I think over his barter. It seems reasonable. “But why isn’t he here himself?”
“He got caught up at an airport. They’re not allowing anyone to fly right now due to the hurricane, and that same hurricane has knocked all their power banks out, so he has no way of contacting you.” He doesn’t skip a word. No hesitation, eyes pinned on me. “You can take a look at the news if you like.”
“No.” I will not turn my back on this person, whoever they are. “No need. But today is my birthday, so he’s—”
—glistening gold takes up the space between us, with gems that wrap around each spike. “He thought he might have risked missing it, so he had it at the office just in case. I haven’t heard from him, but I’m sure he would like you to have it.”
Relief. He's telling the truth.
I pluck the tiara off him, squeezing it to my chest. “Where are we going?”
Silence, before answering. “Some place nice. You will be well looked after.”
Pulling myself out of memory lane, I swing off the stool, rounding the island on my way to the cabinet tucked in the corner. I made damn sure to know where all the alcohol is kept. You know, for reasons other than marrying a man I wasn't in love with.
Popping the cork on a bottle of red, I pluck a wide goblet and pour generously. “Twenty. He has twenty years on me.”Smart ass.
His grin stretches so big I can see every damn one of those perfect teeth. “Twenty? Holy shit,” he says, pushing off the counter and moving closer. He props himself against the island, crossing his ankles all casual-like. “So exactly how old are you, then?”
“Not very good at math, huh?” I raise a brow over the rim of my glass, sighing as I take the first sip. “Twenty-eight. Which will make me… what? Ten years older than you?”
He rolls his head back, dragging his tongue across his bottom lip. “She's got jokes. I can't say I've ever had to tell someone my age, but no, I'm not eighteen.”
I find the pantry, grabbing everything I need for a cheeseboard. “Oh, why?” I call out from inside. “Because everyone knows who you are already, Mr. Professional Snowboarder God, the epitome of every girl's wet dream?”
His chest brushes against my spine. Every muscle in me locks. What the hell is he doing? The hairs on the back of my neck stand as a chill sweeps over me. Cedar slices through the air, mixed with burned sugar—sickly sweet, toxic, irresistible.
My pulse quickens.
He snatches the cracker box off the shelf and places it into my hand.
I pivot, meeting his gaze over my shoulder. “Thank you.”
But back the fuck up.
I slip under his arm for the second time today and get to work slicing cheese and pulling grapes off the stems. Asher keeps going on about some sports thing he's getting dragged into next year. I just nod, throwing in a few “mhmms” and “yeah, okays” like I have any fucking clue what all these terms he's tossing around actually mean.
Mommy issues.That could be why he's so open with me. Not that I'm complaining, since he’d prove a perfect distraction from my life for the next couple of years.
Juice bursts in my mouth when I pop a grape, and I chew slowly while arranging the platter.
He glances at the board and me. “You got people coming over?”
“Mhmm, I do,” I say, dragging the dish towel over my palms. The fabric rasps against skin still damp. “Why?” My eyes lock onto his, the question hanging like bait. I let it. “Do you want to meet them?”
He smiles again, but the light doesn’t reach his eyes. So damn blue it’s almost blinding. “Sure, since you offered. But I'm heading out later.”
Fifteen minutes later, the doorbell echoes through the hall as I’m juggling bottles of wine.
“I'll get it!” Asher calls out from the stairs before I can answer. I blow a stray strand of hair from my face as Lucinda and Jord appear around the corner.
Jord is a few years younger than Lucinda and me, probably Asher’s age, so his idea of a ‘night in’ always means ‘night out.’
“Help.” The word snaps out, sharp. I shove bottles at both of them and snatch the platter just as Asher turns into the hallway.
Shirtless. Again. My stare locks onto his chest. “Really?” I jab a finger toward his bare skin. “You couldn’t put on a fucking shirt?”
“His shirtlessness is fine, Ivy! Stop being a buzzkill!” Jord’s shout carries from the patio doors.
