Screw You, Lover: An Enemies To Lovers Romance Page 8

  But hey, maybe that wasn’t what she was doing; all I know is, she was acting kind of weird last night. Kind of embarrassed, kind of awkward, fidgeting around, almost like she was really, really…I don’t know, turned on or something.

  I mean, who knows how long it’s been since the last time she’s gotten laid. She’d definitely have texted me about it if she did, and instead, all I’d heard about for at least her last couple months in New York was terrible date after terrible date.

  So I guess she’s probably going pretty crazy when no one else is around.

  And I’m definitely not knocking on my way into the apartment.

  “Daddy’s home,” I say, pushing the door open with the heel of my hand.

  “EW!” Riley says, looking up from the couch as I walk in, “Please never say that again.”

  Shit, she’s really made herself at home. She’s curled up on the couch in a pair of tight grey sweatpants and a super low-cut black top, watching a cooking show on her laptop. Fuck, is it my imagination, or is she curvier than she was before she left for New York?

  I don’t know, maybe I’ve just never seen her dressed down like this, but I can’t help but notice that her tits look pretty fucking great in that top.

  “That show’s fake,” I say, reaching over Riley’s body and closing the laptop resting on her stomach, “So don’t get any cooking ideas from there.”

  “Hey!” Riley says, glaring up at me, “I was watching that! And no, it wasn’t to get cooking ideas, it was because someone was running late with dinner and I was getting really hungry.”

  “Well, I hope you’re ready to cook now,” I say, “Because we don’t have any time to waste. Fashion Week is six days away, and I just got off the phone with a model who wants Riley’s Pizza Kitchen catering her show’s afterparty.”

  “What!?” Riley shouts, shooting up into a sitting position, “I can’t do that! We’re not even open yet!”

  “Right,” I say, “Which is exactly why you want to be doing shit like this; so that when you do open, you’ve already got a buzz around your name.”

  “Yeah, but only if it’s actually good.”

  “Right,” I say, “The only way you’re going to be able to impress people at this afterparty is if you did some kind of…cooking boot camp…”

  Riley narrows her eyes at me, “You did this on purpose to get me to focus on cooking.”

  I grin, “And it’s going to work, isn’t it?”

  “Ugh—Liam!” Riley says, her eyes going adorably wide as I pick her up from the couch and set her down onto her feet in front of me.

  “Alright, fine…” she says, with a slouch and a sigh, “What are we cooking tonight?”

  “What do you think?” I ask, “Pizza.”

  I pick the bag of ingredients up off the coffee table and head for the kitchen. “And since we’re not going to have as much time as I thought we would, we’re going to have to skip a couple steps. So instead of me cooking with you, you’re going to take these ingredients and try to put it together yourself.”

  “Really?” Riley asks, “Why?”

  “Because after I taught you the basics, I was going to teach you the real most important rule of owning a restaurant…making what you want to make, using techniques that you develop. That’s what makes a great cook, and that’s the part we’re going to work on between now and Fashion Week. There are enough ingredients in this bag and in the fridge for you to get started on that, and I can get you anything else you think you might want. But for now… you should just cook.”

  “Okay,” Riley says, walking into the kitchen and rifling through the bag after I set it down on the counter, “Wow…this looks like everything my Mom kept in the kitchen.”

  “Right,” I say, “But don’t forget to put together some recipes that are yours, too.”

  “Alright,” Riley says, pulling a bag of gourmet flour out of the ingredient bag, “Well, I guess I’ll start making the dough, then.”

  “Great,” I say, “I’ll come back when you’re a little further along. In the meantime, I think I’ll go watch some of that cooking show you were watching.”

  “Do NOT go on my computer!” Riley yells at me as I head out into the living room, and I just laugh. I have to say, living with Riley has been a lot more fun than I thought it would be.

  And if she keeps dressing like this around me…wait, hold on, what the fuck am I saying? It’s fucking Riley, no matter how she dresses.

  Shit, it’s clearly been too long since I’ve gotten laid, too. Unfortunately, the only girl I’m seeing on a regular basis is her.

