Hate You Not: An Enemies to Lovers Romance, Page 2

  I crouch in the hallway so the noise of me removing their bedspreads from zipped bags doesn’t wake them. Then I sneak into their room and drape one over each kid.

  I can’t fall asleep in my new/old room for a long time. I’m so exhausted, everything is spinning slightly. I keep seeing Sutton dancing in and out of my head, looking how she did in their last Christmas card. The long, thick hair…the pretty beaded necklace.

  As soon as my eyes drift shut, someone whispers, “Aunt June?”

  I jolt straight up in bed and find Margot on my rug with big eyes. Big, crying eyes.

  “Aunt June…” She does something to her hair. I can’t see. I fumble for my lamp.

  “Ohh.” It’s the lollipop. The damn thing’s tangled in her long, blonde hair. “Oh no, sweetheart.”

  She gives a whimper.

  “We can fix this.” I slide off the bed, trying to sound cheery as I wave toward the hallway. “Come on. Let’s go to the bath tub.”

  I jabber as I lead her to the bathroom in the hall. “So you haven’t seen this place yet, huh? You fell asleep in the car. Does it smell like cinnamon in here?”

  With her little hand raised so she can hold the stick of the giant lollipop that’s pulling at her hair, she gives the air a few sniffs. Then she nods, still solemn-faced.

  “What do you think about the smell of cinnamon? Does it smell warm and homey or do you think it’s stinky?”

  I open the bathroom door and flip the light switch, revealing a claw-footed tub, a porcelain trough sink, a fluffy rainbow rug, and old-school tile walls done in an assortment of colors. Back when we renovated this place for my great aunt, around three years before Mama got cancer, Mom went to the hardware store and brought home a few boxes of whatever they had. I smile at the memory.

  “Toothpaste,” Margot whispers.

  I smile. “I like cinnamon toothpaste.”

  She says, “Me too,” with her brown eyes on her little bare legs.

  “Have you ever seen a tub like this?” I ask. “With feet?”

  I point to the claw feet, and her eyes widen slightly. She shakes her head.

  “Do you like your water cold, medium, or hot?”

  She frowns at the tub.

  “What about just a surprise? And how about bubbles?”

  She smiles slightly, nods.

  “I’ll run the bath for you, and you can take your clothes off.”

  “No,” she whispers.

  “Not a go?”

  “You take off. I hold lollipop.”

  I push the rubber plug into the drain, sprinkle some bubble bath salt in, and help her undress. Then I lift her into the enormous tub. She looks up at the silky purple curtain, streaming down from the ceiling. Then she looks at me.

  “Did my mommy get in this bath?” Her little voice is soft and hoarse.

  I swallow so mine won’t be. “Yes. She did.” This bath tub came from Mama and Daddy’s house, so it’s the truth. “We used to sit in here together sometimes. Your mama would tell me stories. She was my big sister.”

  As so often happens since I arrived in California eleven days ago—the first to get the kids from foster care after my sister and her husband died in a bad wreck—my heart freezes mid-rhythm, waiting to see how she reacts. But Margot’s small, pale face remains placid. Her eyes hold to mine. “You were the little one? Like me?”

  I nod. “I was the youngest one. Just like you.”

  That satisfies her. I can tell because her lips twitch just slightly before smoothing back into their straight line. Her hands arrange the bubbles in a small pile while I wash the lollipop out of her hair. As soon as it’s freed, she reaches for my arm. She gets her fingers around the stick, runs the lollipop under the faucet, and sticks it back into her mouth.

  “Aunt June.” She smiles. “I like your house.”

  She sits there in the tub licking the obscene sugar disc for almost half an hour, asking every so often about the house.

  “Do you want to see the rest of the place?” I ask when she’s wrapped in a towel.

  “Not tonight.” She shuts her eyes and says, “Just take me to my bed. And lie down with me.”

  I do just that. My sister’s daughter snuggles in beside me, wraps her arm around me, lets a quiet breath out. I watch the ceiling until my eyes blur…then slowly drift shut.

