Enemies to Lovers, page 1
ENEMIES TO LOVERS
PORTIA MACINTOSH
For my amazing family
I’m so lucky to have you all
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
More from Portia MacIntosh
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by Portia MacIntosh
Love Notes
About Boldwood Books
1
‘Are you nervous?’
I glance up at Sonny, who is sitting on the sofa opposite me. I swallow hard, feeling the muscles in my jaw tighten as he flashes me one of his trademark cheeky grins.
‘I’m not nervous,’ I insist. ‘This isn’t my first time, you know…’
Sonny nods, his smile still firmly fixed on his face.
‘Okay, sorry,’ he replies, not sounding all that sorry. ‘You just seem a bit… on edge. Like you’re not quite sure what’s waiting for us inside the hotel room, or like you don’t know what to do once you’re in there.’
I don’t say anything.
‘Lara,’ he says, trying to catch my attention.
‘I know what I’m doing,’ I insist firmly. ‘To be honest with you, I would much rather we waited in silence. Do you think you can manage that?’
Sonny raises his fingers to his lips and pulls closed an imaginary zip. He then takes an imaginary key, twists that inside an imaginary lock and throws it over his shoulder, his mouth finally seemingly sealed shut – he still manages to grin, though. Unbelievable.
I glance around the private hotel lounge, trying to distract myself. I have done this countless times before, but Sonny’s words are in my head now. I seem edgy? Do I seem edgy? Now that he’s mentioned it, I do feel a little on edge, but that’s him. That’s Sonny. This is what he does to me.
This place is beautiful, not the kind of place I could ever afford to stay in, but given that it’s a five-star hotel in Central London favoured by the rich and famous, that’s no real surprise. I just about make enough money to live a Tube journey from work – a longish tube, and in a not very big apartment with two room-mates – so I doubt I’ll be staying anywhere this fancy in the near future either.
We’re waiting under what is, frankly, aggressively romantic ambient lighting for 2 p.m., as smooth jazz pumps from the speakers, so softly and delicately it almost tickles your ears.
The furnishings boast that sleek, minimalist aesthetic you often see in expensive places – where less is always more – with plush sofas upholstered in a luxurious shade of deep emerald green, and cushions, so many cushions (another strong indicator of wealth, I find, is an abundance of cushions, especially ones that don’t do anything). The big, plush ones are nice, though; squashy things that beckon you deep into their soft embrace.
Sadly, I’m not here to relax.
There is a low wooden coffee table in front of me, thoughtfully set out with an arrangement of freshly cut flowers and carefully selected magazines, so I grab a copy of Tatler and mindlessly thumb through the pages, not truly reading or absorbing anything, because I can see Sonny’s eyes still on me.
‘So, what’s the plan?’ he pipes up. He must have had a spare imaginary key, it seems. ‘Talk about favourite sex positions and why we’re all going to be wearing blue this summer?’
‘Is that what you think women care about?’ I ask him, slapping the magazine closed, as one of my eyebrows raises curiously.
Ugh, he’s got me to bite. Why do I always rise to it?
‘It’s what I think you think women care about,’ he replies.
‘Well, it sounds more interesting than talking about how to trick women into sleeping with you, or how many raw eggs to wash your steroids down with,’ I clap back.
I am so blatantly rattled but Sonny finds this exchange ever so charming.
‘Erm, less of the steroid talk,’ he ticks me off playfully. ‘But it does take a fair amount of protein to feed these.’
Sonny playfully flexes a muscle. He’s wearing one of those fitted long-sleeved black T-shirts – well, I assume it’s supposed to be fitted, it’s that or the material is just stretched so tightly over his big arms and his muscular frame.
Sonny’s physical presence is hard to ignore. He’s tall, with broad shoulders and a muscular build resembling a Greek statue, and not only is he fit, but he knows it. He radiates a casual confidence, turning heads wherever he goes – although this could be something to do with the fact that he is at least 6’3 – because women can’t seem to resist his trademark pairing of rugged handsomeness mixed with an untamed mop of tousled sandy-blonde hair. Well, I say untamed, but I highly suspect a lot of time and effort goes into his ‘effortless’ man bun. He usually wears his hair tied back, revealing a strong jawline and a pair of piercing blue eyes that always seem to be harbouring a mischievous sparkle. It suits him, suits his energy, he’s like a golden retriever: big, energetic, always in your personal space, trying to show you what a good boy he is. I say women can’t seem to resist him, but I absolutely can.
Blonde hair is about the only thing Sonny and I have in common. I’m almost a foot shorter than him, which doesn’t help when it comes to ignoring him, because he seems like a giant in my presence. My hair is much longer than his, brushing the small of my back, but it pains me to admit that his colour is more natural, and as such his ends are in much better nick. My eyes were blue when I was younger, but they’re green now. I don’t know when they changed, but I’m not ruling out some kind of Incredible Hulk-style response, one that years in Sonny’s presence may have triggered in me. My round face is anything but chiselled, my muscles are notable by their absence, and while I’m hopefully as stylish as he is, we’re very much opposite ends of the spectrum.
