1. Meet My Enemy

1

Meet My Enemy

Alice

With each second that ticks by, I get a little more anxious, alternating between biting my nails and straightening the book display I'm putting together. Not even the smell of ink and paper, or the fact that I literally have the best job in the world, can calm my nerves right now.

"Relax, Alice." Emma rolls her deep brown eyes. "He hasn't even done anything yet."

He is Deacon Collier, our selfish neighbor who blasts his music at all hours, disturbing the peace and quiet of our happy bookish life. And in the short few weeks I've known him, "hatred" has entered my vocabulary for the first time. I now have an enemy list, and his name is the only one on it, surrounded by skull and angry emoji stickers—don't judge; scrapbooking soothes me.

I scoff. "Yeah, but I know he will." Because his only aim in life is to torture me. Us. All the small business owners on Warlington Lane. Though I sometimes feel he's getting a special kick out of annoying me.

"Let Emz handle it next time, then," Hayley says, glancing over her shoulder as she shelves the Young Adult section.

I drop Hating You by Katie Angel on the Enemies to Lovers display with a loud thud. "I'm capable of taking care of myself, thank you."

Okay, I've been a people pleaser my entire life. But that ends now. I will not let Deacon Collier win, nor will I ask my best friends for help. I started this battle, and I'll finish it. Victorious.

Mr. Darcy, our bookstore cat, rubs himself on my leg, and I pick him up. I barely start to scratch his neck, and he's already purring. He's definitely not as grumpy as the original Darcy, but his black-and-white tuxedo coat tugged at our Jane Austen heartstrings .

"I know you can fight your own battles," Hayley says, shaking her head of short pink locks. "I'm just saying, kicking butt is Emma's specialty. Remember when she chewed out that first banker we went to for a loan? The one who belittled us? It wasn't pretty."

Emma barks out a laugh, her black fringe quivering with the movement. "He deserved it. He called our bookstore project ‘a cute little venture that could never be profitable in Brooklyn.'"

"Ew. I hated that guy," Hayley says, going back to shelving. "Joke's on him."

Here's the thing. As much as I didn't agree with that banker, and his comments put a damper on my faith in this bookstore for a few days, I didn't hate him. There's only one man who has ignited that emotion in me. "I don't need your help, Emma. I got this one."

She lifts her hands in surrender. "Suit yourself. Oh, look," she says, her eyes returning to the computer screen. She's behind the counter, supposedly ordering books, but her tone tells me she wound up online. "There's a cover reveal sign-up for Evy Lunsford's next book."

Called it. She's browsing Bookstagram. Giving Mr. Darcy a kiss, I put him down, and he saunters toward his sleeping corne r

"Oh, fun!" Hayley says, getting down from one of the rolling bookshelf ladders. "When is it?"

"In two weeks. I'm signing up. Should I put you girls down too?"

"You know I love cover reveals," Hayley says with a bright smile.

"Sure, count me in," I say, arranging the books into a neat pile. "Do you know if she'll be releasing audio?"

I prefer audiobooks over paperbacks or e-books. Listening to stories is livelier, and I can absentmindedly color books or do my scrapbooking at the same time. There's nothing more relaxing in the world. Plus, hearing books read aloud really helped me with my English, especially my accent. My mom was American, and I was born here, but I lived my entire life in France with my dad and my brother. We spoke English with our mom until she passed away when I was young. My dad encouraged my brother and me to keep up our English. But when Maxime eventually left for the US to play hockey, I lost my conversation partner. Listening to audiobooks was a way to maintain my English conversation level and perfect my pronunciation. Not to mention how sexy some of these narrators' voices are. Do I ever buy an audiobook just for the narrator? You bet I do .

"Mmm," Emma says, her eyes scanning the screen. "It doesn't mention audio, but I'm sure she will. All the books in this series have been made into audiobooks."

"By the way, did you finish Until You ?" Hayley asks me, hands propped on her hips as she scrutinizes the store. Hayley is the one with an eye for design. Her Bookstagram account is the prettiest, and she's responsible for the cozy bookstore vibe we've created.

I bring my brown hair into a ponytail. " Non . I have a few chapters left. I'm also on the last page of my coloring book."

"Then what are you still doing here?" Emma asks, arching an eyebrow.

The store is about to open, but I'm off today. We take turns working so one of us can always have a day or half-day off. But frankly, when you're running a bookstore—and might I add for the benefit of Mr. Banker, a successful one—it doesn't really feel like work. But we agreed to stick to the schedule. Because we do need time off, even if we don't always notice it.

"Fine, I'll go upstairs."

Dragging my feet, I trudge to the back of the store and up the stairs to our apartment. Because yes, on top of owning a bookstore, we also live above it. Every bookish girl's dream .

Grabbing my coloring book and crayons from my neatly organized desk, I lie down on my soft pink comforter. I put my headphones on and press play on chapter twenty-six of my book. It's the man's POV, and I'm instantly thrust back into my beloved fictional world. One where men are dreamboats who have feelings and share them with their girlfriends, who take those girls on perfect dates and deliver swoony grand gestures.

