Beg, Borrow, or Steal (When in Rome, #3)(8)
He sits back in his seat, loosely crossing his arms. “Ah—so you did already hear the news.”
“Yes, and I’ll have you know that I shut down all talk of you since you weren’t around to defend yourself, not that you deserve the respect.”
His lips curl almost cynically. “You have my undying gratitude.”
“So you’ll move?”
“No. You have my undying gratitude from this seat here in the corner while you freeze to death over there under the air vent.”
I grind my teeth. “Get your obnoxious ass out of my seat, Jackson. I mean it.”
There’s a moment of silence as he slowly unfolds himself from the table, but it’s evident by his smile that he’s not getting up to move. No, he takes one easy-breezy single step closer—hands dropping into his mustard pockets. His amber eyes are full of ruthless amusement when they lock with mine, standing closer than we’ve ever stood in the history of our feud. An unfamiliar tingle runs up my legs and settles somewhere in my thighs. “Emily Walker. You might be able to steamroll everyone else around here into submission. But not me. Never me. If you want something from me, you’ll have to ask politely.”
What I wouldn’t give for a steamroller at this very minute to flatten his ass to the floor. But I’d remove his glasses first, because for reasons beyond my mortal knowledge, I like them.
“Why? So you can bask in my politeness and then turn me down anyway? Forget it.”
“It’s scary how well you understand me sometimes.” His eyes crinkle. “Your only option now is to leave, sit in the morgue over there, or . . .” Or? I’ve never heard an or come out of his mouth. “You can get your little coffee and sit in that little seat across from me.”
“Sit . . . with you?” My eyebrows are touching my hairline.
“Yes.”
“At the same table?”
“It would be difficult to achieve sitting together from a different table.”
I breathe in, staring at him for a beat. I really am out of options. (And that’s what I’m going to remind myself tonight when I replay this moment over and over again in my mind.)
“All right,” I say, breaking the number one rule of battle and turning my back on my enemy so I can move his bag to the floor beside the chair. My canvas tote bag takes its place. “When I come back, I’m going to sit right here. With you. We will share this table, but we’re not going to say a word to each other. I will work on my laptop, and you will work on yours, and as far as we’re both concerned the other does not exist. Understand?”
He tilts his head, and I again get the feeling he’s examining me. Searching for some private answer. “I didn’t think it was possible, but somehow you’re even meaner before coffee.”
It’s this little comment that has me hanging back after we’ve both ordered and tipping the barista fifteen bucks to make Jack’s coffee decaf.
FROM: Jack Bennett <[email protected]> TO: Emily Walker <[email protected]> DATE: Sat, May 25 10:30 AM
SUBJECT: TABLE SHARING
Emily,
You type like an angry gorilla. If you press any harder on those keys you’re going to dent your laptop. Quiet down before we get kicked out of here for disrupting the peace.
Jack
FROM: Jack Bennett <[email protected]> TO: Emily Walker <[email protected]> DATE: Sat, May 25 10:33 AM
SUBJECT: TABLE SHARING
Typing even louder. Real nice.
FROM: Emily Walker <[email protected]> TO: Jack Bennett <[email protected]> DATE: Sat, May 25 10:34 AM
SUBJECT: TABLE SHARING
Emily
Chapter Three
Jack
Emily and I have only shared a table once before. It was sophomore year of college and we were paired together for a history presentation because whoever runs the universe apparently needed some entertainment. Reluctantly, we both decided it would be in our best interest to mend our broken bridge and move past our feud. We met at the library, where we attempted to find some common ground before discussing the assignment.
We made it all of thirty minutes before the arguments began about the topic for our presentation. Neither of us would budge an inch. Ultimately, we got kicked out of the library for disturbing those around us, and Emily and I decided it was better to split up and do our presentations separately. We both received an F. As it turns out, the point of a group project is to actually work as a team.
I’ll admit, when I first met Emily after running into her on our way to class, I thought she was gorgeous. I couldn’t believe my luck that I would crash into such a beautiful woman on my first day of classes. I did hit on her—and admittedly it was the wrong moment. But she was so combative, and she had decided within two seconds of talking to me that she hated my guts, and she would not forgive me for spilling my coffee on her. Something happened that day. For the first time in a long time, I gave in to the urge to argue instead of trying to smooth things over.
That fight set the precedent for the rest of our interactions, and not a day has gone by in each other’s presence that we haven’t bickered, verbally sparred, or picked at each other over something. Usually, I’m unbearably annoyed by her. But today, it’s oddly comforting to be sharing a table with her again. My life has been upside down the last few months, and I didn’t feel settled again until about twenty minutes ago when I saw her walk through the door. Because as weird as it is, our rivalry has been the one constant in my life the last several years. She’s the only person who never needs, wants, or sees me as anything other than her nemesis.