Page 22 of For Better or Hearse
“I didn’t order this,” she tells the waiter.
“For you,” he says, nodding across the terrace. “From that man who just left.”
Sighing, Ash slumps in her seat and grudgingly picks up the glass of juice Nathaniel ordered. “Fuck.”
Aburning oil rig would be better than this.
Nathaniel’s trapped on a barstool next to his idiot little brother while Tate drones on about his plans for his podcast’s launch.
“It’s a startup right now,” he chatters as Nathaniel stares into his whiskey. “But we’re working on the funds to get it off the ground.”
Working on the fundsmeans Tate is planning to ask their father for money from his inheritance.
“Do you think Dad will say yes?”
Absolutely. Then he’ll use it against you your entire life.
Nathaniel keeps that thought to himself, instead nodding as he reaches for his drink. The resort bar is packed, thanks to the unending amount of rain coming down outside.
As it always does, talk of his father has Nathaniel bristling. Maybe that makes him an asshole. Or maybe it means he’s long since given up on making the man proud.
His father’s soulless Beverly Hills plastic surgery practice is not the legacy he wants. Vapid women clamoring for nose jobs and butt lifts. Even if the plan—his entire life—was to take over the family practice. He took a job in the ER, allowing him to put his father off for years, but after the breakup with Camellia, he finally said fuck it.
He resigned his position at the prestigious hospital, gave up his loft and Mercedes, and went to live as a doctor on a floating oil rig off the coast of California.
He has Ash to blame for all of it.
She fucked up his life when she came storming into that church.Only he’s not surefucked upis the right term. Admitting that grates at him. Has for the last three years.
A flash of black catches his eye. Ash. She’s standing in the corner, perched at the window like a disheveled vagabond. She stares out into the pouring rain, arms wrapped tight around her slender, bare shoulders.
A grin tips the edges of his lips. He was right. She is a cat.
“What do you think of the Manson girl?” Tater asks.
He swirls the whiskey in his glass. “I think she probably lives in a spider web or something.”
His brother chuckles. “She’s tight, though. You gotta admit that.”
Nathaniel pauses mid-sip, a prickle of irritation running the length of his spine. “What exactly istightabout her?”
Wicked gleam in his eyes, Tate snaps open his mouth.
“You know what?” Nathaniel says, lifting a hand to cut his brother off. “I don’t need to know.”
He already does.
She’s a demon. The prettiest demon he’s ever seen.
He’s not proud to admit that her body in that slinky dress briefly short-circuited his brain tonight. How could it not? He’d have to be a corpse to remain unaffected.
Tate grins at him. “She looks like she bites.”
Christ.
Nathaniel drags a hand down his face. One day, his horny little brother won’t piss him off. His stupid hobbies and grating commentary about the female species won’t irritate him. And on that day, he’ll be free.
At least dinner was entertaining. For that, he’ll give Ash credit. She sucked it up and took his family’s shit. She gave back as good as she got it. Defended his grandfather. But that doesn’t mean he’s taking his eyes off her. He doesn’t trust her for a second.