Page 41 of Don't Date Your Nemesis

His laugh echoed back through the cafe as the door swung shut behind him.

I stood there, clutching my bag, hickey throbbing under three layers of concealer, hand still tingling from where his fingers had been.

I’m going to treat myself to better cereal tonight.

13

USE PROTECTION

LIAM

I’d been scrolling through Twitter for the past hour, watching my life become a meme in real-time.

@SportsDaily: Olympic swimmer Liam James proposed at a DINER? This man has millions and chose a booth with sticky menus?

@DeiamShipper: THE ENEMIES TO LOVERS PIPELINE IS REAL AND I’M SCREAMING CRYING AND THROWING UP

@RomanceReader99: They literally tried to drown each other with cupcakes and now they’re ENGAGED I can’t breathe

@ConspiracyQueen: Y’all really think this is real? They staged the whole thing. Cupcake fight was PR. Wake up!

Deiam hashtag was trending worldwide and beating out actual world news, a presidential scandal, and a surprise album drop.

There were fan accounts and edits set to Taylor Swift songs. Someone had already written fanfiction, which my friends had sent to me. I hadn’t clicked, but I saw it.

The enemies-to-lovers narrative was, apparently, solid gold.

My phone rang, and Dad’s face filled the screen. I propped it against the bathroom mirror and went back to wrestling with my bow tie.

“Saw the news,” he said without any greeting and grinning that grin that meant he was about to enjoy himself at my expense. Shit. “This is the same girl who gave you a black eye with a water balloon when you were twelve?”

“That’s the one,” I said, yanking the tie loose and started over. These things were a fucking nightmare.

“Are you sure about this?”

“It’s fake, Dad,” I said, groaning because the tie was fighting me and I was losing. “Just PR stuff.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, sipping his coffee and watching me struggle. “You know your mother wants to meet her, right? She’s already planning a family dinner.”

What the fuck.

“Dad, you should⁠—”

“I’m just saying. If this is fake, you might want to mention that before your mother starts picking out names for your children.”

Kill me now.

“It’s just three months! We’re breaking up after Ethan’s wedding.”

“Sure you are,” he said, his smile widening. “Do you need help with that tie?”

He was miles away in San Francisco.

“I’ve got it.”

I did not have it.

He walked me through it anyway, the same way he had before my first Olympic trials, and we talked about the business, about his latest acquisition, about Mom’s book club drama.