“I did.” Pamela replied with the grace of a swan.
“Can we talk about this?”
Pamela picked up the receiver, and Nash was left with half the conversation to listen too. “It’s not up for discussion … I understand … I am aware … Yes, I still want the file.” She hung up the phone, threaded her hands together, and laid them in front of her on the desk. “I’m sorry for the delay.” She smiled warmly.
A trickle of sweat ran between Nash’s shoulder blades as the clock ticked. He wasn’t surprised by Harrison’s reluctance to accept him; the stink of prison was hard to get past. Would Kensington have the same reaction? For some reason, he wanted his wife to think higher of him—even if she was his boss. Sometimes he caught his mom looking at his dad like he was the cool kid on the block, and he’d always hoped his wife would look at him that way.
Who was he kidding? He’d given up any hope of admiration from someone he married the minute he’d snapped up his orange jumpsuit. That was who he was now. They might not have tattooed his inmate number on his arm, but they had branded him a failure for life, and there was no way to hide it.
Which was one more reason to take this ridiculous job as a groom—because it was absurd that someone as pretty and accomplished as Kensington Donegal would need to hire a husband.
There had to be more to her story, and heaven help him, he looked forward to discussing it with her.
