I blink out of my stupor, my face hot. “I wasn’tjealous roasting.”
“Sure. Just providing colored commentary, then, of the green variety.” He glances at the TV I’ve just hastily turned off before winking at me. “For what it’s worth, I like that color on you.”
“I’m not green because I’m jealous; I’m green because your inflated ego is making me nauseous.”
“She’s a producer’s wife, by the way. Not even a blip on my radar, in case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t.”
But the word “blip” actually sends a sharp, metaphorically-green pang through my chest. How many “blips” have there been over the years? Have any stuck around long enough to be considered more?
From what I’ve read in the tabloids, there hasn’t been anyone serious. But maybe he was good at keeping things hidden?
And why do I even care how manyblipshe’s had? Anyone could argue that I was the one who left him. Do I even have the right to feel jealous?
Maybe, maybe not. But right or not, I still feel the raw burn every time he’s pictured with someone else.
Because once upon a time, I was the one in those photos. I was the one who touched him, kissed him, and knew the real man behind the spotlight.
And now I’m the one secretly watching him on my salon TV like a sad cliché.
At his knowing smile, I huff. “How much did you hear?”
“Enough.” He bites his bottom lip, but the mirth in his eyes only intensifies. “Especially the part about myhardandbroadchest.”
I throw my knitting supplies into a bag beside me like I’m teaching them a lesson, running an annoyed finger over my brow. “What are you doing here, Patton?”
My ex-husband pushes off the doorframe and strolls inside, each stride both lazy and confident, like they were designed to confuse my body . . . and my hammering heart.
He nudges the door closed behind him with a soft click before coming to a stand in front of me, hands tucked in his pockets, clouding my brain and better judgment with his intoxicating scent. “I have an appointment.”
He’s wearing dark gray shorts that draw attention to his muscular thighs and calves, along with camel-colored boat shoes. And as if his lower half wasn’t already making my mouth water, a light blue button-down hugs his torso, the sleeves rolled up, showing off corded forearms I’d lick if it weren’t considered socially inappropriate.
“No, you don’t,” I reply, taking a step back to give myself breathing room before picking up my trusty tablet. I scroll down to the name on my screen. “I’m expecting someone else.”
“You mean, Henry Knox?” Patton raises a brow.
“Y-yes,” I stammer. “How do you . . .? Wait. Are you Henry Knox?”
He shrugs. “He was quite the man back in the day. General in the American Revolution. Secretary of War under George Washington. Dude had quite an exciting life. Plus, he had a cool name. Very man-on-a-mission kinda vibe.”
I glare at my stupidly attractive ex-husband. “Why not give your real name? You knowHaircuts and Heartthrobscaters to famous, pompous, self-absorbed men such as yourself. Privacy is literally in our contract.”
“Because if I had, you would have faked a power outage and shut down the salon.”
I roll my eyes. “I forgot to mention, self-important.”
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
“Youarewrong. Because what I would have done was hand you a free welcome-champagne and pawned you off to anapprentice, perhaps with hedge trimmers and a grudge against men. I’d have put you in the suite that still plays whale mating calls because no one can figure out how to fix the sound system.”
“Champagne, whale sounds, and hedge trimmers. Don’t threaten me with a good time, sweetheart.” He steps closer, erasing some of the space I’d freed for myself. “You’ve always known how to get me worked up.”
I give him a deadpan look before crossing my arms. “You’re forgetting your charms no longer work on me, Pierce.”
He takes a step closer, backing me into my salon station and leaving zero oxygen in my vicinity. His fingertip trails down the side of my neck unhurriedly, sending a tremor through me.
“You sure about that? Because this throbbing pulse right here seems to say otherwise.”
