Falling for the enemy

FALLING FOR THE ENEMY CHAPTER ONE The first time Leo Matthews saw Ava Laurent, she was threatening to have him banned from a coffee shop for the crime of sitting in her favorite booth. He had been staring at a blinking cursor for forty-seven minutes. The blank page was winning, as it had been winning for three months now, and the bitter taste of his black coffee was the only thing keeping him from throwing his laptop across the room. He had chosen the corner booth because it was quiet, because the light was decent, and because the worn leather seat molded perfectly to his frame. Then she appeared, all designer heels and expensive perfume, demanding he vacate the premises. "You must be joking," Leo said, not looking up from his screen. He knew he should probably care more. The rational part of his brain understood that picking a fight with a stranger at eight in the morning was a terrible way to start the day. But something about her tone, the casual arrogance of it, made him want to dig his heels in. "Does it look like I'm joking?" The model planted her hands on her hips. Her nails were painted a deep crimson, perfectly shaped, probably maintained by someone whose entire job was to ensure her cuticles looked flawless. "I sit here every single morning. It's my routine." "There are thirteen other empty tables in this café." "Those aren't my tables." Leo finally looked up, and he regretted it immediately. She was stunning in that polished, untouchable way that wealthy people always seemed to be. Her hair fell in glossy waves past her shoulders. Her face had the kind of symmetry that belonged on magazine covers. Her eyes, warm honey in the morning light, were flashing with genuine annoyance. "Why is this booth so special?" he asked. "Because it's mine." "That's not an answer." "It's the only answer you need." She tapped her foot impatiently. The heel made a sharp clicking sound against the hardwood floor. "Look, I don't have time for this. I have a meeting in an hour, and I need to go over my schedule before I leave." "So go over your schedule somewhere else." "I don't want to go somewhere else." "And I don't want to move." The barista behind the counter was watching them now, his eyes wide with the kind of nervous energy that suggested he was trying to decide whether to intervene or pretend he hadn't noticed anything. A middle-aged woman at a nearby table had stopped reading her newspaper and was openly staring. "You're being completely unreasonable," Ava said, her voice rising just a fraction. "Me?" Leo laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You walked in here, saw a perfectly good booth occupied by someone who was clearly working, and decided to throw a tantrum because things weren't going your way." "A tantrum?" Her eyes went wide. "You think this is a tantrum?" "What would you call it?" "I would call it asking someone politely to move so I can sit in my usual seat." "There was nothing polite about that." "Because you didn't give me a chance to be polite." "I gave you plenty of chance." Ava opened her mouth to respond, then closed it again. She looked like she wanted to scream. Instead, she took a deep breath and smoothed down the front of her silk blouse, an elegant cream-colored thing that probably cost more than Leo's entire wardrobe combined. "Look," she said, her voice dropping to something that was almost civil. "I had a terrible night. I barely slept. I have a meeting with my agent in an hour, and I need to go over my schedule before she starts yelling at me about all the things I've forgotten to do. I just want to sit in my booth, drink my latte, and have five minutes of peace before my life turns into a circus again." Leo studied her for a long moment. There were shadows under her eyes, faint but visible beneath her carefully applied makeup. Her shoulders were tense, pulled tight with a kind of exhaustion that went deeper than just one bad night. He almost felt sorry for her. Almost. "Still not moving," he said. "I'll buy you a coffee." "I already have one." "Two coffees." "I don't want two coffees." "I'll buy you a pastry." "I don't eat pastries." "Everyone eats pastries." "Not me." Ava threw her hands up in frustration. "What do you want then? What would make you move?" Leo considered the question. He could ask for money. He could ask for an apology. He could ask for her to leave him alone and never speak to him again. But none of those things would satisfy the petty, spiteful part of his brain that had decided to make this beautiful, entitled stranger's morning as miserable as possible. "Nothing," he said finally. "I don't want anything. I just want you to leave me alone." "Unbelievable." She shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. "You're literally the most infuriating person I've ever met." "Likewise." "I didn't ask for your opinion." "Too bad." "You know what?" She pointed a crimson-tipped finger at him. "I'm going to remember this. I'm going to remember your stupid face, and when I see you again, I'm going to make your life a living hell." "Is that a threat?" "It's a promise." "Great." Leo turned back to his laptop. "I'll be here. Same