get one thing clear—” “If this is about not being nice to Karen, I swear to God, Macon, I will nut you where you stand and leave you for dead.”

“Ah. The pretty Ms. Baker is throwing you for a loop, eh?” “Pretty?” I narrow my eyes at him. “What?” That smug grin is growing. “You don’t think she is?” “I’ve got eyes, don’t I?” Delilah is pretty. Quietly pretty. She will never be the first person everyone looks at when entering a room. Especially not in LA, where beautiful women bloom like flowers in a well-tended garden. But among a bouquet of perfect roses, Delilah is much like her namesake flower—unexpectedly vivid and complex—making you realize that roses are boring in comparison. I don’t tell North that. Instead I glare at him. “Touch her, and we’ll be wearing matching casts, even if I have to pay someone to put you in one.”

Fuck if I hadn’t loved every second of our argument. Yep, we’re definitely flirting. Angry flirting. Is there a word for that? There should be.

“I think that if my heart was ready to hear the truth, no lie my brain could come up with would matter.”