  I guess right now, I just hope this pizza comes out halfway decent.

  I’m getting pretty hungry all of a sudden.

  Chapter 14: Riley

  As much as I hate to give Liam any credit, his apartment is actually pretty nice. The couch is insanely comfy, the kitchen is well-stocked and has a bunch of really cool gadgets in it, and there’s a cute dog. I’ve been here less than a week and I’m already having to remind myself not to get too comfortable.

  After all, this is enemy territory.

  Three loud beeps coming from the kitchen mean that the pizzas I put together earlier this morning are finished cooking.

  Setting Fuck You, Loverboy face down on the couch cushions, I head into the kitchen and open up the oven, revealing five plate-sized pizzas on the center rack.

  This is my flavor test for what I’m going to cater at the afterparty, and it’s also my attempt to make some of Mom’s most distinctive recipes from memory. I know I didn’t get the details exactly right, but after the last couple days of cooking boot camp I do feel a little more like I know what I’m doing.

  Thankfully, Liam is being a little less awful than usual. Or maybe he’s just avoiding me: all I know is he’s been staying late at Crave, eating my cooking and giving me feedback when he gets back, and then slinking off to bed.

  Oh, yeah, and showers, too. Lots of them. How could I forget? Especially last night, when he hopped right in the shower as soon as he got back and came into the kitchen dripping wet in a pair of black gym shorts that hung loosely off his hips and literally sat on the counter right next to me as he tried a slice of the New York-style pizza I’d just made. I grabbed his thigh and tried to pull him off, but he just laughed; it was like trying to push a fallen tree out of the road.

  With a shudder, I shake the memory out of my brain. I’ve been trying to follow a new policy not to think about Liam when he’s not around, but I haven’t been very good about it.

  The sound of someone knocking at the door echoes through the apartment hallway. Flicking the oven off and pulling the pizza pan out onto the stovetop, I hustle over to the front door as Duke barks his head off; I hope this isn’t some kind of delivery for Liam, or worse, Liam himself, back because he forgot his keys or something.

  But thankfully, it’s not. It’s…Sam?

  “How’s the master chef?” She asks, scrunching up her nose and sticking her tongue out at me, “I just thought I’d stop by and see how you’re getting adjusted to life with Liam.”

  I roll my eyes, “I wouldn’t say I’m ‘getting adjusted to life with Liam,’ but I am taking some fresh pizzas out of the oven literally right now.”

  “Oh, I’m so in,” Sam says, ducking into the apartment and pointing her finger sharply at Duke, who’s still barking at her. “Duke! Cut it out! You know me.”

  She scratches Duke behind one ear, and slowly, the barking stops and the tail-wagging starts. “That’s better. Now let’s go see what type of pizzas Riley made. Whoa!”

  Sam’s eyes go wide behind her glasses as she steps into the kitchen. Then, as I step in behind her, she chews on the corner of her lip as she stares at the pizzas. “Hmm…Pepperoni Paradise, Garden Veggie, Greek Eggplant, Spicy Hawaiian, and…Riley’s Favorite.”

  “Yep, that’s right…my versions of them, anyway. Dad’s still looking for the actual recipes over at the house.”

  “Rile
y, these look amazing! They’re exactly like Mom used to make.”

  “Thanks,” I say in a quiet voice, “Let’s hope they taste half as good.”

  “Here, I’ll slice them up,” Sam says, grabbing a pizza cutter from the knife drawer.

  Then, once she’s done, we each grab a plate and load it up with slices. Naturally, I make sure to grab a slice of Riley’s Favorite, a sweet apple cinnamon pizza with no tomato sauce Mom would cook while I was at school and have waiting on the counter when I got back. It’s the first time I’ve tried to make it for myself, so I hope I did it justice.

  Sam takes her plate into the living room, sitting down on the couch and looking surprised as she sinks into it. “Wow, this is really comfortable.”

  “Yeah,” I say, joining her, “I wonder what it’s made of. It’s comfier than my bed was in New York.”

