Chapter 8
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SunshineXEnemy
Alister
I cannot believe this. My heart is pounding so hard I’m afraid it’s liable to leave my body, but I really, honestly, truly cannot believe this.
I gave up.
I felt the space between us in a physical way, so I broke the single most important rule in shonen anime and I gave up.
Last night, I determined that my penchant for certainty, stability, and statistics lay in direct opposition to the way August wishes to live her life.
I decided it would be cruel to subdue her gloss with my matte.
I resigned myself to the knowledge that sometimes falling in love with someone doesn’t mean that you’ll fit in their world.
Yet—despite all of that—here we are, sitting together at her work desk mere feet from a casket while we craft guidelines for the possibility of us.
And this possibility?
It feels attainable.
Because even though I’ve offered to act in whatever role she gives me, right now I’m just being myself.
And, despite myself, August hasn’t yet given up on the straitlaced Alister Dominic Montgomery, who’s a little too attached to the idea of printed rules and regulations being involved in his love life.
Matter-of-factly, she says, “Obviously, you’re not allowed to touch me without permission, and failure to adhere to this rule will result in the termination of this entire arrangement, broken limbs courtesy of Wynnter, and a public declaration on my part that I may never again participate in anything half as stupid as this plot. ”
“Define permission.”
August looks at me, and if she were anyone else, I do believe this stupid plot would be over right here and now.
Instead, she says, “A valid point. The term ‘permission’ does need more clarification in the context of an enemies-to-lovers story, doesn’t it?
After all, it’d be idiotic to have my enemy ask before he tries to stab me.
” Pondering, she cups her mouth. “You’re fairly respectful, and I don’t get any disconcerting vibes off you, but you’re still a guy, this isn’t a book, and you can’t read my mind.
Desiring an enemies plotline creates a level of danger.
I don’t know how I handle danger in the real world.
” A silent moment passes, then August’s eyes spark.
She snaps her fingers as she pushes her chair back.
“I’ve got it.” Whirling out of the office, she heads to her kitchen, and I leave my stool to follow.
My heart leaps then plummets as she—the most beautiful girl in the world—retrieves a kitchen knife and spins toward me, smile effervescent. “Could you pin me to the wall with this for a second? I need to know my limits before we can accurately outline them in our document.”
…
I stare at her. At the shade of blush slathered across her cheeks beneath her many freckles. At the gleam in her eyes. And then…at the blade in her hand. The blade she is asking a practical stranger to use as an assist in pinning her to the wall.
Yeah, I knew we were both a bit insane, but this is a different level of mental unwellness.
Especially since I step forward…and take it.
Glancing between her and the silver edge of the large kitchen knife, I say, “You know I could be a serial killer, right?”
“If you are, I bet this is the opposite of attractive. I’m pretty sure serial killers prefer the power and control of a whimpering, frightened victim.
” She searches the surrounding area for an acceptable pinning location.
“Whimpering and frightened, I am not and have never been. At this point, I’m more likely to find it charming if you try to kill me.
” She points behind her, at the pale yellow wall by the fridge.
“Is there good?” She starts toward it, ready to splay herself helplessly before a blade-wielding stranger.
I stop her in her tracks. “Probably I should back you into it, right? You shouldn’t start this scene sprawled out for me prematurely. That’s not realistic.” Because, obviously, realism is ever so important to the both of us.
She stops short, eyes wide beyond the lenses of her glasses. “You’re so right.”
“Mm.” I just bet I am. Slipping the freaking actual knife back into its holder, I open her utensil drawer and secure a pair of plastic—read: harmless—pizza scissors.
When I meet August’s eyes, they’re no longer sparkling or wide. Lip jutted, she mutters, “My aptitude for suspension of disbelief is depreciating.”
“You expect me to have a steady hand inches from my crush?” I take a step toward her.
She doesn’t budge backward. “Well, I think what we’re proposing here does actually require you to maintain a substantial level of nerve, actually.”
I stop an inch from her, looking down.
Head tilted back to meet my eyes, August bares her throat.
