Page 34 of These Summer Storms

The words were out before she thought them through, and they came with a memory of the night before, of photographers and SD cards and raw knuckles and rain and this man’s half smile as she slid her hand into his. And how she’d felt when he’d done it, like someone had finally, finally put her first.

But he hadn’t been putting her first. He’d been putting Franklin first.

Clinging to the reminder, she said, “Thanks, but I’ve been dealing with my brother for thirty-three years. I can handle it.”

“Feels like you need some…clothes?”

“I won’t once you leave this room. Are you planning on doing that any time soon, or…?”

He reached into his bag and pulled out a T-shirt and shorts. “You may not need clothes now, but you will for tomorrow.” When she didn’t move, he added, “Or were you counting on staying locked in your tower for the week?”

He was the first person to suggest she didn’t already have a foot out the door, probably because he thought she wasn’t leaving without her cut. Nevertheless, it was a refreshing change of pace. Alice waddled toward him and extended an arm through the bedspread to take the clothes with a disgruntled, “Fine. There’s no need for you to keep pretending you’re a good guy. I know the truth.”

He nodded. “Me, too.”

The words were low and deep, like a confession, and the sound of them fired something deep in her gut. She ignored it, because she’d been betrayed enough that day and she didn’t need her body in the mix. Instead, she said, “Turn around, please.”

Silently, he faced the dresser, and she made quick work of pulling on the clothes—a University of Delaware T-shirt, and a pair of running shorts that hugged her ample ass. Better than nothing.

Tugging the T-shirt down to avoid revealing every curve she had—it didn’t matter that he’d seen them all the night before, he was the enemy now—she straightened and looked over to where he stood, back to her.

Only then did she realize that in turning around, he’d faced the mirror atop the dresser, which reflected the entire room.

His eyes were closed.

Alice stilled, watching him for a moment, taking in his face—all thick, dark brows and perfect bone structure and a strong jaw shadowed with a day’s growth of beard. His lashes were dark against his cheek, which was tan from the summer sun.

Staring at him in the mirror, she said, “Delaware, huh?”

“Home of the fighting Blue Hen.” He didn’t look.

“Sounds terrifying,” she said, knowing she should stop flirting with him. What was wrong with her?

“Are you done?” Did she imagine the roughness in the question?

“Yes.” The word was barely out when his eyes opened and found hers, instantly, in the mirror.

“You didn’t look,” she said.

He was looking now, though, his gaze sliding over the clothes—hisclothes—against her skin. He spoke to her bare legs. “A gentleman wouldn’t.” She didn’t imaginethatroughness, or the way it made her feel—off-balance.

Grasping for the upper hand, she said, “But seducing your dead boss’s daughter…that’s fine?” He stilled. He didn’t like that. Good. He shouldn’t. She lifted her chin.

“You’re angry with me.”

“Why would I be angry with you, Jack? You only misrepresented yourself before luring me into bed. What’s there to be angry about?”

“I don’t remember having to lure you.”

He hadn’t, but she absolutely wasn’t going to admit it.

When she didn’t speak, he added, “It was a miscalculation.”

“I bet that stings. You don’t seem like a person who makes miscalculations.”

“I’m not.” The words were like ice, and it occurred to her that another man might apologize, but Jack didn’t seem to have that in him.

Good, as Alice wasn’t feeling that forgiving. She leveled him with a cool look. “I wish I could say the same.”

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