Christmas with My Enemy (Feuding Hearts Christmas)

Chapter 4

four

BEAST

I lean back, the leather couch creaking beneath my weight as I try to focus on the laptop screen. Numbers and figures blur together, a headache building behind my eyes from staring too long. But I can't afford to doze off—not tonight.

A text buzzes through, pulling me from the monotony. It's Pop, letting me know the crew is monitoring the club and there've been no issues with cops so far. A small relief, but I keep my reply short. Good. Keep me posted.

There's only one person I take time to compose thoughtful messages for these days—Beauti. The woman I've been waiting over a year to finally meet face-to-face after forming a bond unlike any other through direct messages and music.

A soft rap at the door drags my attention away from the phone. My pulse kicks up as I hurry to answer it, a thrill coursing through me. But the woman standing on my porch isn't at all who I expected to see.

Beauti's profile pic is some ancient queen painting, giving no hint of what she actually looks like. But I never imagined she'd be the same fiery dime I had that run-in with at the gym.

"Think I got the wrong address." She shakes her head, already turning to leave, as she glances at her phone.

I can't tear my eyes away from her curves hidden beneath that oversized pink sweater, dotted with melting flakes. Hard to believe this sexy-as-hell woman could be my Beauti. The one woman I've been dying to meet.

"You Beauti4U?" I ask before she can walk away.

She nods, blinking hard. "DaBeast?"

"Yeah." I mumble the confirmation, my brain still catching up. "Didn't expect you to be this person."

"Me too," she echoes, just as thrown.

An awkward beat passes between us until I break the tension. "Still wanna come in?"

She glances over her shoulder, hesitating, before stepping inside. "Yeah, thanks."

I close the door, boxing us in together for the first time. Even with all those layers, she's stunning in a way that stirs something deep in my gut.

I can’t deny that her affinity for pink–all pink at the gym and a sweatshirt tonight–is definitely fitting for my Beauti .

Damn, I’m already claiming shorty .

"I still can't believe this," I murmur, shaking my head slowly.

"Sorry about the gym." Her tone has lost that sharp edge from before, now softer around the edges. "I've had a really bad day...couple of weeks, actually. I just couldn't deal with another situation where another man was trying to tell me what to do. It’s frustrating as hell."

Something in her words resonates, reminding me of the weight she carries, the restraints she's fought against with her parents. Her expression gives me a peak at the woman I’ve come to know–the real her, beyond the attitude and circumstances of our first meeting.

I’ve asked in the past, and she’s always managed to avoid talking about her folks. But I doubt we can avoid the subject if it made her run to me.

In that moment, I see her—the real her, beyond the attitude and the circumstances that led to our heated first meeting.

"It's fine." I assure her with a nod, waving her toward the couch. "Have a seat."

She mutters a quiet "thanks" and sinks into the plush cushions. Through the nearby window, fat flakes drift lazily to the ground, and I'm struck by the serenity of the view, the promise of a calm evening ahead.

A rare reprieve from the usual chaos.

Beauti rubs her hands together, head bowed, and I realize she's cold.

"You chilly?" I ask, already rising.

"Yeah, a little."

I grab a blanket from the closet and drape it over her shoulders. A grateful smile curves her full lips, and suddenly, everything about her warms my soul in a way I can't explain.

"Want something to drink?" I offer. "Tea? Coffee? Or something stronger?"

She starts to decline, but I can't have her uncomfortable under my roof. "You've been out in this weather. I can’t have you freezing. Let me take care of you."

Surprise flickers in those soulful brown eyes, but she gives in with a slight nod. "Okay, coffee, I guess."

I switch on the TV, flipping channels until some random movie plays, and then head for the kitchen. As the coffee maker hums, I lean back against the counter, mulling over this situation I've found myself in.

It's been a long damn time since I've let anyone into my personal space like this. For years, I've been a loner, a one-man army focused solely on the grind, the hustle. But now I've got this gorgeous woman lounging in my living room—someone I've connected with on a level most people never experience.

Yeah, we've swapped countless messages, baring our souls in ways that would make others blush. But that confrontation at the gym showed me a side of her I didn't expect—a raging wildfire ignited by the mere hint of a man trying to control her.

I pour the steaming coffee into a mu, and I move to return to the living room when I remember how she likes her coffee. I add a heaping spoon of sugar and a splash of oat milk.

When I return, the TV is now tuned to a basketball game, and she leans forward, focusing intently on the players' fluid movements.

"You like basketball," I observe, handing her the mug.

"Yeah, movies aren't really my thing." She accepts the drink with a slightly shaky hand, whispering her thanks.

She takes small sips. “This is perfect.”

“I had to use oat milk instead of soy. I’ll have the housekeeper get some for you tomorrow.”

Her eyes round as if shocked by my words, and frankly I am too. I’m ready to move her in and I don’t feel awkward about it.

I study her as she cradles the mug. Exhaustion is written all over her—the tired eyes, slouched posture. It'll be a matter of time before she crashes.

"Let me know if you need to sleep," I offer. "I got a room ready for you."

She looks up, surprise and gratitude mingling in those expressive eyes. "I can't thank you enough."

"I told you, I got you." I chuckle, trying to put her at ease. "We've been good friends for months."

"On ChatterSpot," she clarifies as if reminding herself of the boundary between our online world and this new reality.

"It doesn't matter," I assure her with a pointed look. "You're safe with me."