Yes, I'm a hopeless romantic. But is that so surprising? I own a romance bookstore and I'm French. It's what we're known for, after all. Most fairy tales were written by French authors. Romance is in our blood. It's our legacy. Even my hockey player brother, who pursued Hayley relentlessly, started reading romance books for her sake and painted her favorite quote above our cashier's desk downstairs.

Unfortunately, he might be one of the last romantic guys on the planet, because all the men I've dated—no matter their nationality—are the complete opposite. Okay, I haven't dated every guy on earth, but I'm getting close. As a firm believer in true love, I know I have to kiss a lot of frogs before finding my prince. At least, that's what books and movies have taught me. I just wish I knew how many grenouilles I'd have to kiss and how many bad dates I'd have to endure before I find my match .

My true love is out there. He has to be. I can't accept that the best we can do is book boyfriends. As much as I love them—and collect them; you should see my sticker collection—I want the real deal for myself.

As I close my eyes, the narrator's voice soothes me. His deep timbre is sweet, like it's coated with sugar, and gravelly, as if he's a former country music artist. I also love the way he pronounces the "r" all rumbly and—

Thud.

C'est quoi ce bordel? As I tear off my headphones, my blood is already boiling in my veins. Another thud, louder this time, followed by blasting metal music. Oh, heck no. He's not doing this again. I jump to my feet, put my shoes on, and hurry to the front door of the upstairs apartment. I tromp down the steps and onto the street. A few strides later, I'm jabbing my finger on my neighbor's doorbell.

By some magic, he hears it over the ruckus and opens the door. Clenching my jaw, I refrain from checking him out. One thing even more annoying than Deacon's lack of consideration for others? His incredibly unfair body—and abs. Dang it. I looked. Why does he have to exercise so much? It's not like he needs it. His body is toned, sculpted, and looks like it belongs to an athlete, not a bar owner.

"Can I help you?" he rumbles, an eyebrow arched .

Shaking my head, I bring my eyes back to his face. Unfortunately, it's as unfair as his body. Chiseled jaw, deep blue eyes, a short-trimmed beard, and swept-back brown hair with a dash of gray, which instantly makes me curious about his age again. He's clearly older than me and my friends. We tried to give him an age but failed. Since he moved in with his teenage daughter, we decided he's anywhere between thirty and forty, which is quite a large range. But whatever his age, that dash of salt-and-pepper hair works annoyingly well on him. What is it with men looking more attractive as they grow older? Really, the only unattractive feature on this man's face is his perpetual frown.

I put a hand on my hip. "The music. Can you turn it down? We've been over this. If I can hear the lyrics of some poor guy waiting for the day the world finally ends, it's definitely not ‘down' enough."

He reaches his large hand above his head, leaning on the doorframe. "It's down already."

I swallow hard, trying to block the effect of his sexy accent. Because, yes, in addition to being as hot as he is infuriating, Deacon Collier has a voice worthy of an audiobook narrator. Prime quality. I'm dying to know where it's from—American for sure, and not from the South, I think—but I'll die before I engage in a friendly conversation with this man about his hometown.

"Ever heard of headphones?" I snap, shaking mine off. "I'm trying to read, and I can't hear anything over your music."

His frown deepens as his eyes sweep over me, stopping on the "I like big books and I cannot lie" brooch pinned to my patchwork dress. I instinctively cross my arms over my chest. I know he wasn't checking me out, but the way he gazes at me always feels intrusive. Like he can see right through me.

He scoffs, assessing me with those midnight-blue eyes. "I don't know how it is in France, but in the US, you need a book to read, not a pair of headphones."

My chest starts heaving fast, and I'm pretty sure my ears are turning tomato red. "Ever heard of an audiobook?"

"That's still not reading, Frenchie." His mouth tilts into a smirk. "The word you're looking for is listening ."

My eyes widen. I open my mouth to retort, but nothing comes out. The audacity! Of course listening to an audiobook is reading. I'm trying to find a smart comeback, but nothing comes to mind. The words get jumbled up on my tongue in a mix of French and English, and I can't put them in order .

Instead of speaking, I raise my phone and shove it into his face so he can read the sticker on the back that says " All books count " with an open book and a pair of headphones. Then, an incoherent sentence in French slips out—including at least three swear words—and I spin on my heel back to my place.

I release a growl as I march back. Why does he have to be so infuriating? I hate that guy. And I hate that he figured out I was French during our first conversation. I thought I was getting better at my American accent, but it took him only a few sentences to unmask me. I don't do well with imperfection, especially when it comes to me. After a year living here, I should be able to blend in more. That would give my infuriating neighbor less ammunition to get under my skin, not to mention wiping that smirk off his face.

As soon as I return to my room, the music starts blasting again—possibly a little quieter—and I throw myself on my bed face-first. I will not let Deacon Collier break me. I'll take that man down if it's the last thing I do.