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“Will you tell me?” he asks. “Who hired you to object?”
She drops her gaze, taps her whiskey glass with those long black nails. “I can’t. I’m sorry. Client confidentiality.”
He sits with that. Understands. Despite the thread of disappointment that weaves through him.
Smearing a hand through his hair, he leans back against the couch. Ash does the same.
The truth about Camellia is like a lock box. Only he holds the key. Moments like the one at their rehearsal dinner when he held his breath as Camellia downed a shot of tequila when no one was looking and said, “Let’s get this over with.”
Everyone thought Ash ruined his life. Including him. But she didn’t.
Heruined his life.
Agreeing to take over his father’s practice when it was the last thing he wanted to do.
Putting that ring on Camellia’s finger.
It was all him. And he’s been so angry for so long. Blaming it on Ash. But deep down, it wasn’t her he was angry at.
The thought has him looking up at the woman in question. Their eyes meet, a quiet sort of calm there.
“You did me a favor,” he says.
Ash’s sharp intake of breath is audible.
“With Camellia. But I’ll never admit that again.” He clears his throat. “Does that ease your conscience?”
“Somewhat.” She spears him with a grateful look. A timid smile. “If it makes you feel any better…I stopped after that.”
“Gee, thanks,” he says dryly.
“Again,” she says. “I’m sorry.”
He sets his glass down. Folds his arms across his chest. “You should go to bed.”
She’s apologized enough. No more.
“No way. If you’re in it, I’m in it.” She gives him a half smile, her eyes dark and sleepy.
With a sigh, she curls up on the couch, her body, still swaddled in the robe, brushing against his thigh.
His blood heating, Nathaniel surveys her lean frame. Unlike his body. Rigid, stiff, robotic.
The last thing he needs to do is touch her. It’s bad enough he’s attracted to her. The bulge in his fucking pants mocks him.
Talk about something else. Anything else.
Attention drawn to her boots, sitting in the corner of the room, sand caked on the soles, he says, “Boots won’t last.”
“Ugh, you’re so right.” Her low, husky laugh ripples over his body. “I have to empty a pile of sand from them every time I take them off. I could fill an hourglass.”
His gaze darts to her mouth, curved and feline. He forces the hard knot down his throat. “My number,” he says abruptly. “You should have it. Just in case.”
“Mmm,” she hums, handing over her phone. Nathaniel plugs in the numbers, giving himself the nameTall Asshole.
When he gives it back, Ash laughs. “What does this mean?” she teases. “We hate each other significantly less now? Only 97 percent of the time?”
Nathaniel rolls his eyes. “Ninety-five,” he replies. “My grandfather likes you. And you’re good for him. I think there’s a chance we can get through this trip without tossing each other into a volcano.”
