Signed Copy - Falling For Your Enemy by Emma St. Clair

CHAPTER ONE SAMPLE

Sam

I shouldn’t be nervous about stopping for a cup of coffee on a random Tuesday morning, but that’s what my life has come to. Honestly, these days, opening the door to my apartment makes my palms sweat. 

Walking into the coffee shop a block from my office is like taking my place on a battlefield in enemy territory. This trucker cap and giant sunglasses covering my actual glasses are my armor. Sarcasm is prepped and ready to be my shield, though I’ve learned it does very little to block flying projectiles. 

And yes, I’ve had things thrown at me: a muffin (half-eaten chocolate chip—a total waste of good food), a bottled water (which would have been worse had the woman remembered to unscrew the cap), and a bag of dog poop (thankfully, with the knot tied tight, but STILL). Even the Pomeranian looked embarrassed by his owner’s actions. Apparently, my Dr. Love advice column led to a lot of breakups and a lot—a LOT—of bitterness. 

Maybe I need a more effective shield than sarcasm. I definitely need coffee as fuel, so I need that iced latte ASAP, thank you very much. 

“Name?” the barista asks when I place my order. 

I hesitate. I’m probably being paranoid. I’m not that big of a deal.   

Straightening my shoulders, I borrow some of the boldness my best friends wear so well. “I’m Sam.” 

Almost immediately, my confidence fades, replaced by rising dread and panic. I should have used a funny name. A celebrity or a cartoon character—Angelina Jolie or Elmer Fudd. A combo, even—Angelina Fudd. That has a nice ring to it.

Or maybe something like Most Hated Woman in Austin. Possibly North America. That would do in a pinch. 

I wait for a response, but the barista just writes my name down on the plastic cup. She’s so insensitive to my inner turmoil—the nerve! 

I move to the end of the counter to wait, pulling the brim of my hat down a little more. I hate that it’s come to this—me, being anxious about being out in public. This iced latte is my reward for leaving my apartment, though I honestly had no choice. If not for an in-person meeting with a representative from my New York publisher, believe me, I wouldn’t be here. 

I’ve worked from home for the last few weeks, ever since my identity as Dr. Love, snarky relationship advice columnist for Get Up Austin, was revealed by my jerk of an ex on national TV. 

I mean, I sort of understand Matt’s desire for vengeance. After all, I turned him down when he proposed. He was hurt and embarrassed in front of all his friends. Honestly, there should be a law against public proposals, kind of like a seatbelt law, meant for people’s protection. 

So, naturally, Matt wanted to publicly humiliate me. All’s fair in love and war, right? He didn’t mention the fact that he was cheating on me during his interviews, just put my face to the Dr. Love name. Oh, and he also said I was a frigid workaholic. 

You know, typical breakup stuff. 

No one would have cared to hear Matt’s story except for the fact that Dr. Love had recently become infamous. Who knew that giving someone the name Grandpa Gosling in my advice column would blow up my life? In a complicated story where a real photo was put to the Grandpa Gosling name (thanks to his ex-girlfriend) and someone parodied the Ryan Gosling lookalike into Hey, Girl memes with a geriatric twist. I happened to be one of the many, many people who shared (and created) more memes through the Dr. Love accounts. Which led to the actual Grandpa Gosling going on a late-night talk show with said ex-girlfriend, griping about Dr. Love’s bad advice and callous indifference to the lives she’s ruined. 

Remember the time you loved being mentioned on TMZ? Yeah, me neither. Those were the days!

Once Matt gave the world Dr. Love’s real identity, this all snowballed into a hate-fest focused on me. I’m totally ready for my fifteen minutes of fame to be over. Especially here in Austin, which is small enough that I’m not just a big fish in a little pond. I’ve got all the subtlety of a whale in a baby pool. It’s sad that I’ve had my fingers crossed for a celebrity scandal of some kind to take the enormous spotlight off me.

Waiting at the end of the counter, I’m fidgeting with my bag, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. How long does it take to make an iced latte, anyway? Shot of espresso, ice, milk. The end. 

The loud whine of the espresso machine stops just as the barista calls out, “Sam!” My name sounds like it was shouted through a bullhorn. 

I flinch. And that’s why I should have used a fake name. A few heads turning my way as I grab my iced latte and mutter “Thanks,” keeping my chin tucked down to my chest. 

Please don’t let anyone recognize me. Please don’t let anyone—

“Hey! You’re that girl! The Love Doctor,” a deep male voice calls from somewhere behind me.

