Don't Marry the Enemy: A Sweet Romance (The Debutante Rules Book 2) Read online

  Don’t Marry The Enemy

  The Debutante Rules, Rule 2

  Emily Childs

  Contents

  Free Bonus Scene

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  Also by Emily Childs

  Thank you!

  Copyright © 2021

  Emily Childs

  * * *

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

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  Prologue

  Jo

  * * *

  I rub fatigue from my eyes. My shoulder muscles prickle from sitting and slumping over the tables all day. Tension builds and if I had any sense, I’d find a hotel, then start the long drive back to Staten Island in the morning. But Emmitt needs his car tomorrow night. Twelve hours—I can do it. Hopefully. Straightening my shoulders, I lift my chin and find a sense of pleasure at the idea of surprising my boyfriend by arriving earlier than planned. Anything ahead of schedule draws a smile on Emmitt’s face.

  The roads are dark, and haunting trees coated in Spanish moss create an eerie feel. Flying would have been a better option. Emmitt apologized for forgetting to book my flight to the conference. Of course, I’d huffed, but forced a smile. At least he’d offered his SUV rather than needing to drive a small hatchback the entire way. Like always, the man found a positive spin on the situation and told me how nice it would be to have a car while we both attended the medical conference. It had been nice, but I still think he could’ve offered to drive home with me and not take the flight, because I am utterly turned around. Even my map app seems confused.

  The last sign I saw was for a po-dunk town called Honeyville. I don’t mean to be cynical about the south, but Emmitt and his tight-knit clan of doctors spent most of the weekend teasing the drawl and making snide stereotypical comments. I must be tired and am slipping into their mocking attitude.

  Never mind that I have a grudge against the Carolinas, but I don’t want to think about that right now.

  When I round a dark bend, I feel my thousandth pang of envy that Emmitt is likely home, sleeping, and I’m stuck here lugging all our files and luggage home. I shouldn’t. He needs to be at the clinic early and deserves a bit of sleep. That’s how I keep the envy from turning into resentment. I’ve admired Emmitt and his bedside manner for a while now, and working together is a dream. Sometimes. The cardiac clinic is perfect for Emmitt, but there are times when I feel drawn to work as a physician assistant somewhere else, to give us a bit of space, and to find a passion the way he’s found his. I’ve stopped bringing that up, though, since it usually ends in fighting.

  In the darkness an orange fuel light bombards my eyes. I groan. The last thing I need is to run out of gas in the sticks.

  So when I catch sight of an ancient-looking gas station I nearly whoop with joy. The old pumps look straight out of the 1950s, but they’re kept well. No matter how old they are, all I need is some gas. Roaring off course, I aim the SUV at the lot, but in a flash of fur, headlights, and screams, I narrowly miss the creature (at least the size of a car) that darts into the center of the road. I swerve. Dust and gravel ping on the sides of the doors as I try to steady out. I must scream, my throat is dry, but adrenaline pumps too hard to be sure. The next thing I hear is the clang, the horrible crunch of metal.

  The SUV stills.

  I breathe too hard, eyes wide, my heart is lodged somewhere in the back of my heart.

  “Oh . . .” my voice is nothing more than a gasp.

  A pole is now bent at a dangerously odd angle over the top of the car—nearly blocking the entire three-car garage in front of me. I arch my face to read the sign of the station and curse a few times. Zac’s Auto Repair.

  This isn’t even a gas station.

  “Calm down,” I soothe out loud. “It’s fine. It’s fine.”

  The damage can’t be too bad—the airbag didn’t deploy, though the engine shut off. It’s fine. Although no matter how many times I repeat the assurances, my heart still throbs in my chest.

  No one is around. Swallowing the pang of guilt back to the pit of my stomach, I consider leaving. I can mail a check for the damages, I’m sure the address is on Google.

  After several breaths, I dare open the driver side of the door to inspect the state of the SUV, then groan again. There is a crack in the cement from the broken pole, a dent in the front fender, and the left headlight is smashed.

  “Lady!” A determined, gravelly voice breaks my solitary.

  I whip around. A few yards away a man is trudging through a field, his mouth set in a tight, bloodless line.

  “What are you doing?” he shouts.

  When he comes into the light, I can see he’s in a tousled suit, and he’s not even wearing shoes. He doesn’t need to sound so mean. It’s called an accident. Maybe I’m tired, or maybe jokes about southerners from the conference start to boil my frustration, because I am disgusted he’d be disgusted at me. His shirt is halfway unbuttoned, exposing a broad chest, and his dark eyes blaze like browned caramel in the light. I’ve never been a champion for beards, but his trimmed scruff works and I catch myself staring for half a breath before I force my face into a scowl.