Sonny likes loud, in-your-face, quirky clothes that come in bright colours and dizzying patterns. I’m more of a classic dresser. I prefer understated sharpness to eye-catching conversation starters. Think black, with variety coming in the form of greys and, well, slightly darker blacks. I use pops of colour here and there, to make subtle statements, but ultimately I’m always going to be the little one who blends into the background, and Sonny is the main character whom everyone loves. And, boy, does it show, in all areas of life.
‘If you must know – and I’m only telling you this so that you raise your expectations – today we’re focusing on men and social media,’ I explain. ‘What it’s like for men on Instagram and the like, and the pressures they feel.’
Sonny makes a face, a subtle admission he’s impressed, but not much.
‘Sonny Hale?’ a man, who seemingly appears from nowhere, says.
Of course he’s first.
‘Yep, that’s me,’ Sonny tells him. Then he turns to me. ‘Good luck.’
One last smirk and then he follows the man into the hotel room. Oh. My. God. Sonny makes my blood boil, honestly, and frustratingly I am around him all the time.
Sonny and I are kind of like work rivals. We don’t work together (for which I am so, so thankful) even though we both work for the same parent company, and in the same building, but the fact that we have the same job at our respective publications means we wind up at all the same jobs and events – like today, when we’re both here to interview pop star Troy Reeves, but obviously Sonny somehow finds a way to make sure he goes before me.
I’m a writer for Stylife, a glossy women’s magazine – one that Sonny seems to think is all ‘try this sex position to keep your man’ and ‘only eat orange foods if you want to be size 2’ but we strive to do better than that. Sure, we have some fun stuff – the love and dating team are especially and hilariously hands-on when it comes to writing their features – but we’re trying to create more political and social content.
It’s worth noting that, when I say ‘we’, I mean the magazine generally, it’s not exactly an area where I’m getting to make a difference given that I’m the showbiz writer. I think the role of showbiz will always be to attract people with gossip, salacious headlines, behind-the-scenes drama and things like that. I’m trying to ask deeper questions but, annoyingly, Sonny is right. No one really cares about Troy Reeves’s position on women’s rights, they just want to know if he’s single again and when his next album is out.
Sonny works for Mach (as in macho, which I find kind of gross) which is sort of like our sister (or brother, I suppose) magazine. I would like to say it’s all ‘how to get thighs so big you can’t sit down’ and ‘do this with your beard if you want any woman to sleep with you’ but, I have to admit, they’re trying to do more too, raising awareness around important issues like mental health. However, like me, Sonny is the showbiz writer there, so his contributions are similar to mine.
So whether it’s interviews like we’re doing today, premieres, or parties, I’m always there, and he’s always there, and we’re always competing, always trying to one-up each other, and that is a full-time job in itself.
I pick up the magazine again and, again, I still don’t read it. Eventually, Sonny reappears.
‘I think that went really well,’ he announces proudly.
‘Oh, I’m sure,’ I say sarcastically as I pull myself to my feet, ready to be called in next. I walk over to where Sonny is standing.
‘That’s the way you roll, when you work for a decent publication,’ he continues, potentially a little tongue-in-cheek, but I clearly can’t get enough bait.
‘Absolutely,’ I agree, somehow turning up the sarcasm even higher. ‘How you guys didn’t win the Pulitzer Prize for that article on how masturbation is anti-ageing is beyond me.’
‘Looking for tips, were you?’ he teases, standing just a couple of feet away from me, so close I can smell his aftershave.
‘That’s your secret, is it?’ I reply through a smirk.
‘Lara Bailey?’ the man calls out upon his return.
‘Here,’ I reply.
‘I guess I’ll see you back at HQ,’ Sonny tells me.
‘Not if I can help it,’ I reply.
I’m shown into a hotel room where I find Troy Reeves sitting, waiting for what I’m guessing is his final interview of the day.
‘Hi there,’ he says politely, but like he’s said it a million times today already.
‘Hello,’ I reply. ‘How are you?’
‘Very well, thanks,’ Troy replies.
‘Am I your last interview of the day?’ I ask.
‘You are indeed,’ he tells me. ‘Video interviews were first, I did a bit for the radio, and you’re the last of the journalists.’
‘I’ll try to make it quick,’ I say with a smile, hitting record on my iPhone before setting it down on the table between us.