She seems to accept that, giving a small nod before taking another sip. "Thank you. And I'm not sleepy yet. Are you?"

"Nah."

Whatever weariness I felt earlier is gone, replaced by a strange alertness, a thrumming energy I can't quite put my finger on.

"What's your real name?" she asks. "I still think of you as DaBeast."

A faint smile tugs at my lips at the use of my online handle. "Jamal. And you?"

"Tati." She drains the last of her coffee and sets the mug aside. "Your house is nice, Jamal."

"Thanks." I nod, taking in the compliment. "And I gotta admit, it feels nicer with you in it."

“Don’t tell me you’re about to feed me some playa playa lines .”

I laugh. “Now that’s the Tati I know.”

We freeze. Her name rolled off the tip of my tongue as if I’ve said it a million times. This is better than I imagined.

I always wondered what it would be like to meet her. But she wanted her privacy and I enjoyed her friendship. I don’t have many people I trust, but I trust Tati, even if this is the first time we’ve met in person.

"What do you do for fun around here?”

“Honestly, I’m usually at work. So, I usually shower, crash, and return to work.”

“Am I keeping you from–”

“You’re here, and I’m glad you’re here. It seems like I’ve known you forever. So, don’t clam up on me. I’m ready for one of our marathon conversations in person.”

I lean back, hoping my relaxed posture will help her feel more comfortable. Since this is an opportunity to truly connect and get to know the woman behind the words I've grown so fond of.

"Okay. What shall it be?" One delicate brow arches. "History? Politics? Music?"

She knows me too well, calling out my passions that we've discussed at length. But tonight, I want to understand her—to peel back the layers and see the person beneath the digital facade.

"Nah, let's talk about you." I lean forward, elbows on my knees as I study her intently. "Why are your parents so eager to marry you off at, what, twenty-two? Twenty-three?"

She shakes her head. "Twenty-four. And I've been protected like this my whole life."

I nod, trying to imagine that level of control, that lack of freedom.

Growing up with a single father who ran one of the deadliest crews in Detroit forced me to fend for myself from a young age, doing everything alongside my brother as the streets became our mother and ESB our father.

I craved love and warmth of a normal home, while she seems to be suffocating under the weight of her family's twisted version of affection.

Life can be cruel .

Tati's expression clouds over as she continues, gripping the throw pillows tightly, her nose flaring when she mentions her father. I can feel the resentment simmering beneath the surface.

"They always been like this?" I ask gently. "Controlling you, shutting down your wishes?"

"Yeah." She nods, a flicker of pain in those soulful eyes. "But it got worse after my brother died."

Shit . I wasn't expecting that. "I'm sorry," I murmur, my voice thick with empathy. An ache I know all too well. "How old was he?"

"Twenty-five." She rubs her hands together, a nervous gesture. "We were best friends."

"That's rough. I'm sorry." The words feel inadequate, but what else can I say? Losing a sibling leaves a hole nothing can fill.

Tati nods, blinking back tears. "He's always here." She presses her palm against her chest, just above her heart.

I let out a heavy sigh, pulling at my chin as memories of my own loss resurface. "I lost my brother too. It messed me up pretty bad. It was three years ago."

Her murmured condolence tugs at my heart, but I shove down the swell of emotion, keeping my expression neutral.

"I've learned, no matter how long it's been, that pain never really goes away," Tati says, her voice soft but laced with wisdom most don't acquire until they've lived. "We've gotta be strong, honor their memory by being the people they'd be proud of every single day."

"Yeah, that makes sense." I nod slowly, letting her words sink in. The truth in them is a gut-punch I'm all too familiar with. "We can't bring 'em back. The best we can do is keep moving forward."

"Yeah," she agrees, but the weight of our shared grief hangs heavy in the air, an unspoken understanding that some wounds never fully heal.

Silence envelops us as we both nurse our thoughts, our memories of the brothers we've lost, imagining what it might be like to have them back with us, even if just for a moment.

"You know, Elijah and I...we weren't the closest when he was alive," I admit, feeling the need to open up, to share a part of myself with this woman who's already seen so much of my soul. "We did business together, but our methods were different. We butted heads a lot over that shit. Now..." I shake my head, pushing away the useless what-ifs. "I'd give anything to have him back."

My throat feels dry, that familiar ache settling in my chest. I down the last of my wine and rise to pour another glass from the decanter.

“Want a glass?”

“Sure,” she accepts it with a nod, taking a sip. "It's good."

"One of my favorites." I smack my lips, savoring the rich flavor as it coats my tongue.

Now that we've bared our souls, I know I need to shift gears, steer us back to more practical matters.

"So what's your plan? I mean, you can crash here as long as you need, but what're you gonna do for real?"

The thought of having her here, in my space, for an extended period sends a strange thrill through me. It's like someone cranked up the thermostat—the air suddenly thick, charged with an energy I can't quite define.

She's beautiful, curved in all the right places, and even bundled up in that oversized sweater. She's tempting in a way that crosses the boundaries of our friendship.

I'm not sure how long I can keep my cool with her under my roof, but without crossing a line, I shouldn't.

"Jamal?" Her voice breaks through my wandering thoughts, and I realize she's said my name twice now. The sound of it on her lips stirs my shit, and maybe this third glass of wine was a bad idea.

Friends. Just friends. I have to remind myself.

Nothing more, no matter how much my body might want otherwise.