Page 30 of For Better or Hearse
A curt nod at the shack. “Go buy one.”
Ash squares her shoulders, affects a scathing tone. “That would be the Whitford solution, wouldn’t it? Buy something. Have someone fix it. Hop on your private jet and purchase a small island.”
Nathaniel’s response is an eye roll and nothing else.
“I, for one, take coconut carving very seriously.” Ash lifts and lowers her arm, gauging the heft of the weapon. “Did you know you have a better chance of being killed by a falling coconut than by a shark?”
“Great.” Nathaniel rakes a hand through his hair. “Another fun, macabre fact.”
Ash brings the machete up over her head, focus lasered in on the furry fruit on the table. “Damn right.”
Her arms are still lifted high, ready to slice straight through, when Nathaniel nudges a finger against her coconut.
Horror swamps her as it slowly rolls off the table and splats on the ground.
“Oops.”
He’s smiling.
“Fuck,” she swears at the ruins of her coconut. All its decadent, snowy white meat exploded on the ground.
She yanks off her sunglasses and whips her head to him. “Wonderful. Genuinely the exact behavior modeled by toddlers. Lack of impulse control. Tantrums.”
“Looks like you got your work cut out for you, Bigfoot,” he observes, stepping away.
“You Tall Asshole,” she seethes. She cannot stand this man. He needs to remain at least ten feet from her at all times.
She jabs a nail at the mess on the ground. “Clean that up.”
Nathaniel chuckles. “Make me.”
She glowers at him. “Make you what? An early grave? Gladly.”
With a smirk that pushes her right over the edge, he glances over a shoulder, says nothing.
On vengeful instinct, she palms Nathaniel’s coconut and hefts it. As she’s considering the best way to hurl it at the back of his head, a soft voice says, “Ash?”
She freezes.
Shit.
Claire blinks at her. She’s caught Ash in the act of second-degree homicide on her first-born son.
“Hi, Claire.” She lowers her hand. The coconut drops and does a slow wobble around on the table.
The older woman studies her, blue eyes icy.
Ash shifts, uncomfortable. Forces a smile. “I know you think it’s weird, what I’m doing for your father, but if you ever want to talk—”
“I will never talk to you about a thing.”
Heat springs to her face. The words find their target across every part of her body. Heart, chest, stomach. All suffering the effect of the verbal sucker punch.
“You may be here for my father,” Claire says, tilting her chin with a regal air, blond hair perfectly in place despite the thick tropical air. “But I’d like you to stay away from my son. You’ve done enough damage.”
Ash swallows. Her heart pangs. She feels like a piece of shit. “I know.”
Claire turns and walks off.