  Chapter 2

  Burke

  I cup my hand over my pants pocket as I stand in the elevator. From the parking deck up to the sixth floor. Always that moment of vertigo. I shut my eyes and lean the back of my head against the steel wall.

  Smells like cake in here. Like fucking birthday cake. I open my eyes and blink at my reflection, bent like in a funhouse mirror. There better not be a party in the office today—or even worse, some kind of in memoriam. Surely they wouldn’t.

  A couple seconds later, the elevator doors limp open and I step out onto the marble floor. Aesculapius, the small, stone sign says, with an arrow pointing down our hall.

  The app is being pitched to investors as just Aes—and it might later be re-named—but regardless, it’s better to keep our identity and location under the radar. I learned that with my last two startups. No one’s ever heard of Aesculapius—at least not outside Roman history.

  I pat my pocket as I walk toward the door to the admin suite. Probably everybody’s heard about what happened. Or maybe not. I bet so, though. Asher had an endless list of friends. He always did. But since he started working with our bastard of a father, he really knew the whole damn city. I bet his obituary was featured prominently in every Bay area magazine and paper.

  Not that I would know. I wasn’t here.

  I stop and try to school my face into a “normal” look. Then, after a fortifying breath, I push the door open and step into what I think of as the waiting room. It’s just a desk, a couch, a few chairs, and a coffee table—a place for people to wait.

  Helena looks up from where she’s seated behind the desk, balancing the phone between her ear and shoulder. She murmurs something in Spanish and hangs the phone up, and my heart thumps a little faster.

  “Burke, hello.” She stands up and steps around her desk, but doesn’t move toward me. Smart. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” she says, making a sad face.

  “Thanks, Helena.” I look her up and down, keeping my eyes and face neutral, then look around the small space like she just mentioned the weather. “How have things been?”

  “The usual,” she says after a moment. “How are you?”

  I don’t fucking know. My little brother died while I was on a Himalayan mountain with an investor who still hasn’t invested and a satellite phone that didn’t work. How do you fucking think?

  I give her a bland smile. “Good trip.”

  “Someone shared one of the pictures you sent. The mountains were beautiful.” Her voice sounds chirpish. Awkward.

  “Very much so,” I say—just as awkwardly.

  “We’re so glad to have you back.”

  I arch my brows. “Thanks.”

  I give her a strained smile before starting down the hall toward my office. But I only get a few yards before I hear, “Hey, man!”

  I clench my jaw. Fucking Gabe has got his door cracked. I peer through to find him rising from behind his desk and striding toward me. I escaped a hug from Helena because she’s older than us, plus she’s kind of new. Gabe is a goddamn hugger, though. He goddamn hugs me with one arm and says, “So sorry, man.”

  “A heartfelt sorry always helps.”

  “Don’t be a dick, dude.”

  “Don’t wear some much product.” I pat his blond head, which doesn’t really have that much product.

  “Jeezus.”

  “Don’t take our Lord’s name in vain.”

  “I’m Jewish,” he says.

  “So?”

  Gabe rolls his eyes. I roll mine.

  “Fuck you too, dude,” he says. “I was just trying to offer my condolences.”

  I fix him with a
death stare, and he walks back to his desk with his shoulders slumping. Guilt spills through me, hot and prickling.

  “Sorry, man. I’m really low on sleep.”

  “Same here.” His voice has got an edge now. “Three nights working on this fucking crash shit.”

  “Damn.” I don’t know a lot about what happened—presumably no one wanted to bother me with the details when they assumed I’d be taking time off work to mourn—so I ask, and he explains what happened with a facet of the beta app.

  “I know how to fix it, but I haven’t slept in three nights.” He sighs. “Cara and the baby will be back this afternoon from her mom’s.”

  Now that I look at him, Gabe does look like shit. The “baby” is turning one next month, but the little fucker doesn’t like to sleep, and Gabe’s a decent guy who takes turns doing bottle feeds at night. I turn toward the door so I can’t see his face when I say, “Get a nap, man. I’ll work on it for a while. Screen share it.”

