Chapter Five
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Enemy behavior in an enemies-to-lovers romcom? Wild.
Poem
There has never and will never be anything on this earth more chaotic than an eight-year-old girl’s birthday party.
Not only has half the town shown up at the bar—a prime place for a kid’s birthday party if ever there was one—but if my estimates are correct, every child within a thirty-mile radius has also shown up.
Blue, green, and pink streamers cover every available inch of ceiling, dangling down just low enough to tantalize jumping children into believing they have a chance at pulling them down.
Balloons float through the air as kids volleyball serve them to each other.
At the bar counter, a toddler shrieks when his brother blows a party whistle in his face.
A gaggle of little girls dance and scream along to Stray Kids blasting from a speaker in the corner of the room.
I sip at a can of peach Alani, watching it all unfold.
It’s chaos. Pure, overstimulating chaos.
In other words, Fox is freaking out, and I’m having a blast.
“I think that little boy over there got into the beer well,” I say, tipping my Alani can at a tiny blond boy gripping an amber-tinted glass bottle. “Are you sure you locked everything up tight?” I flutter my eyelashes as Fox’s face goes red.
He curses before marching over to little Davie Tanner. He rips the bottle out of Davie’s hands, prompting the young boy to burst into loud, wailing tears.
Fox checks the bottle, then winces, passing it back to red-faced Davie and apologizing profusely to his mother, who glares down her upturned nose at my gullible boss, lips pursed with disgust.
I suppress a smile.
Across the bar, his sky-blue eyes meet mine, promising murder.
I wiggle my fingers at him.
“Are you causing trouble?” Wolfe Blackwood asks from my right, and I turn to the heavily tattooed man, letting my smile loose.
“I’m always causing trouble,” I answer, leaning into one of the tall, wooden bar tables beside me. “Did you know that you can still buy root beer in glass bottles?”
Wolfe snorts, eyeing his twin as he runs a hand through his bleached white hair. “You don’t say?”
“And did you know that Davie Tanner’s mom is a top-tier man hater?”
Wolfe’s gaze rolls to me, amusement in the beautiful blue. So like his brother, and yet, so not. “I did know that,” he answers.
I burst into sweet, evil laughter.
A low, irate curse hits my ear as rough hands land on my waist, constricting as they pull until my back meets hard, uncomfortable chest. The scent of Fox and sandalwood surround me. “I’m gonna kill you,” Fox hisses in my ear, folding himself over me. “Why do you have to be such a pest?”
“It’s fun,” I reply, widening my eyes at Wolfe.
He raises his eyebrows in response, flicking his attention up to his brother before twitching his chin in a subtle negative.
Emboldened by the knowledge that Fox is nowhere near his limit with me, I continue, “You know fun, Fox? That thing that people have in moderation? Particularly at parties, like the one we’re at now? You’ve heard of that before, right?”
We both know he has. His years off sowing his wild oats or whatever prove that. Since he’s been home, though? Dud. Total freaking dud.
“I know what fun is, kit,” he growls. “What I don’t know is why you insist on playing with me when there are plenty of people here who would actually want to be around you.”
I grimace, and even Wolfe flinches.
Fox curses again. “That’s not what I meant.”
“The words that came out of your mouth and have limited possible interpretations—that limit being one—are not what you meant?” I ask, nose scrunched.
“There’s more than one interpretation,” he claims.
I roll my eyes. “Enlighten the class, then. We’d be thrilled to hear you plead your case.”
His fingers dig into my sides, not quite on the wrong side of bruising.
My stomach dips, my attraction to the infuriating man betraying me as stupid little butterflies take off even as he is actively insulting me.
Bodies are stupid.
“Fox,” Wolfe warns, scrutiny sharp on his brother’s hands. “She’s little.”
Fox and I both protest that.
“She’s not fragile,” he grunts. “And she’s not trying to get away from me. She’s fine.”
“I am not little,” I gasp, firmly ignoring my body’s dumb, dumb, dumb reaction to hot man hands touching it in order to address a much more pressing issue. Priorities matter, after all. “I’m nearly average height!”
“Many women wouldn’t struggle when a man a foot taller than them and significantly stronger has them in an uncomfortable position. It doesn’t make it okay.”
“Many women are not Poem,” Fox replies. “I’ve not crossed any of her boundaries.”
“I’ll have you know, five-two is a perfectly reasonable height to be. It’s not my fault you all are giants.”
My hands land on my hips, directly below Fox’s grip on me.
Our fingers brush.
The butterflies threaten to take hold of my attention, despite the very real threat to my average height reputation.
Seriously. Bodies. Are. Stupid.