I touch the handle of the pizza scissors to the slender column and nudge her chin up another centimeter. “Would you like to say actually again, darling?”
The craze in her eyes reignites, sending a pulse down into my toes. Smiling, August whispers, “Sure would. You’re actually a great guy, aren’t you, Dominic?”
“I don’t know about all that.” I readjust my grip, putting the curved plastic flat around her neck. “At the very least, I hear I’m a lovely individual.”
“Your wit isn’t too bad.” She relinquishes a step, and I follow, backing her toward the wall.
“Is this how you handle all your enemies?” I murmur. “By showering them in compliments?”
“A pretty nifty book once told me that kindness is a great way to pile hot coals upon my adversaries’ heads.” Her back hits the wall, and she flattens her palms to it. “Forgive me my cruelty. You’ve had enough recent disasters involving fire, haven’t you?”
I lower my face, dance my fingers down her arm, and lace our hands together. “Nothing compares to the blaze you set loose inside me, August.”
Her grip around my hand solidifies, and my heart lurches at the sensation of our palms pressing tightly together. She giggles. “You’re fairly good at this. I’d be inclined to believe you’ve had practice if you didn’t blush so easily.”
Let’s just say anime’s taught me a great deal, but I have never before been inclined to consider practicing anything I’ve learned…until her.
As I rest my forehead against hers, I find myself smiling. Further heat rises to my cheeks. Unbidden, peace swells, and my eyes close. I murmur, “Have you gathered the information you need?”
“I think so.”
“How are we going to define permission, then?”
“I trust you.”
My heart hits my ribs, and I open my eyes as my smile evaporates. “What?”
“You have my permission to follow your heart. Touch me however you deem appropriate.”
What? I search her eyes. “You… That’s a dangerous statement, isn’t it?”
“I did say danger was a vital part of an enemies-to-lovers plot, didn’t I?”
“How can you trust someone you barely know?”
She lifts a shoulder. “It feels like I’ve known you longer than I have. Must be my author’s intuition. You have a…safe archetype about you.”
I balk. “People can’t usually be trimmed down into an archetype, August.”
“They can’t?”
“And, despite that, people can make excellent pretenders.”
“Yet you’re being very genuine and protective in your wariness about me as it relates to this situation.
I see things like that, Dominic. You’re a caring person.
You’re also a committed one. If my brother likes you, and it’s clear that he does, that means you embody traits he values.
I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but he’s kind of prickly as a person.
He rarely openly likes people. And you want to know something else? ”
“Always.”
“I’ve never been hurt.”
My brow furrows.
“I’m an excellent judge of character. I might not pick up on many nuances and I’m a trainwreck in most social situations, but I’ve never been emotionally hurt by someone before.
I’ve never made a bad choice where it concerns the people I trust, and the people I don’t trust can’t touch me because I don’t give them that power.
You’re kind. I can tell.” Her fingers unlatch from around mine, and she slips away, turning to face me once she’s halfway out of the kitchen and I’m painfully aware how cold it is here without her.
Pushing her hair back, she says, “Whether kindness really matters much in this story is something we’ll have to find out, though.
” Her smile steals my heart anew. “I’m looking forward to it. ”
Sighing, I set the pizza scissors down, tuck my hands in my pockets, and offer her a sheepish look. “I have a terrible feeling you’re going to make me worry a great deal about you in the following chapters.”
She laughs. “Yes, well. Obviously.” Her skirt flares when she spins back toward her office.
“That’s the male lead’s role where it concerns a chaotic sunshine main character.
She skips ahead, wild abandon incarnate, and he worries for her.
If you’re already regretting this, do let me know.
It’s never too late to choose a different path for the story of your life. ”
“I’m not regretting this even a little bit,” I say.
“Well then.” She tosses a look back at me.
I stay right where I am. “Are you?”
Softly, she lets her fingers graze her throat, then she grins. “Not at all. Shall we continue our first draft?”
Gracefully submissive, I lower my head and lay my hand to my hammering heart. “As my author wishes.”
?
Snuggled up in my casket, with the full printed list of August’s and my guidelines completed, I whisper a swear and stare at the laptop propped on my legs beside the sheets.
