Enemies to 🔥Rom com
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Charles Winston Mayer-Chaz-is your typical trust fund, never gonna grow up playboy. His carefree bachelor existence is filled with women, money, and limited responsibilities in NYC is interrupted by the untimely de...
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We exit the restaurant and head out to the brick courtyard, crowded with people coming and going. I blindly follow Chaz—Mr. Mayer—who doesn't bother glancing back to make sure I'm behind him. I'm completely driven by hormones, gawking at his backside, nicely curved in dark jeans.
Thank God, at this exact moment, the universe screams at me to remove my head from my ass—or his ass—and my phone chimes. A text comes across from Blaze, doing his routine check-in, telling me he's had a great day.
What the hell am I doing?
I stop in my tracks, heels planting down in place. This is not who I am!
"You coming?" Chaz swivels around, exuding his cocky demeanor. A fake, egotistical, arrogant grin plastered on his smug face. Holy shit! This guy is good. But fuck him!
I'm better.
"No," I mutter, fists clenched, angry at myself for allowing him any sort of power over me, or control, or whatever the hell just happened. "No," I repeat, standing my ground, keeping my voice firm, hands snapping to my hips as his smile drops.
"Aw." He clicks his tongue, walking towards me. His stubble-surrounded lip curls up on one side, revealing that godforsaken dimple. He attempts an obscene up and down, eye-fuck, once again—not this time, buddy—invading my space. So close I can smell him. Chaz snorts with a pretentious smirk. "You don't wanna play anymore?"
I maintain my defying stance, refusing to cower. I don't know why I acted that way. Well, I do, he's hot. But not hot enough to derail everything I've worked for all these years. And that text was a staunch reminder.
He lifts his hand, extending a finger, slipping it along my arm. I smack it away.
With a mocking laugh, he tuts. "Now there's the Parker I thought I met." Raising a brow, he slides a palm down his neck. "Welcome back." There's not a hint of playful humor in his voice.
"Excuse me?" I fold my arms in front of my chest and glower at him.
"Here's the thing." His tone is low and steady as he gestures for us to take a seat off to the side.
"I'll stand." A scowl creases between my brows. "What do you mean, welcome back?"
His arm drapes across the top of the bench as he leans into it, asking, "Sure you won't sit?"
"No." I scoff. "What is this about? Is this some type of game to you?"
"Absolutely," he replies, not a tinge of that cocky smile on his lip, eyes on mine—which are growing larger by the second. "It was a game, or an interview of sorts."
My arms fall slack to my sides. "What? An interview? An interview for what?"
"To see if you got what it takes to run my company." My jaw drops. He studies my face with a slight, unapologetic frown. "You failed miserably, I might add."