  I shut his door behind me and pass the next three—all closed, thankfully—with no encounters. My door is on the back right. It leads into a space where Molly, my assistant, has a desk beside a giant potted tree with weird, wide, oval leaves. There’s a wall of windows in front of her desk, so investors dropping by to chat with me can see the San Francisco Bay.

  Molly is okay, but I don’t want to do the awkward shit, so I lift my phone to my ear and walk through the door to our shared space with a look that’s supposed to say “annoyed and distracted.” I hold up my free hand in a half-assed sort of a wave, and then I step into my office.

  Whew.

  I shut my eyes, and when I open them, I stare at my desk for a long moment. There’s a picture of us in a small, round frame. When Asher came by one time, he noticed the place was empty, so he mailed one to me. I swallow, thinking of how he had to mail it to me. I was always so damn busy.

  I step over to the desk and put the frame in a drawer. Then I fire up my computer. I close my eyes again and inhale. This place always smells like hot computer parts and new carpet. I touch my wireless mouse and lean back in my old, familiar leather office chair.

  When the computer powers on, I find the screen is all clear.

  I jab Gabe’s extension. “Seriously, man. Share the fucking screen and go to sleep.”

  “You’re such a dick.” But I can hear him chuckle.

  My screen is filled with his work just a second later.

  “Get some sleep, pal.”

  He hangs up on me.

  Two hours later, and I’m relieved no one’s knocked on my door. I think Zephyr’s out. It’s Wednesday morning, when the fucker goes for breakfast with his mother. I shut off Gabe’s stuff—figured it out in forty minutes; he’d done almost all the work already—and stand up. I stretch, wipe some dust off the potted plant behind my desk, and rub my temples.

  Better get it over with. I unlock my door, crack it open, and step slowly out into Molly’s space.

  She looks up from her desk with a smile. “Hi, Burke.”

  I nod. “Molly.”

  “It’s so nice to have you back.”

  I snort. “Oh yeah?”

  She nods, sincere as always. “It was quiet without you.”

  Molly’s young, and here on a worker’s visa from China. Sometimes when I rag on her, it makes her face turn red—and anyway, I don’t feel like teasing her today. So I just say, “Yeah.”

  “I wanted to offer my condolences.”

  I tip my head a little, try to keep my mouth from tugging downward. “Thank you.”

  “Also, I should let you know…you got a call from Mr. Gurung,” she adds.

  “Did I?”

  She nods, her short black hair bobbing around her chin. “It was very early this morning.”

  Well, shit. Maybe now that our mountain adventure is over, fucker finally decided to invest. “What did he say?”

  “He asked that you return his phone call.”

  The dull throb at my temples flares. “Okay. Thanks.”

  “Of course.”

  “Oh—Molly?” I step closer to her desk and reach into my pocket. “Before I go—”

  Her eyebrows arch.

  “If I pay you some extra…” I hold out the five hundred-dollar bills to show her what I mean. “Can you take on a side project?”

  She blinks discreetly at the money and then meets my eyes. “Of course. What do you need?”

  I hand her the cash. “I need you to research someone. Do a background check. Find whatever you can.”

  “Okay.” She nods.

  “We’ll start the mentorship stuff back tomorrow—you can shadow me the first two hours, like we had been doing—but you could work on this in any spare time you have in the next few days. You can have up to a week to gather information. But anyway. Look up June Francis Lawler. Lives in Heat Springs, Georgia. Parents Hubert and Patti. Also look up Lawler Farms. Find out everything you can about it, them, and her.”

  She nods, her features slightly drawn.

  “The good and bad things. Everything.”

  She nods again. “I am on it.”

  I can’t help a small smile. “Thank you.”

  I nod one more time and retreat to my office.

  JUNE

  Charleigh, Rachel, and Jack—my sister Mary Helen’s kids—tumble out of MH’s van and stop dead in their tracks. Charleigh is 6 like Margot, Rachel is 7, and Jack is 9 like Oliver. Honestly, they’re sort of jerk kids, but they’re family, so they’re our jerks.

  They’re jerks mostly because MH isn’t assertive enough. And because MH isn’t assertive, when they stop there in the dirt, gaping at their orphaned cousins through the porch’s screen, MH just stands there looking awkward.

