“What—”
My shocked voice is abruptly cut off by Patton’s. “Nisha, hey! Shit.”
He flicks an embarrassed and desperate glare at his dog before tugging on his leash, but I’m still processing what the hell is actually happening on my patio.
My mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water as I watch droplets of urine trickle down the pristine white pot.
Four years.
Four years of devoting myself to its beautiful foliage.
Four years of following a regimented watering schedule, gently pruning and cleaning its beautiful green and white leaves like I was detailing a Rolls Royce, and this overgrown mutt has turned my prized plant into his very own toilet.
“Patton Luca Pierce, why is your dog peeing on my Monstera?” My voice is deadly calm as I bring my gaze back to my ex, making him flinch.
He knows this voice better than almost anyone. It’s the same one I’d use when he told me he’d once again miss Christmas or another anniversary because he was going to have to stay back for reshoots in Germany or Prague or Timbuktu.
Patton winces but quickly masks his face with a thoughtful expression. “Did you know that the Monstera is known to attract growth and positive energy in Feng Shui? Bob’s naturally drawn to positivity, you see. He saw it and decided to contribute to the vibe.”
“Bypeeingon it?”
“He’s a generous boy. A thoughtful boy.” Patton shifts on his feet, visibly sweating under my glare. “So, fun fact—the Thai Constellation actually became a status plant in the 1970s?—”
“Are you seriously trying to distract me from the fact that your dog isstillpeeing on my plant with historical trivia?”
It’s widely known that there are very few Hollywood celebrities with as much historical knowledge as my ex. It’s both an extreme turn-on and a severe irritation.
“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” Patton says hastily, shifting the box in his hand awkwardly while yanking on his dog’s leash once more with the other. “This got delivered to my house, so I came to drop it off. I probably should have let Bob do his business first.”
“You think?”
A flush settles on the tops of his cheeks, his dark scruff making it more obvious, and I force my eyes not to soften.
I know the man all too well: give him an inch and he’ll take a mile. And right now, with him wearing those black, low-slung pajama pants that hug his trim waist and a white undershirt stretching around his chest and arms—doing little to hide thepacks of abs I know are underneath—my eyesreallywant to soften.
But I won’t let them. I’ll keep them hard as steel. As cold as the Alaskan winter. As unmoved as a wall of concrete.
Still, how does the man manage to look more attractive every year?
Dragging my gaze from him, I look at the box in his hand. And that’s when his words finally register.His house . . .?
“What do you mean, this box got delivered toyourhouse? My stuff hasn’t been delivered to your house in ages . . .”
Having finally finished his plant-watering, Patton’s dog,Bob, sniffs a trail across my patio, coming to a stop at my feet, where he drops . . .
Wait . . .
I recognize that bra.
I’ve been looking for that bra!
But what if it’s someone else’s? Maybe it justlookslike the one I used to have. What if it’s actually a trophy from the last leggy model I saw draped over my ex-husband’s arm in a tabloid photo?
“Is that my bra?”
Patton rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “He’s, uh . . . attached to it.”
My brows furrow. “Why do you still have it?”