booth. Every morning. You're welcome to try." Ava made a sound of pure frustration, a noise somewhere between a growl and a scream, and spun on her heel. She marched over to the counter, ordered her latte in clipped, angry tones, and took a seat at the table closest to the door. Far away from Leo. Far away from his booth. Far away from him. He told himself he didn't care. He told himself she was just another rich, entitled brat who had never been told no in her entire life. He told himself he would forget about her the moment he walked out of the café. He was wrong. --- The next morning, Leo arrived at The Grind House at seven-thirty. Early enough to beat the rush. Early enough to claim his corner booth. He ordered his black coffee, settled into his usual seat, and opened his laptop. The cursor was still blinking. The page was still blank. Three months of writer's block stretched out before him like an endless, empty road. He was staring at the screen, willing the words to appear, when the bell above the door chimed. He didn't look up. He didn't have to. He could feel her presence the moment she walked in, a shift in the atmosphere, a change in the air pressure. The sharp click of her heels on the hardwood floor. The faint whisper of expensive perfume. The unmistakable energy of someone who was used to commanding attention wherever she went. "Seriously?" Her voice cut through the quiet hum of the café like a knife. "You're here again?" Leo looked up slowly, letting his gaze travel over her. She was wearing a different outfit today, a fitted black dress that hugged her curves in all the right places, paired with strappy heels that added at least four inches to her already impressive height. Her hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and her makeup was flawless. "You said I was welcome to try," he said. "So I tried." "I was being sarcastic." "I wasn't." Ava's jaw tightened. She looked like she was struggling very hard not to say something she would regret. The barista, the same nervous kid from yesterday, was watching them again with barely concealed amusement. "Fine," she said through gritted teeth. "Keep the booth. I don't care." "Clearly." "I said I don't care." "Your face says otherwise." "My face is none of your business." "Your face is kind of hard to ignore, actually." Ava's eyes widened. For a moment, just a moment, something flickered in her expression. Surprise, maybe. Or confusion. Or something else entirely, something she quickly masked behind a wall of cold indifference. "Are you flirting with me?" she asked. "Absolutely not." "Good. Because I wouldn't be interested even if you were." "Wouldn't dream of it." She opened her mouth to respond, then closed it again. She was doing that a lot, Leo noticed. Starting sentences she couldn't finish. Showing cracks in her carefully constructed armor. "This is ridiculous," she said finally. "We're adults. We shouldn't be fighting over a stupid booth." "You started it." "I absolutely did not start it." "You walked in and demanded I move." "Because it's my booth." "It's no one's booth. It's a seat in a public café." "I sit here every morning. That makes it mine." "That's not how ownership works." Ava let out a long, slow breath. She closed her eyes, counted to three, and opened them again. "I'm going to order my coffee. I'm going to sit over there." She pointed to the table nearest the window. "And I'm going to pretend you don't exist. Can you do that for me? Can you pretend I don't exist?" "Already done." "Great." She turned away and walked to the counter, her heels clicking against the floor with each step. Leo watched her go, watched the way the other patrons turned to look at her, watched the way the barista's face lit up when she smiled at him. Then he turned back to his laptop and tried to forget she existed. He couldn't. --- It went on like that for two weeks. Every morning, Leo arrived at The Grind House at seven-thirty. Every morning, Ava arrived ten minutes later. Every morning, they exchanged barbed comments and cutting remarks, each one sharper than the last. "This seat taken?" she asked one morning, gesturing at the empty chair across from him. "It is now." "By what?" "By my complete and utter disinterest in having company." "Charming." "I try." Another morning, she walked past his booth and dropped a napkin on his table. On it, she had written a single line: "You need a haircut." He found a pen in his bag and wrote back: "You need a personality." She snatched the napkin off his table before he could stop her, read it, and walked away without saying a word. But he saw the corner of her mouth twitch, just barely, like she was trying very hard not to smile. He told himself it didn't matter. She was just a stranger, just a random person he happened to run into every morning. There was nothing special about her. Nothing worth noticing. But he found himself looking forward to their morning fights. He found himself arriving earlier, staying later, hoping she would show up. He found himself thinking about her when he was supposed to be thinking about his book, about the blank page, about the words that wouldn't come. It was stupid. It was ridiculous. It