His stomach didn’t just drop. It plummeted.
“As in…?”
“As in Valenstadt-Clara.”
Oh. Oh, fuck.
His mouth went Sahara dry, as if his body had siphoned all available moisture. “Um, yeah. It’s me.”
“Good,” Clara said. Was that relief in her voice? “Was told this number might reach you.”
“Right,” he said. “Uh… hi.”
“Hope I’m not disturbing you,” she said, her tone too much like Allegra’s.
“Huh? No. You’re good.”
“I’m calling about my sister.”
“Shit.” His hand clenched around the phone. “Is Ell—” He winced. “Is Allegra okay?”
Clara made a noise that was half-snort, half-scoff. “Okay? She’s miserable.”
Nate’s jaw clenched, shoulders rounding as if he’d taken a blow.
“Because of me?”
“Partly. And because she’s excellent at doing it to herself.”
He shut his eyes, thumb digging into his leg.
“And, well…” Clara hesitated. “Because she misses you.”
His head snapped up. “She said that?”
“Not in words, but I know my sister.”
Nate exhaled harshly. “Look, I never meant to hurt her.”
“Maybe not. But that doesn’t mean she wasn’t hurt.”
He thumped his forehead with his fist. “If you’re calling to pass on ‘I’m a piece of shit,’ well, too late. I get it, all right? I never should have—.”
“Nate!” Clara’s voice was exasperated. “Just listen.”
His mouth clicked shut.
She continued, quieter now. “She’s re-engaged to Julien LaRoche.”
Nate’s jaw locked. Of course he knew the name: rugby superstar, French national hero, a man who wore tailored suits and shook hands with presidents. Her one-time fiancé. Apparently her again-fiancé.
He drew a breath that didn’t quite reach his lungs. “Why are you even telling me this?”
Clara didn’t answer immediately. He could hear movement on her end—heels on marble, maybe a door opening. Finally: “Because he’s—how do I put this politely?—a complete fuckhead.”
Nate barked a startled laugh. It died almost immediately.
“And my sister can’t stand him,” Clara added.
