Her eyes narrow. “Thenwhyare you here?”
Instead of answering, I let my gaze drift to the sofa, where a pillow and a folded blanket occupy one corner.
“You lost your house?”
“Along with my job.” She ticks the items off on flour-dustedfingers. “My reputation, and about ninety-nine point nine percent of my savings, since I was stupid enough to give that pencil-dick weasel access to my bank accounts.”
Rage floods through me. “He can’t do that.”
“Yet he did.” She lifts one shoulder in a shrug that’s trying too hard to look casual. “Turns out having joint accounts means he could drain them dry within twenty-four hours of landing back on the mainland. Lesson learned.”
“Fuck him.”
“Not if my life depended on it.”
Her voice breaks on the last word, and I hear the fragility underneath all that bravado. It’s a sound that does things to me. I want to hunt down Jonathan Clark and introduce his face to the business end of my fist. Or simply write a check large enough to erase every problem she has. Maybe both. But mostly, it makes me want to gather her up and carry her somewhere safe. The way I did that first night on the beach when she was bleeding and broken and still fiercer than anyone I’d ever met.
I take a step toward her.
“It’s fine.” She holds up a hand, shaking her head. “I’d rather have him out of my life than hang on to any of that stuff. He put the house up for sale and moved back to Denver to be closer to his family. My hope is he’s gone for good.”
The urge to pull her against my chest and promise to destroy Jon Clark so thoroughly that future generations will feel the reverberations is overpowering. But I stay where I am and keep my voice neutral.
“So what now, other than stress baking?”
The sound she makes can barely be described as a laugh, but it loosens the knot in my chest.
“I’m working on a plan.”
She starts cleaning up the flour explosion, and I wish I didn’t notice that she’s thinner than she was in Bora Bora. Those gorgeous collarbones are more pronounced beneath the straps ofher tank top. The shadows under her eyes that had faded during our sun-drenched time in paradise are back. I liked it when they went away, and foolishly believed I was part of the reason.
I have the resources to fix every one of her problems. I could wrap her in a cocoon of money that would ensure nothing ever touched her again. But she’d hate me for it. Just like Sloane would hate me if I tried to buy my way into showing up as a good brother instead of actually being one.
“Speaking of plans.” I try not to sound petulant as I remember why I’m actually here. It’s a struggle since I’ve been nursing this particular wound for two weeks. “I had a plan to connect with the Johnsons and discuss a partnership.”
She nods, not looking at me as she cleans up the mess. “How’s that going?”
“It’s not. Apparently, you were on the same flight home as them and trying to hide that you were crying, so they assumed I’d done something to cause it. Now I can’t get a meeting.”
Her hands still on the counter. “My allergies flared.”
“Yeah, well.” I take another step closer. “That allergy attack made them think I’m exactly the asshole my reputation purports me to be. I haven’t been able to convince them otherwise.”
Her eyes flash with the familiar fire I didn’t realize I’d been aching to see again.
“Is this where I whip out my tiny violin?”
God, I love that she won’t take my shit. Even at what could be her rock bottom, she refuses to allow me any power over her.
“No.” I hold her gaze. “I want you to join me for dinner with them to prove I wasn’t the one who made you cry.”
“You didn’t make me cry.”
It sounds like a lie, but I want to believe it.
“Give me Joel’s number,” she continues, all business. “I’ll text him and explain, but I’m not going to dinner.”
“I need you.”