  Sam gets a twinkle in her eye as she bites into her pizza. “So…are you still sleeping out here, or have you graduated to the bed yet?”

  I almost spit out my bite of Spicy Hawaiian. “Ugh, no way, that’s one graduation I’m never showing up to.

  Sam opens her mouth to say something, but I cut her off. “And yes, before you ask, I have read Fuck You, Loverboy, and yes, I have gotten to the part where they start having sex, and no, my enemy has not become my lover.”

  Sam pauses for a second, then smirks and looks back up at me. “Have you finished it, though?”

  “No…” I say, “But I’ve seen Liam practically naked probably a million times since I got here, and he’s seen me not wearing very much, and we haven’t even made out one time.”

  Sam raises her eyebrows. “Wow, this is going faster than I thought.”

  “What do you mean? What’s going faster than you thought?” I ask between bites of pizza.

  “Oh, nothing,” Sam says. “By the way, after we finish eating, do you want to go find what we’re going to wear to Fashion Week?”

  “Hmm,” I say, “I didn’t think about that. Can’t I just show up in this?” I look down at the spaghetti strap top I’m wearing, which has a teddy bear printed on the front.

  Sam laughs. “Please wear that.”

  “No, you’re right, I don’t have anything nice enough for this kind of event right now, so let’s go find something.”

  I shrug. “Hey, at least I don’t have to watch the actual fashion show, so it doesn’t have to be that nice.”

  Sam pauses for a second. “Well, actually…I have an extra ticket if you want to go with me.”

  “Really?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” Sam says, “Matt and Liam both got two tickets, and Matt is going to skip the show to cook for the afterparty.”

  “That’s probably what I’m going to be doing,” I say, “But that’s weird, why isn’t Liam skipping the show?”

  “Oh, apparently Anya, the model who invited Liam to the show, wants him to be her plus one.”

  Taking a big bite of pizza, I nod. “Hmm,” I say, “Well, I hope they have a good time.”

  Sam narrows her eyes at me. “Doesn’t sound like it.”

  “I mean, as long as he doesn’t bring her back here and have gross sex with her everywhere, I don’t care. Duke definitely doesn’t need to see that. I just hope they have a good time.”

  “You literally just said that,” Sam says, “Are you sure you’re not jealous?”

  I let out a laugh that’s a little higher-pitched than I wanted it to be. “Of course not. I’m happy that Liam is going to miss valuable cooking time hanging out with Anya while I’m hard at work upstaging him at the afterparty.”

  I finish off the last couple bites of my pizza. “And you’re right, I need to pick out the nicest outfit I can find. Liam’s probably just going to wear a t-shirt and jeans, so I need to look amazing.”

  Stifling a laugh, Sam finishes her pizza. “Alright, let’s go, then.”

  I grab our plates off the coffee table, duck into the kitchen, and rinse them off in the sink. And as I do, I notice a blinking light on my phone over on the counter by the oven. Dropping the plates into the dishwasher, I walk over and pick it up, feeling my blood pressure start to rise as I see that I’ve got a message from Liam.

  Okay, Groundhog,

  I know I’ve been nice to you for the past couple of days, but I just wanted to remind you that when Fashion Week actually arrives, your little pizzas are going to get blown out of the water by what we’re doing over at Crave. In a couple hours, I’m going over to check out the kitchen at the hotel where they’re doing the show, and once I do that, I’ll know exactly how to blow everyone’s minds. I hope you like coming in second, because if you’re in the restaurant business with me, it’s going to happen a lot.

  Is he SERIOUS?

  A million insults run through my head as I start tapping out a reply, but since I’m about to go out shopping, I decide to keep it short and sweet.

  Hey, remember that truce we made before I started staying with you? Well, it’s officially OVER. Thanks for the boot camp, because we’re about to go to WAR.

  And with that, I hit send. Hopefully, that gives him something to think about while he’s touring that fancy hotel kitchen, probably with Anya.