And … there it is. It only took like twenty-three minutes out of the safety of my apartment to be recognized. I don’t turn around. The door is just a few feet and a half-dozen hipsters away. I keep moving with my head down, ignoring the eyes I feel on me. 

Is this how it feels to be a Kardashian? 

Nope. You’d have a rounder backside and rounder number in your bank account. 

Thanks for pointing that out, inner monologue. You’re the BEST. 

“Hey! Love Doctor!” 

The man sounds angry, which puts him in the category of someone who feels personally victimized by Dr. Love. Join the club, man. Apparently, I personally victimize people better than Regina George. 

I keep striding toward the door, knowing I need to get out of this confined space before this seed of anxiety blooms into something larger.

I wish I were being dramatic about all this. My apartment had to hire temporary security after someone in the crowd of photographers and hecklers accosted me the last time I left. I lost my heel in the fray. That’s what I get for saving up for a year to buy a pair of Jimmy Choos. I vowed that day to always and forever buy my heels from places like Ross. 

And not to leave my apartment again—for exactly this reason. Yet, here I am again. Being chased out of a coffee shop. 

I make it out into the sunlight. The sound of traffic and a guy singing with a guitar almost drown out the voice of the angry man calling out behind me. Almost. 

“I said, HEY!” he shouts from way too close. 

His hand closes around my arm. His grip is tight, but not as tight as the clutch of sheer panic banding around my chest. 

“Get off me,” I say, channeling my panic into anger. I wrench my arm loose. 

Of course, this jostles my drink, which pours down the front of my light blue blouse. Good thing I went with an iced latte today, or I’d probably have second-degree burns. Then again, it’s the end of February, and not the warmest day to have an iced latte poured down your front. God bless Texas that it’s not freezing. 

I look up … and up … and up to meet his angry gaze. The man is enormous. We’re talking legit man-giant. Everything about him is supersized. And his neck! I swear it’s the size of my thighs. And let’s just say my thighs are healthy. 

I back up a step, ready to bolt. But he grabs my arm again, jostling me enough that I lose my sunglasses. At least my actual glasses stay in place. It’s like I’m being manhandled by a grizzly bear. Bear-handled. 

Why is my brain shooting out these stupid comparisons? It’s like I have a third option in the fight-or-flight response: generate stupid metaphors. 

No one is stopping to help. Why is no one doing anything? This isn’t New York, where people walk by muggings all the time there. At least, in the movies.

This is Texas! Shouldn’t someone have pulled out a concealed handgun by now or something? The only people who have stopped are just staring. One or two have phones in hand, filming or taking photos. Of course. 

Should I scream? Kick the giant man-bear in the crotch? Start singing, “The stars at night are big and bright,” hoping he will instinctively let go of me to clap five times? It would be my luck that he’s not a native Texan. 

Instead, I find myself just standing here in my wet blazer and now mostly see-through shirt, struggling ineffectively in the man-bear’s grip. 

“You made my girlfriend break up with me,” he says. 

I seriously doubt that, just based on context clues. Seems like he could chase a woman off all on his own. Between his rudeness, the fact that he’s getting physical with a stranger, and the smell wafting off him, this man is categorically NOT a catch. 

“Let me go,” I say through gritted teeth. 

The only plus side of all this is that the adrenaline coursing through me seems to have short-circuited my panic. I’m angry, but a weird calm has settled over me. Maybe he just needs to talk it out, share his feelings. Sometimes, people just need to yell at me. If it will make him let me go, whatever. 

“Tell me about it,” I say on a defeated exhale.

He blinks, and his grip loosens maybe a fraction. “What?”

“You’ve got stuff on your mind. I’m here. Go ahead and get it off your chest.”

The surprised look lasts another few seconds, then morphs back to fury. “Last month, you told my girlfriend to break up with me because I’m too into sports.”

Ah, sports. A good percentage of emails sent to Dr. Love are sports related, particularly football. Austin has more of an artistic community and a vibe all its own, but still. Football is, and will always be, king in Texas. 

“I’m sorry,” I say, biting my tongue before I say something else. The only email I responded to lately about football was from a girl who called herself a Texas football widow. Apparently, her boyfriend, who I suspect may be this charming fellow, had been cheating on her. With the sport. 

“You’re sorry? Angela was the best thing that ever happened to me. She writes you one letter and BAM! The next week, she dumps me.”

I nod. I’ve said I’m sorry. There aren’t many other things I can say. I’ve found out the hard way that people’s rage increases in proportion to the number of words that come out of my mouth. Probably because the more words that come out of my mouth, the more likely I am to stick my foot in it. 

