Enemy Down - Cathryn Fox Page 0,17

like she’s going to protest, and I shake my head. “Might as well get used to me doing things for you, Maize. You’re mine, remember.”

“I remember,” she says putting a scowl on her face, but there’s something beneath it, just below the surface, and I can’t help but wonder if there is a part of her that likes the idea of being mine. A little sound catches in my throat. Maybe I’m the one with the concussion. Maize does not like me much. “But it’s not like that with us. This is about me earning my tuition, and that doesn’t mean you get to boss me around.”

“I get it, you don’t like to be told what to do.” I pull her close, and don’t miss the tightening of her body as I guide her down the steps to the passenger side of my Jeep. I open the door, and wave my hand. “But that probably isn’t going to stop me from trying.” Her gaze jerks to me. “Hop in.”

She stands there for a second, the pink stain on her cheeks growing brighter, her anger thick in the air. “I’m getting in because it’s raining, not because you just told me to.”

I laugh at that. “Maize, you’re killing me.”

“Good,” she says and lifts her head high and sets her purse on the floor at her feet. I shut her door, and keep my eye on her as I circle the front and climb in.

I buckle in and note the way she’s shifting, trying to get her foot situated on the floor. “Comfortable?”

She nods. “Not really. Hard to get comfortable with this thing on. I’ll be glad to get it off my foot. It’s itchy.”

I start the vehicle, and turn on the wipers. “How much longer do you have to wear it?”

She crinkles her nose. “I have an appointment in a couple of weeks to have my ankle checked.” Her head tilts and she glances out the window, but I don’t need to see her face to know she’s upset by all this. Why the hell wouldn’t she be, and I don’t think the word upset is strong enough to describe what she has to be feeling. Guilt prowls through my blood, as I glance over my shoulder and back out of her driveway.

“I really am sorry,” I say. “I’ll take you to that appointment.”

“You don’t have to do that.” Her head swivels my way, and her brow arches. “It’s not like you did it on purpose.”

I eye her, take in her raised brows. “Why did that sound like a question?”

She exhales. “It wasn’t. I don’t think.”

“I’d never take you down on purpose, Maize.”

She swallows and the sound is loud in the Jeep, barely drowned out by the swishing wipers. “Yeah, I guess.”

I catch the fast flicker of her eyelashes. Jesus, she won’t even look at me. Is there a part of her that thinks I did it on purpose, as some ploy to get her to be my sugar baby? I don’t want this any more than she does. I shake my head and concentrate on the wet road. It’s obvious she doesn’t trust me, and why would she? There is a part of her that thinks I was behind the incident in the closet that got her bounced from the mean girl club—clearly, she was never going to be a part of it. Truthfully, I hate that she went through any of the pain that went with their pranks, and the resulting rumors. Those girls weren’t nice then, and they’re not nice now, and whether she knows it or not, she’s undoubtedly a much better person for not hanging with them. I could tell her that, but there is no way she’d believe me—and does it matter? We’re adults now, and she’s going to believe what she wants, and nothing I say or do is going to change that.

Onward and upward we go.

I come to the intersection, and take a right, instead of a left, and she looks around. “Did you forget your way home?”

“Nope.”

She reaches into her backpack, and pulls out a tube. The scent of vanilla fills the vehicle as she swipes it over those lush lips of hers. “Then where are we going?”

“Out for breakfast.”

She recaps her lip balm, and tosses it into her purse. “I thought you wanted me to cook for you.”

I gesture toward her foot. “With that ankle?”

“Christian,” she says, her eyes dark and fiery. “I thought we were going to treat this like