  Wait a second…if he’s working with one of the models in the show, do the organizers even know he’s supposed to be catering? What if I…

  I have to suppress an evil smile as a plan forms in my mind. I’m not 100% sure that it’s going to work, but oh, man, if it does…

  “Hey, Sam?” I say, poking my head out of the kitchen, “Could we leave in, I don’t know, five minutes or so? I want to make a call.”

  “Sure,” she says, and I duck into Liam’s room, looking up the phone number I want on my phone.

  Great, here it is.

  Now let’s get this party started.

  Chapter 15: Liam

  Anya leans up against the wall with her arms crossed, making sure the entire kitchen can see how bored she is.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to see the runway?” she asks.

  “I’m not going to be cooking a hundred bowls of ramen on the runway this weekend, so no.”

  “You’re not going to be cooking them, though,” she says, “You’re going to be in the front row with me while your staff cooks them.”

  Yeah, don’t remind me. Especially not now that I’ve actually seen the kitchen here; this place is insanely fucking state-of-the-art in ways that make Crave look like it’s years behind. I can’t even imagine what I could do if I had access to a kitchen like this full-time.

  And apparently, someone at the hotel feels the same way, because even though the guests are mostly cleared out in preparation for all the fashion people flying in over the next couple days, there are a pretty decent amount of cooks here, hard at work on what looks like a huge order of food.

  “You ever cook anything, Anya?” I ask, trying to make conversation as I take pictures of pretty much everything in the kitchen to send to Matt.

  “Not really,” she says, “I have a chef, so it’d just be a waste of time. I do want to get into the restaurant business, though. My agent says I need to diversify my brand, and I have an uncle who owns a bunch of restaurants in Miami.”

  My ears perk up for just a second at that last part, but then, I get distracted by the biggest pasta press I’ve ever fucking seen. “Holy shit,” I say, walking up to it to get a closer look.

  I think we’re going to hand-pull the ramen noodles, but using this thing is pretty tempting. I get my phone out so I can get a picture of it as I pass by one of the chefs working in here, a guy who looks like he’s fresh out of culinary school and concentrating as hard as he can on the pizza in front of him.

  The weirdly familiar-looking pizza…

  Wait, what the fuck? That’s a Pepperoni Paradise.

  All thoughts of the pasta press completely gone from my head, I whirl around to face the chef, making him practically jump out of his apron. “Who are you making that pizza for?”

 
“Uh…” he says, “It’s for the show this weekend.”

  I take a closer look around at the chefs in the kitchen. Oh, fuck, they’re all making pizzas.

  The chef grabs a stick of pepperoni and starts slicing it up as he talks. “We got a call a couple hours ago from one of the Fashion Week organizers to come in and start working on the food for the rooftop party after the show. Apparently, they just agreed to a partnership with this restaurant opening up downtown next month, and since they don’t have a full kitchen staff yet, they wanted us to start working on making their recipes.”

  Suddenly, that text I got from Riley on the way over here makes sense. Holy fucking shit. “So you’re starting now for a party that’s happening this weekend? Isn’t that overkill? My restaurant’s doing that same party and we’re not starting until the night before.”

  The chef looks at me, confused. “Really? No one mentioned another restaurant. Who have you been working with on that?”

  I glare at Anya, who’s on her phone on the other side of the kitchen, dangerously close to the deep fryer. “Apparently, not the right people.”

  “Well,” the chef says with a shrug, “You’re right, this would be overkill if we were just doing the party, but the organizer told us that the restaurant—I think it was called Riley’s Pizza Kitchen—is going to be the official restaurant of LA Fashion Week, and we’re going to need enough pizzas to serve them all week.”

  The official fucking restaurant of LA Fashion Week? How the hell did Groundhog pull that off? That’s the type of shit that normally costs a million dollars, and she apparently did it in two hours from my couch.

  “Alright,” I say to the chef, “Thanks, I was just curious. Make sure to save some kitchen space for my guys from Crave when they come by.”

  “Wait, you work at Crave?” The chef asks in a star-struck voice as I make my way out of the kitchen.

  “I founded it,” I say, heading straight for the door leading out into the hotel hallway, shaking my head and laughing a little as I go.