“You’ve got nothing to say?” he snarls.

I shrug, and his grip on my arm tightens again. This is not going the way I hoped. 

“I’ve apologized. I truly am sorry you were hurt.” That’s true. But if Angela were here, I would give her a solid high five for dumping this guy. “I’m not sure what else I can do.”

“Get me my girlfriend back.”

I choke out a laugh. And though all my internal warning lights are flashing and the system is trying to lock down and begin emergency protocols, it’s not soon enough to stop the flow of words coming out of my mouth.  

“Look—if she broke up with you because of something a stranger on the internet told her, then she was already halfway out the door. I am sorry. But based on this display right here, your failed relationship is on YOU.”

Shut up, Sam. 

Too late. Much, much too late. I opened my mouth nice and wide and stuck my off-brand heels right up in there. 

And I definitely should have stayed silent. Because the man in front of me has gone from angry bear to hulking out. Except instead of green, he’s turning bright red from the top of his forehead to his meaty neck. Now he’s the incredible strawberry Hulk. 

See? There my brain goes again, mixing ridiculous metaphors. 

A laugh bubbles out of me. Not a quiet one, either. 

Nothing about this situation is funny. My laughter is one hundred percent pure, unadulterated nerves waving hello in the most inappropriate way possible. 

Oh, hey! There’s my old friend panic again. 

Yes, I did miss you. Thanks so much for coming back just in time to do NOTHING FOR ME.

The strawberry Hulk sneers, and then his gaze snags on my shirt, which I know is plastered to me and showing off the pink bra I’m wearing. Before I left home, I made sure it didn’t show through the fabric of my shirt. I did not, however, do an iced-latte-poured-down-the-front test. Total fail in that department. 

The man’s sneer turns into a leer. I do my best to cross my free arm over my chest. 

Suddenly, almost faster than I can process, someone knocks the strawberry Hulk to the side. He lands on his butt, skidding a little. I hope he ripped the butt out of his jeans.

I rub my arm, which is going to be a mass of bruises tomorrow. But the important thing is that some kind stranger has finally taken it upon himself to act like a real Texan and come to my rescue. 

Gold star for you, friend! And a set of spurs for your effort! Also—what took you so dang long, cowboy?

I hate that I even needed the help. I don’t want to be the princess in the tower waiting on a prince. But in this particular situation, I’m not going to be picky about how I can escape. I’ll take a prince, a pauper, or even the ghost of Prince. I just want to get out of here, go to my stupid meeting, and crawl back to my apartment where I can go all Howard Hughes in peace. Without the billions and the untrimmed fingernails, of course. Just the isolation.

I’m not sure if I’m out of the frying pan and into the fire, though, because my rescuer looks almost as big as the strawberry Hulk, and much more solid. In fact, I can see the muscles in his forearm flexing in time with his jaw. 

Now, that’s a neat trick! 

He’s in a T-shirt, no jacket, as though not even the temps in the high forties bother him. It’s sexy, but a little bit scary. He’s standing between me and the guy who grabbed me, though, so I’ll assume he’s on my side. 

The now-cowardly Hulk, fading from angry red into an embarrassed pink, tucks tail and lumbers off, shouting a few choice curse words. My gallant protector turns to face me. I’ve adopted my new normal stance, which is shoulders hunched and head down. 

“Thank you,” I say, leaning over to pick up my empty latte cup. No sense adding litter to my long list of supposed crimes. My sunglasses are long gone, either kicked away accidentally or stolen to sell on eBay. 

“Are you okay?” my rescuer asks, and I’m going to totally ignore the way his deep voice makes a tiny thrill go through my stomach. 

No thrills. No men. Nope. After Matt, I am done with men.  

I’ve got enough other feelings these days. No room for crushes or anything else in the romance column. Guys are dogs. Even nice ones with husky voices who save me from attacks by strangers. I pull the brim of my hat down a little more.

He touches my elbow, the same one the Hulk latched onto, and I can’t help but flinch. Though to be fair, this man’s touch is the total opposite. Soft and steady. I can feel his concern in the light press of his fingertips, even through the fabric of my blazer. The flinch gives way to a shiver of the pleasant variety. Which is not good. I can’t be getting all swoony over some stranger just because he stopped to help like a decent human. 

He pulls back, and as far as I’m concerned, his touch is gone much too soon. 

“Are you okay?” he asks again, and the kindness in his voice makes me want to smile and cry at the same time. 

“It’s fine,” I say. “No use crying over spilled coffee.” 

Though I highly disagree with that statement. My day is going to massively suck without that latte. 