“You’re insulting her, cursing at her, looming over her, and your hands on her are nearly white with how tightly you’re gripping,” Wolfe points out. “I can’t imagine that would be a comfortable position for any woman.”
“Expand your imagination, then,” Fox suggests. “And, while you’re at it, butt out of my relationship with Poem. If she has an issue, she’ll tell me, loud and clear. She doesn’t need some big bad white knight coming in to save her from me.”
“Rude giants,” I mutter. “Who think they can call me little and then ignore me while they have a whole conversation about me as if I am not standing right here, able to speak for myself.”
Wolfe’s focus shifts to me, and he frowns. “I’m sorry, Poem. You’re right. You are right here and able to speak for yourself. I meant no offense, only to help in a situation where a lot of women wouldn’t feel able to do such a thing.”
How very see something, do something of him.
“I appreciate that,” I reply. “And if it were any man but Fox, I’d be kissing your feet for being my ‘big bad white knight’. However. It is Fox, and I’ve got no problem making it clear when I have a problem with the way he’s treating me. If I have an issue, I’ll say so.”
Wolfe nods his understanding as Fox’s flutter-inducing fingers twitch and his chest pulses against my back.
“That said, I have an issue, and I’ve been saying so, and you testosterone-fueled dummies aren’t listening to it.”
“You’re tiny,” Fox replies. “And you use it to your advantage enough that denying it is ridiculous.”
“Excuse you,” I protest. “I use it to my advantage no more than you use your height to yours!”
“And yet, only one of us is in denial about our size,” he mutters.
I harrumph.
“You’re good?” Wolfe asks me, eyes oscillating between my face and Fox’s.
I hesitate, staring at the almost copy-paste version of Fox in front of me—if Fox bleached his hair white, developed a sense of humor, had roughly a trillion more tattoos, and developed a healthy dose of not the absolute worst.
Not for the first time, I bemoan not being attracted to my boss’ single twin brother. How much easier things would be if I were. I could’ve married into the family, eliminating Fox’s… whatever about me taking a place he believes belongs to him.
Alas. Wolfe just doesn’t do it for me. As nice as he is to look at, he’s a little too gentle for my tastes. A little too sweet. A little too doesn’t-give-me-butterflies-with-barely-a-touch. A little too I-would-feel-bad-being-mean-to-him.
Meanwhile, his brother falls too far in the opposite direction, all too easy to be mean to but too infuriating to make that meanness truly playful.
It’s too bad Almond’s not my type. We could’ve had a beautiful, perfectly-balanced love story full of all the sweetness Wolfe offers balanced by the roughness of Fox.
Almond, my dearest friend, a balance between her brothers—the ultimate soulmate.
And, unfortunately, very much a woman, thus very much not for me.
To live is to suffer.
“Poem?” Wolfe calls. He takes a step closer. “Are you okay?”
I blink away my missed opportunities. “No,” I answer. “I’ve just been accused of being very small. I am in distress.”
I tip my head in the barest of nods, answering his question in a real way. I am, in fact, okay. Because Fox is right. If I weren’t, I’d make it known loud and clear, as mentioned.
“Daddy!” Amia’s voice rings out from the tangle of children near the gift pile. “Daddy, can we do presents now?”
Wolfe’s head turns that way, then back to us. His brows furrow.
“Go,” Fox says. “We’ll work it out.”
I snort as Wolfe’s face slides into disbelief.
“We promise not to ruin Amia’s birthday party,” I offer a more believable scenario. “Right, Fox?”
“Of course,” he grumbles, offended.
Wolfe sighs as Amia yells for him again. “Behave,” he tells me. “And be nice,” he orders his brother.
“I’m always nice,” Fox flat out lies as Wolfe walks away.
“Like four seconds ago you told me to find someone who wants to be around me to play with,” I remind him as the butterflies remind me of their presence. “Which, by the way, would be a lot easier to do if you weren’t manhandling me.”
“I’m not manhandling you,” he says, but does not let me go.
I slide my hands up over his, patting them as I look down. Yep, still there—just as the butterflies told me—and still attached to his body, too.
“Well, why don’t you stop not manhandling me?” I suggest. “I want to watch Amia open gifts.” Without the tingling stomach, if he pleases.
He does not please.
He moves, twisting us until his back is to the bar table and we’re facing the booths where Amia sits amidst a pile of presents, her long, dark hair flying as she whips her head around to take them all in. Her smile could light up entire nations, missing front teeth and all.
I smile at the little cutie, then gasp when Fox leans back against the table, pulling me off-kilter into him. “There,” he says. “We can argue while we watch.”