Given the emotional roller coaster I’ve been entertaining for the past few days, I convinced myself that taking just one weekend off from work wouldn’t be the end of the world. Unfortunately, it seems that shirking my duties has resulted in August assuming I’m dead.
As depicted in an email, where she asks if I’m dead, and the follow-up instant message she sent me yesterday afternoon:
August: Are you okay? It’s been over an hour and a half since I sent you an email, and I know that would be perfectly normal for most people, but you are not most people, and you’ve never taken more than ten minutes to reply to any of my emails in the past three years.
I apologize if I’m out of line, but I just want to make sure you’re all right.
Blowing out a breath, I look at the dormant desktop computer beyond the foot of my casket and hope that August has her laptop with her tonight. I’m pretty sure I saw her grab it earlier, but who knows if she has it open to her work account right now or not…
Regardless, I reply:
Me: Forgive me my uncharacteristic silence these past few days.
After your latest anime recommendation, I Was Reincarnated as the 7th Prince so I Can Take My Time Perfecting My Magic Ability, I was forced to take the weekend off.
That is to say, it has taken me this long to both read and type the title.
Me: I am otherwise quite well, and your worry is by no means out of line. I do consider us to be friends, and, given how swiftly we normally email back and forth, I am rather surprised it’s taken us this long to breach the sanctity of an instant message.
Me: May we manage to find time in between our future (highly professional, if HR asks) conversations to squeeze in a modicum of work.
Hopefully she hasn’t been too worried and accepts that even workaholics like me need a weekend to log out once every three years or so.
I don’t know what I’d say if she presses for more information.
Suggesting I’ve been MIA because I’m in the process of obtaining a wife feels unprofessional at best and incriminating at worst.
Shifting gears, I head to my company’s delegation program and begin assessing which tasks I can address before bed tonight.
I don’t get far before a message tone alerts me.
August: GIRL, YOU’RE ALIVE!
I find myself blinking at the screen and muting my sound.
August’s typing bubbles blur in the bottom of the chat while I stare, directly, at girl.
Girl.
August…thinks I’m a girl?
That…
Given her position in Mont Business, I suppose it makes sense that my gender wouldn’t have come up for her just like hers hadn’t for me. Not to mention that Ali isn’t exactly an inherently masculine name, even if it is what I go by.
I…
I can’t believe this.
She thinks I’m a girl, just like I thought she was a boy.
Closing my hand into a fist, I press my knuckles to my mouth and battle to contain myself. This is hilarious. We really were made for each other, weren’t we?
Should I correct her? Should I not?
Before I can decide, she sends another message:
August: I’ve been worried sick thinking that you died before witnessing the greatness of the Anime That Shall No Longer Be Named Because You Read So Slow and Certainly Not Because I Don’t Remember It or Want to Type It Out Myself!
Me: One moment, please, this new title will also take several days to get through.
August: This is devastating news.
Me: Fear not. I have no intention to begin such a daunting task on the weekend.
August: Oh good. I could not bear the idea of losing you again so soon. You’re supporting a rough thirty percent of my mental health, you know. It’s in my work agreement, under benefits.
She’s so cute.
What a dilemma.
August doesn’t strike me as the type of woman who would mind not being told a plot point, so long as the decision feeds the story.
If my role is enemy on the brink of villain—according to everything we’ve thus far discussed—keeping my cards close to my chest makes enough sense.
I could even use this misunderstanding to give myself more of an edge.
Depending on how wicked she wants her enemy to be, having access to inside information through a means she’d be less inclined to ever suspect might prove helpful.
I suppose I’ll have to ask her about the parameters that would constitute a third-act break up in the morning. Until then…I’ll proceed cautiously, resting only in the knowledge that secret identity was in her list of tropes.
With a smile, I retrieve my earbuds, open CrunchyRoll, and settle in to watch I Was Reincarnated as the 7th Prince so I Can Take My Time Perfecting My Magic Ability while I continue chatting with the woman I’ve just agreed to let write me into whatever story she wants.
So long as, of course, I’m not stuck playing a lead role alone.