Troy was on a TV talent show back in the late noughties and, despite not winning the show, he’s gone on to have a great career as a successful solo artist. To be honest, I’m not even sure I remember who won the show that year, but I don’t think they’re still around. Given that he’s been on the scene for fifteen years now, he’s reached that status where he knows who he is, and what he is. The thing I’ve liked about Troy when I’ve interviewed him before is that he still seems like such a nice, down-to-earth guy.
I ask him a few questions about his new album and his forthcoming tour – the same questions he’s probably been asked all day – and you can tell he’s reeling off the same replies he’s given to everyone else. With those questions out of the way, I can finally ask him something original, something interesting. Something that will get him talking and hopefully give my interview that little something extra that makes it worth reading.
‘So, I wanted to ask you about social media,’ I start. ‘If you ever feel at all affected by what you see online, if you think men have any different struggles to women that perhaps we might not know about, and so on, if that’s okay?’
Troy sighs heavily.
‘Yeah, okay,’ he says. ‘Sure, go ahead.’
I’m picking up on something, like perhaps he doesn’t want to talk about it.
‘Are you sure that’s okay?’ I ask him. ‘If you’re not comfortable…’
‘No, no, it’s not that,’ he reassures me. ‘I’m just knackered and I’ve been answering the same questions all day.’
‘I’d hoped this might be something a little different for you to talk about,’ I say.
‘Yeah, absolutely,’ he replies. ‘But you’re not going to believe it, the last guy who was in here asked me about the exact same topic so… I guess I can say it all again.’
I take in a sharp breath. Sonny, bloody Sonny. I should have known, when I told him the angle of my interview, that he would steal it from me. Just when I think he can’t stoop any lower.
‘Oh,’ I say simply. ‘That’s okay, we can talk about something else.’
‘No, honestly, it’s fine, I’m sure I can say it all again,’ he insists. ‘Let’s do it.’
It’s not that I worry he can’t say it all again (although, if he’s said it once, he’ll probably say less the next time he talks about it) it’s more that it’s not unique now, it’s not worth reading my article over any others, because my angle has gone.
I’m heading back to the office, when I’m done here. Sonny had better hope I don’t see him there. I’d say I can’t believe he’s done this but, truthfully, this sort of thing happens all the time. And I’m really starting to get sick of it.
2
Stylife, the magazine I work for, is a part of Mediworldwide – yep, the big, bad mass media and communications company. As the owner of multiple newspapers and magazines, a publishing house, a rolling news channel and multiple radio stations, Mediworldwide like to keep all of their businesses in one place, so all operations are run from here, The Cactus, an iconic building in the London skyline. The reason they call it The Cactus is because of its curved, green-framed windows, although, if you ask me, it’s almost the opposite of a cactus, given that most of its pricks are on the inside.
I mean, I’m sure the world of journalism isn’t special, it’s probably like any other big business. Everything is so corporate – so important too. Your job isn’t allowed to simply be your job, it’s supposed to be your life and, as such, I work long hours and I haven’t been on holiday in years. Oh, and I’m single, because who has the time to find a seemingly normal one? But this is what I signed up for, what I studied for years to do, the reason I have a chunk of student debt I need to work to pay off. I asked for this but, I don’t know, sometimes I feel like there’s got to be more to life than working into the early a.m. writing up the favourite food of the cast of the latest comic-book movie.
I head up in the lift, to the Stylife floor, where I try to make my way across the office to my desk quickly and quietly. It’s a game I play every day, trying to get from the door to my desk without catching the attention of my editor.
‘Hey, Lara.’
I’m relieved when I realise that it’s Lauren, my friend, calling me over.
‘Hello,’ I reply, pulling up the nearest chair, plonking myself down next to her.
I exhale so deeply I swear her long, wavy blue hair dances in the breeze, rippling like the ocean. It’s quite fitting, I guess, that she is Stylife’s travel writer.
‘Didn’t it go well?’ she asks curiously, reading a combination of my mind and my body language. ‘Ugh, what I’d give for a one-on-one with Troy Reeves. How could it not go well? Unless… God, you didn’t do something to embarrass yourself, did you?’
She says this like I’ve got form for it. Honestly, you spill a drink down yourself in the VIP section at the Rockin’ Radio Summer Roadshow, just feet away from rock royalty, one time and suddenly you have a reputation for embarrassing yourself.
‘Oh, no, nothing like that,’ I quickly insist. ‘Quite the opposite, really – I might have made more of an impression if I had humiliated myself. No, it was just really boring, really flat, and he had already answered every question under the sun.’
‘You’ve got to hate when that happens,’ she replies sympathetically, reaching out to squeeze my knee.
‘It didn’t help that I made the mistake of telling you know who what the focus of my interview was going to be,’ I add. ‘He went in before me and talked Troy’s ear off on the subject. He was over talking about it by the time I got to him.’
Lauren narrows her eyes as she smiles.
‘What?’ I ask.