  I don’t need to deal with an angry redneck, but then again, I was the one who crashed into the building. Still.

  “What does it look like I’m doing?” I snap. “I was trying to get gas, but I swerved because there was a bear in the road.”

  He’ll understand. This will be fine.

  Sexy redneck (don’t tell anyone) stares at me incredulously. “A bear?”

  With a sigh, I nod and glance cautiously at the street. “Yes, something huge with fur was in the road, so I swerved.”

  He schools his gaze at the trees and road, and my cheeks heat instantly wh
en another car drives by and casts white lights over the masked fiend responsible for this mess.

  “That’s a raccoon,” he mutters. “I’m surprised you escaped with your life.”

  “Look, I’m sorry, but it seemed bigger than that.” He doesn’t need to be rude, I’m sure it’s a common mistake.

  “And then naturally, you always smash into gas pumps.”

  I narrow my eyes into slits. “The lighting here is a nightmare, and now I have to pay for damages.” I look away, exasperated at the cost this’ll be. I’m already paying off enough student debt to add something else that’ll take a percentage from my paycheck. Emmitt is loving, but he won’t be one to shy away from payment for damage to his car when it isn’t his doing. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to be on my way.”

  I offer the man a scathing look. He’s young, likely close to my age. I might steal a peek at the definition hidden under his messy shirt, but I’m not going to be swayed by an attractive stranger. I won’t be intimidated. Besides, he’s smirking at me like he knows something I don’t, and it’s annoying.

  “Uh, you’re just going to drive away after causing damage to a piece of property?”

  I feel guilty rushing away, no doubt, but I really need to get home. I soften my voice. “I’ll send a check for the repairs.”

  That’s all he needs, right? Maybe this guy isn’t even the owner, but the way he rakes his fingers through his thick, dark hair and stares at the auto shop like it’s his child, I go out on a limb and guess he is. While he’s turned away, I slip back into the driver’s seat, slam the door in his face, and turn the key.

  Rattling and a hum. Then nothing.

  I try again. Humming and clicking. Nothing. I slap the steering wheel. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  The arrogance written in the man’s face is aggravating as he inches around to the front of the car. Is he smiling? What a jerk.

  “It’s not starting?” He lifts one brow.

  “Very observant,” I snap, fury unleashed, and this ignorant guy is about to get the brunt.

  The muscles in his jaw tighten, but he doesn’t clap back. To add to my remorse, the—somewhat handsome—stranger pops the hood after a few tense moments. He seems to be digging through the organs of the car, and I don’t know if I should join him or stay put. Before I can decide, he slams the hood and says, “I can guess the problem.”

  My dad would roll over in his grave if he heard my stupid temper getting the best of me, the disrespect spouting off in my frustration. Normally I don’t lose my cool, but it’s like I can’t stop tonight. “Impressive. A hick that has a brain.”

  If looks could kill, I’d be splattered on the road. Biting my bottom lip, I wish I could take the rudeness back. “Sorry,” I say. “Can you fix it?”

  He stares at me, the pulse in his neck throbs. After a few moments, the man clears his throat, and a silly grin curls his lips. “You know what, Miss? You just so happened to land right here in a car shop. And golly, wouldn’t you know, I own the place. You just hold tight, now—I reckon we could have you fixed on up in no time and sent on your way. We might talk slow, but ohhhweee, we sure work fast with our hands down here.”

  He’s joking, or mocking me with his over-the-top drawl. But his smile seems genuine. I lick my lips and lean out the window. “You’ll fix the car?”

  “Sure will, sugar.”

  Sugar?

  “Oh.” This is a surprise, he’s not holding a grudge after all. I feel bad. I’m not an unkind person, and I shouldn’t have popped off simply because I’m having a bad night. I dare grin sincerely. “Great. I will pay for the damage—and the labor.”

  “Bless your heart,” he insists. That true southern drawl deepens as he drifts toward the building. He bends down and picks up what seems to be a key. Okay, he’s the owner—does that mean he’s Zac? I should ask, but I don’t.

  He turns before going inside, and I swear he winks. “A purty thing like you,” he goes on, “well, we’ll just call it even since you plopped into my shop.”

  Okay, the drawl is absolutely forced and I’m suspicious. I’m antsy while I wait for him to return. I gather Emmitt’s messenger bag filled with patient files from the passenger seat and step out into the muggy night. A few minutes later, I breathe easier and the guy steps back out and crouches down at the side of the car.

