The question temporarily stops me from wondering about the mystery kid. Because as stupid as tonight was—as reckless and pointless—it was also thrilling. And fun. Fun to break into an old tree with a man I’m supposed to be divorcing while looking for gold that might not exist.
HisThought soblurs with the TV noise and the child’s voice. “I have to go. See you in the morning.”
“Night, Nash.”
Once again, his headlights shining through the window don’t let me sleep until after midnight.
Twenty-Six
“The hell you doing parking here?”
Nash’s voice stills me mid-slam of the trunk.
Glancing over my shoulder, Frank is on a leash—that jerk probably ratted me out—and Nash has traded his usual clownish button-up for a plain grey T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops.
I refuse to admit he looks good, but a case could be made that there’s an appeal to him when he’s dressed so casually.
“Rue?”
“Right. This.” I squint at my station wagon like I’m surprised to see it. “I do this to walk.”
Even though I watched the house like a hawk this morning and showered in the outdoor shower before sunrise, every time I tried to escape, Frank was sniffing around. Waiting.
“Was that your luggage?”
I fall into step next to him.
“I wasn’t sure what we were doing, so I brought all my clothes.” I smile brightly but steer the conversation with rambled real-time thoughts about live oaks, where the gold might be, and way too many questions about Frank’s walkingpatterns. I talk about anything except where he slept or where I slept.
In the kitchen, I settle on a stool as Nash pours himself a cup of coffee with hazelnut creamer.
Without Cap grunting and coughing, I’m hyperaware of how alone we are.
He looks good.
I like his house.
He broke into a tree with me.
Every minute I’m around him reminds me of how badly I’ve missed him.
This is not good.
I fidget with the ring on my finger and remember it’s not mine. “I found some things we can try to get the ring off,” I say to fill the quiet. “Dish soap. Oil. Lube.” That last one makes him do a double take, so I add, “Not that I know if you have lube.”
He cocks an amused brow. “You went through my things, I’m sure you know what I have.”
“I know you’re using condoms now.” We exchange a look, knowing damn well we never did. Not once. “Very responsible.”
He wets his lips. “I’m more responsible in all avenues these days, it seems. Even sex.”
I press the back of my hand to my cheek: hot. I’m not talking about sex with this man.
“Me too,” I say, talking about sex with this man. “Jonathan had a vasectomy.”
“Good for him.” He leans against the counter and takes a sip of coffee through a smirk. “That cause any performance issues?”
My nostrils flare. “No, it does not. Would you like for me to go into detail about how excellent his performance is?”
