The Summer I Fell For My Enemy

The next morning arrived with a blinding shaft of Roman sunlight that cut straight through the gaps in our wooden window shutters, hitting me directly in the eyes. I groaned, pulling the thin linen sheet over my face, desperately wishing I could block out the reality of where I was.

For a single, blissful second, my brain remained in a state of peaceful amnesia. I was just a girl on vacation in Italy. Then, the ancient terracotta floorboards right outside our bedroom door gave a loud, heavy creak, followed by the distinct, low rumble of a throat clearing.

Julian.

I bolted upright in bed, my heart instantly snapping into high-alert combat mode. Maya was still sound asleep on the twin bed across from me, a faint, peaceful snore escaping her lips, completely oblivious to the fact that our academic tormentor was currently pacing around our living room.

I checked my phone. It was barely seven in the morning. I rubbed my aching temples, grabbed my laptop from the nightstand, and opened up every single travel and rental app I had downloaded. I didn't care if it was peak tourist season. I didn't care if Rome was completely packed. There had to be a spare room, a couch, a literal broom closet available somewhere within a twenty-mile radius of the Colosseum. I was not going to spend my summer vacation sharing a wall with the guy who had spent the last three years trying to ruin my GPA.

For forty-five minutes, I scrolled through page after page, my thumbs flying across the trackpad in a frantic rhythm.

Sold out. Sold out. Unavailable for your selected dates.

I finally managed to find a tiny, questionable studio apartment near the main train station. It had terrible reviews and looked like it hadn't been updated since the nineteen-seventies, but I didn't care. It was Julian-free territory. The moment I aggressively clicked the book button, a flashing red error message popped up across my screen: We are sorry, but this property was just reserved by another traveler.

I let out a loud, frustrated sigh, slamming the laptop lid shut with a definitive click. Julian's smug, arrogant warning from yesterday afternoon echoed in my ears. Every single decent room from here to Florence really was booked solid for the summer. I was officially trapped in this beautiful, frustrating friction trap of an apartment.

My stomach let out a loud, traitorous growl right then, reminding me that I hadn't eaten a real meal since the stale airport pretzels yesterday afternoon.

Giving up on the digital hunt, I threw off the sheets. I was wearing a slightly oversized, faded university t-shirt and a pair of short gray lounge shorts. My hair was undoubtedly a wild bird's nest, but I was too hungry and too determined to care about my appearance. I needed caffeine, and I needed it immediately if I was going to survive the day.

I quietly cracked open our bedroom door, stepping out onto the cool terracotta tiles of the shared space, and slipped into the kitchen area.

I took two steps toward the counter and froze dead in my tracks.

Standing in front of the silver espresso machine, completely backlit by the golden morning sun streaming through the open French windows, was Julian.

And he was wearing next to nothing.

He was in a pair of low-slung, dark gray sweatpants, and absolutely nothing else. No shirt. No shoes. Just a ridiculous, uncalled-for expanse of tanned skin, broad shoulders, and sculpted back muscles that looked like they belonged on a marble statue in the Vatican museum. As he turned around, holding a freshly brewed ceramic espresso cup, the morning light caught the incredibly sharp, defined lines of his abs.

My brain completely short-circuited. The sheer physical presence of him in such a small space was overwhelming. I stood there clutching the kitchen doorframe, staring like a total idiot.

Julian raised an eyebrow, his icy blue eyes slowly sweeping down my mismatched sleepwear and messy hair before a slow, deeply infuriating smirk spread across his face.

"Like what you see, Clark?" he asked, his voice rough and incredibly deep with sleep. He took a slow, agonizingly deliberate sip of his espresso, leaning his bare hip against the edge of the kitchen counter. "Because if you're going to stand there and objectify me at seven in the morning, the least you could do is make me a piece of toast."

The spell broke instantly. The sheer, unadulterated arrogance of his voice replaced my temporary shock with pure, hot rage.

"In your dreams, Vance," I snapped, finding my footing and marching over to the counter, intentionally keeping a strict two feet of distance between us. "I was actually looking to see if you had an ounce of basic human decency, but clearly, you left your shirts and your manners back in America."

"It is thirty degrees Celsius in Rome already, Avery. I am in my own apartment," he reasoned, tilting his head with a mocking half-smile that made me want to throw something at him. "Well, my uncle's apartment. If you can't handle a little skin, you're welcome to keep your eyes glued to the floor tiles. I know they're very historic."

"I can handle it just fine," I lied through my teeth, fiercely focusing my gaze on the silver espresso machine instead of his collarbones. "What I can't handle is your presence. Move out of the way. I need to make coffee before I lose my mind."

"Be my guest," Julian said, stepping slightly to the side but not actually leaving the narrow kitchen space. Our elbows were practically parallel, and the heat radiating off his bare shoulder was completely distracting as I reached for the bag of local coffee beans we had bought at the airport yesterday.

I picked up the silver Italian moka pot sitting on the stove, trying to figure out how to open the chamber. I twisted it to the left, but the metal wouldn't budge an inch. I gripped it tighter, my knuckles turning white, trying to force it open with sheer willpower.

"You're turning it the wrong way," Julian murmured, his voice infuriatingly calm and way too close to my ear.

"I am not turning it the wrong way," I hissed, giving the metal another violent, stubborn wrench. "I know how a coffee maker works, Julian. I have a higher GPA than you do, remember?"

"By point-zero-two percent, Clark. And that was before the finals were graded," he countered, stepping closer into my personal space. Before I could protest or step back, his large, warm hand clamped down directly over mine on the handle of the moka pot. His skin was smooth and entirely too warm, sending a weird, sudden jolt of electricity straight up my arm that made my breath hitch. "Look. It twists clockwise to open. Stop trying to break my uncle's kitchen appliances."

With a gentle, effortless nudge of his fingers over mine, the metal chamber clicked open smoothly.

I instantly yanked my hand out from under his, my face burning hotter than the Roman sun outside. I grabbed the coffee grounds, intentionally ignoring the smug look of triumph dancing in his eyes.

"I knew that," I muttered under my breath, dumping a spoon of coffee into the filter with a little too much force, causing a few dark grinds to spill all over the clean counter.

"Clearly," Julian chuckled, setting his empty espresso cup into the tiny sink. He leaned in just a fraction closer, his breath brushing the top of my messy hair as he looked down at me. "By the way, I saw you on your laptop earlier through the hallway window reflection. Find any open Airbnbs?"

I stiffened, gripping the coffee spoon tightly in my fist. "That is absolutely none of your business, Vance."

"So that's a definite no," he concluded, his tone dripping with effortless victory. He straightened up to his full, intimidating height, turning toward his bedroom door. "Have fun making your coffee, Avery. Try not to burn the building down. We have a very long summer ahead of us."

He walked away, his bare back muscles flexing with every single step before his bedroom door clicked shut behind him, leaving the living room completely silent.

I stared at the closed wood, my chest heaving as I finally let out the breath I had been holding since I walked into the room. I looked down at the spilled coffee grounds on the counter, then out the window at the beautiful city outside.

The academic rivalry was officially dead. This was a completely different kind of war, and as I listened to the sound of his shower turning on through the thin plaster wall, I realized I was losing horribly.