  “Thanks for doing this,” I whisper.

  He simply grunts and returns his attention to the damage on the driver’s side.

  When he leans over the engine, the black slacks pull tight over his strong legs enough that my mouth isn’t as dry anymore. I’m about to confirm his name when a flash of red breaks the night. My stomach falls out through my shoes as a white patrol car rolls into the parking lot. The siren is muted, but the reds and blues are flashing.

  “What!” I point my glare at my traitorous stranger. “Did you . . . did you call the police?”

  The officer abandons his car, his thumbs tucked in his belt, at the same time the mechanic stands, seeming quite pleased with himself.

  “Ma’am,” says the officer. “We got a call you were trying to flee the scene of an accident.”

  Oh, Zac, or whatever his name is, is a piece of work. I turn to the cop. “No, officer, I offered to pay—”

  Zac (I’ve named him by this point) chuckles. I don’t like him. Not at all. He steps closer, those dark eyes pierce me in the middle of the chest. His voice is rough. “Sorry, but us hicks know when there’s a runner, and we don’t take well to dishonest people.”

  Who does he think he is? Okay, I shouldn’t have insulted him, but really—the police? “Dishonest? You lied to me.”

  “You destroyed my property.”

  “Ma’am, can I get your license and the registration for this vehicle?” The officer asks, glancing at the bumper.

  “Fine.” I dig through the bag and hand over my ID before I ruffle through the glove compartment. “It belongs to my boyfriend, Doctor Emmitt Baron.”

  “Doctor? Sounds mighty fancy,” Zac teases, adding more drawl to his accent, probably only to aggravate me a little more.

  The officer scans the paperwork, and sighs again. “Ms. Richards?”

  “Yes, Josephine Richards,” I say. “I’m a physician assistant who is needed back home.”

  Far, far away from this place—for good.

  The officer doesn’t seem impressed by credentials, but my new enemy stares at me with one brow raised. He shouldn’t look at me like that because I’m tempted to draw closer.

  Disgusting, Jo.

  I’m taken by a real man up north, and tingling thoughts about a handsome jerk are wrong.

  “Ma’am, do you know this vehicle is four months passed registration?” asks the officer.

  Now my insides take a nosedive, most likely spilling out in waves all over the gravel parking lot. “What?” I glance at the papers and imagine smacking Emmitt for being so careless. How I haven’t been pulled over yet is a miracle. “I didn’t know, didn’t think to check,” I admit. “It’s not my car.”

  The officer’s voice is weary. “All right, since there seems to be a few troubling things tonight, why don’t we go to the station and we’ll get this straightened out?”

  “No,” I say. This isn’t happening. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m getting in this car and going home to New York and getting as far away from this stupid, bumpkin place as possible.”

  I need to check the insults because now the officer seems less than welcoming.

  “Mr. Dawson, you say she tried to flee?”

  Mr. Dawson—well, Mr. Dawson has an opportunity to redeem himself and let me go free. But I could kill him when he nods. “Yes, sir,” he says, and so easily. “As you can see, I now have a safety hazard and expense on my hands.”

  “All right, come on, miss. You understand it’s illegal to flee the scene of an accident, not to mention with an unregistered vehicle.”

  “Obviously, I didn’t flee!” I start to s
hiver even though the air is drenching my brow with sweat. “And as I said, this isn’t my car.”

  I’m grasping at straws and I know it when the officer groans and reaches for my arm again.

  “Attempted to flee,” he corrects. “We’ll just go ask you a few questions about your business in Honeyville, and why you’re driving a car other than your own, as you say.”

  “If you’re insinuating I stole it, you are way off base, officer. I’ve been in this awful place for a medical conference. You can look it up.”

  “Well, we’re all impressed,” the cop says. “But even physician assistants can get questioned by the police, Ms. Richards. Now, you can come with me on your own volition or I can cuff you.” He takes out the silver cuffs.

  I glare at the horrifically handsome Mr. Dawson and lower my voice. “This is your fault. I won’t forget.” And I won’t. I’ll make sure Emmitt knows just who tormented his girlfriend and impounded his car.

  He chuckles. “Yeah, I won’t forget who messed up my place of business either, Jo—you don’t mind if I call you Jo, right? Go on now, welcome to your own piece of southern hospitality.”

  I straighten my shoulders, not willing to admit the way Jo slipped through his accent is a little delightful. I turn on my heel, nose in the air, and stomp toward the cruiser. I plop into the back seat and fold my arms over my chest. While the officer chats outside, I fight the burn of tears.