“If I can help in any way—” he starts to say, right as I can’t resist finally looking at my rescuer. 

Then I blink, not believing the face I’m seeing. His shock mirrors my own.

“You!” we shout at the same time. 

Of all the dirty, rotten tricks the universe could play on me! It is completely unfair and unconscionable that the man standing in front of me, the one who chased off the strawberry Hulk, is none other than Grandpa Gosling. 

The man whose face launched a thousand memes. 

And whose scathing words about Dr. Love made me public enemy number one. Don’t even get me started on the fact that I heard he secured a book deal with my publisher. I know their business is about making money, but still. Et tu, Brute! 

How is it fair that this man is even more handsome in person? 

The answer is: it’s not fair at all. 

The real Ryan Gosling has nothing on the specimen of hotness before me. Dark hair, piercingly gray-blue eyes, and a full mouth that I bet is hiding a really great smile when he doesn’t look like he wants to kill someone. In this case, the someone being me. 

The expression on his impossibly handsome face is all shock and fury, with a little drizzle of disgust. My sigh is so bone-deep and heavy that it takes a moment to register the fact that there are still people standing around with phones in hand, filming this whole exchange.  

I open my mouth to tell Grandpa Gosling, whose real name I learned from television is Rhys, that I’m sorry. Truly. Completely. Honestly. But he speaks first. 

“I wouldn’t have stopped to help if I’d recognized you.” 

Ouch.

And there you have it, folks! The cherry on top of my disaster-of-a-morning sundae. 

No matter how thick my shield of sarcasm is, it doesn’t keep his words from lancing through me. They find their mark, somewhere in the neighborhood of my right ventricle. 

Or, whatever’s left of it. I’m a lot more sensitive than people realize from my prickly outside. At this point, my heart looks a lot like that soft T-shirt I’ve had for years and is so well-loved that it’s slowly becoming more hole than fabric. 

And the reason no one realizes how baby-soft my heart is? Probably because I react to situations in the way I do right now. 

With a deep curtsy, I bat my lashes, and channel the maiden I dressed as during my high school Renaissance Faire years ago. With as much sarcasm as I can muster, I say, “Then I do apologize, most noble knight, for the waste of thine energies on such a wretched creature as myself. Fare thee well, Sir Gosling.” 

Yeah, I couldn’t help that last jab. 

Too bad I’m not better at my curtsies, or that I didn’t do a check to see how close I was to the curb. Because as I straighten, my heel goes over the edge of the sidewalk, and I lose my balance. Before I can stop myself, I’m going down—right into oncoming traffic. 

Like a movie, things slow down enough that I see an oncoming cyclist and a Smart Car jockeying for position to flatten me. 

Which one will hit me first? It’s a toss-up. I’m also not sure which would hurt more. Possibly the bike. Aren’t Smart Cars made of recycled plastic bottles or rubber? 

I land in a muddy puddle to the sound of a horn blaring and a bike crashing somewhere nearby. More honking and a lot of cursing follows, but I keep my eyes squeezed shut, curling into a protective ball right there on Lavaca Street. 

I’m alive. But I’m not fine. Inside and out, I am a complete and utter mess.  

I’m covered in mud to match the spilled latte. My knees and elbows are scraped, and my purse has gone flying out into the middle of the street, along with my favorite pink glasses. 

With a sick fascination, I hear the crunch as tires run over my purse. So, that’s what a phone getting run over sounds like. Delightful! 

My glasses are the next to go as a bus rumbles by, some politician’s face smiling wide as my specs are reduced to pink dust on the street. Everything around me is blurry and soft around the edges. 

Get up, Sam, I tell myself in my very best impression of Trinity from The Matrix. 

Get. Up. 

I uncurl from my fetal ball and get to my wobbly feet. With the quickest steps I can manage, I get back on the sidewalk. Someone darts out, holding up a hand to traffic, which miraculously slows for him and doesn’t honk. When he turns back, my purse in hand, I realize that the blurry man jogging toward me with my purse is him. Grandpa Gosling. Rhys. Whatever. 

He doesn’t look any less angry when he hands me my purse, nor any less hot. Even when I’m squinting up at his blurry face.

“Thanks,” I mumble, slinging the purse over my shoulder. He says nothing. “Thanks for the rescue and the insult. It’s been a real pleasure.” 

Tugging my blazer as closed as it will go, I head in the direction of my office, unsure if my shaking legs will carry me. As far as grand, dramatic exits go, I give myself a seven and a half. 

As far as bad mornings go, this one deserves a negative eleven.

Grab your paperback copy and keep reading!