  I reach over Margot’s head and push open the porch door. “Hey, guys! Come on in.”

  Oliver and Margot are dressed in the nicest of their pricey, hipster clothes. For Oliver, that’s black skinny jeans, Converse All-Stars, and a plain white, long-sleeved T-shirt. For Margot, it’s magenta sequined sneakers, cream leggings, and a long-sleeved pink sweat shirt with fluffy polka dots.

  Charleigh, Rachel, and Jack look like they’re dressed for church, decked out in the deep South way, with dresses, hair bows as wide as their heads, and mary janes for the girls, and khakis and a plaid button-up for little Jack.

  I wave the three onto my screened porch, and they stand gaping at their cousins.

  “Say hello,” I prompt them. Rude asses.

  “Hey cousins,” Rachel says.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Charleigh says.

  “We met before,” Oliver informs them.

  Charleigh frowns as Mary Helen makes it up the porch steps with an armful of bags.

  “You were little,” Jack tells Charleigh. “But I remember.”

  “Me too,” says Rachel. “Do y’all live here now?” She asks with some skepticism, and then looks up at the porch’s ceiling with wide eyes, as if maybe they live up there with the porch fan.

  Mary Helen’s face bends in a look of caution. “Remember, honey? How I told you Oliver and Margot got new bedspreads and a brand new room?”

  “I want to see the Batman bedspread,” Jack says. “Mom won’t let me get rid of my fish one.” He rolls his eyes.

  The kids stampede through the front door, no doubt headed for the bedroom. The farm house is so old that the hardwood floor shakes under the weight of their steps.

  Mary Helen shakes her head. “Better stay right on them. No telling what Jack will say.”

  “Or Rachel,” I smile.

  “How are they today?” she murmurs. We step into the living room, and she takes off her sweater, hangs it on the coat rack.

  “Margot has been pretty steady. Lots of big-eyed looks and not too much talking except to ask me questions about when we were all kids. I think Oliver is struggling more. He’s said a few things about how he’s from San Francisco. I’m pretty sure I overheard him telling Margot that California is their real home,�
�� I say quietly, glancing toward the hall, “like they’re just here for a visit.”

  Mary Helen’s lips purse in concern.

  “The fact is, there was no way for them to stay. I just can’t live in San Francisco. The money that’s in their fund now seems like a lot until you really think about how much it costs to raise two kids.”

  “Oh yeah,” she says. “It costs a shit ton.”

  “And college. You know Sutton would want Ivy Leagues for both of them.”

  Mary Helen smirks a little. She knows.

  “I don’t know what she would have wanted me to do exactly, since she never told me I was listed as their guardian.”

  “I think she would want us to do this,” MH says in a soothing tone. “You’re doing everything right.”

  I heave a silent sigh. “Thanks.”

  We head into the bedroom, where the girls are piled on Margot’s bed and Jack and Oliver are bouncing on his.

  “Hey, no jumping. We don’t want to break the bed’s boards. Then it’ll collapse.” I mime a collapse with my hand, and Oliver’s eyes widen.

  For the next half hour, all five kids play as Mary Helen and I unload the toys she brought from her and her husband Tom’s house. Margot and Oliver have plenty, but it’s going to be weeks before their belongings arrive—they’ve been shipped as freight—and they need something in the meantime.

  Margot goes bananas over four wonked-out, barely-clad Barbies and a small, pink Barbie house.

  “This one got a haircut,” Rachel explains, touching a blonde Barbie’s hacked-off bob. Mary Helen makes a face behind her raised palm.

  “I’ve never had a Barbie,” Margot says.

  “What?” It’s echoed by all of us.

  She nods. “Mommy let me play with Calico Critters. But not little people dolls.”

  Mary Helen shoots me a what-the-hell look, again behind her hand. She and I drift to the other side of the room.

  “Because of the image of Barbie, Mary Helen,” I say.

  “What image is that?”

  “You know. She’s long and skinny, like some alien or something. Real women aren’t proportioned like that.”