was the kind of thing that happened to other people, people who were foolish enough to let themselves get attached, people who didn't know better. He knew better. But he couldn't seem to stop. --- "You live in the Laurent building?" The question came out of nowhere. Leo looked up from his laptop to find Ava standing at the edge of his booth, her latte clutched in her hands, her expression caught somewhere between suspicion and curiosity. "What?" he asked. "The Laurent building." She gestured at his laptop bag, which had fallen open to reveal his keys. "I recognize that key fob. That's the building on West 87th. The one with the doorman and the rooftop garden." Leo looked down at his keys. The key fob was indeed visible, a small white rectangle with the building's logo printed on it. He had been so careful to keep his personal life private, to avoid any connection to the world of wealth and privilege he had worked so hard to escape. And now here was this woman, this infuriating, beautiful, entitled woman, pointing out the one thing he had tried so hard to hide. "So what if I do?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral. "So I live there too." Ava's eyes narrowed. "I've never seen you before." "I keep to myself." "Obviously." She studied him for a long moment, her gaze traveling over his face, his clothes, his hands. "What floor?" "Why do you care?" "I don't. I'm just curious." "Curiosity killed the cat." "Are you calling me a cat?" "I'm calling you nosy." Ava laughed, a genuine laugh that surprised them both. "You're impossible, you know that?" "I've been told." "Well, whoever told you that was right." She shook her head, still smiling. "I'm on the nineteenth floor. Penthouse." "Of course you are." "What's that supposed to mean?" "Nothing." "That wasn't nothing." "It was absolutely nothing." They stared at each other for a long moment, a silent standoff that neither of them was willing to break. The café hummed around them, the quiet murmur of conversation, the hiss of the espresso machine, the soft jazz playing from the speakers. Then Ava did something unexpected. She sat down in the chair across from him. "Can I help you?" Leo asked. "I don't know yet." She set her latte on the table and leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs with practiced elegance. "I want to know why you're so defensive. Every time I ask you a question, you deflect. Every time I try to get to know you, you shut me down. What are you hiding?" "Nothing." "Liar." "I'm not hiding anything. I just don't like people." "You don't like me." "I don't like anyone." "So you've said." Ava tilted her head, studying him. "But I don't believe you." "Why not?" "Because I've seen the way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention." A small smile played at the corners of her mouth. "You can pretend you don't care all you want. But I know you do." Leo's heart skipped a beat. He had been so careful. He had made sure his expression remained neutral, his eyes didn't linger, his hands didn't betray him. But she had noticed anyway. "You're imagining things," he said. "I'm not." "You are." "I know what I saw." "You don't know anything." Ava leaned forward, her eyes locked on his. "Then tell me. Tell me I'm wrong. Look me in the eye and tell me you don't feel anything." Leo opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He couldn't lie. Not to her. Not when she was looking at him like that, her honey-colored eyes searching his face for the truth he had been so desperate to hide. "I'm not going to do this," he said finally. "Do what?" "This." He gestured between them. "Whatever this is. You're a stranger. You're nothing to me. I don't owe you anything, least of all an explanation for the way I feel." "Then why won't you look away?" Leo froze. He realized, with a jolt of panic, that he had been staring at her the entire time. Locked in her gaze like a moth drawn to a flame. Unable to look away, unable to move, unable to do anything but sit there and feel the weight of her attention pressing down on him. "You're infuriating," he said. "So are you." "I hate you." "I hate you too." They sat there in silence, two strangers who had somehow stumbled into something neither of them had expected. The tension between them was electric, charged with a kind of energy that Leo had never felt before. It was dangerous. It was exciting. It was terrifying. And then Ava smiled. Not the practiced smile she used on magazine covers. Not the polite smile she gave the barista. A real smile, genuine and warm and completely unexpected. "Same time tomorrow?" she asked. Leo blinked. "What?" "Same time tomorrow. Same booth. Same coffee." She stood up, smoothing down her dress. "I'll be here. Try not to disappoint me." "Wait." He caught her wrist before she could walk away. "What do you want from me?" Ava looked down at his hand on her wrist, then back up at his face. Her expression was unreadable. "I don't know yet," she said. "But I'm going to find out." She pulled away and walked out of the café, leaving Leo sitting alone in the booth with his cold coffee and his racing heart and the sinking realization that he was in way over his head.