Page 63 of For Better or Hearse

“What if I want to be tossed into a volcano?” she replies, without missing a beat.

He fights the smile tugging at his lips. “That can be arranged.”

“Ten more days,” Ash murmurs, stretching out on the sofa. She rests her head on the armrest.

Vaguely, ridiculously, Nathaniel wishes it was his shoulder.

“Not friends, not enemies,” she says. “Frenemies. A good old-fashioned truce.”

“A truce,” he agrees, scanning the room for a blanket to cover her with. He finds one draped on a chair across the room, but he doesn’t want to move. Can’t move. Isn’t willing to disrupt this tentative peace between them. Their bodies bridged. Connected. Ash’s feet tucked under his legs. Her knees against his thighs. Her tired eyes fluttering shut even as she fights to stay awake.

Ten more days.

He can do ten more days.

What a fucking awful liar he is.

Bright sunlight. Dry mouth. Whiskey headache. Ash wakes curled up on the couch in a fetal position and covered in a soft blanket. She blinks away the veil of sleep and pushes up on her elbow. Swiping her phone from the armrest, she checks her blood sugar.

She listens. It’s quiet. The only noise the crash of the ocean through the balcony door.

Her eyes fall closed at the memory of last night. Nathaniel’s large frame beside her smelling of sunlight and sea. In charge and calm. She appreciated him last night. More than he knows.

And then she scowls.

The interaction shouldn’t be lingering in her mind. It’s silly. Stupid.

Never mind that she apologized, that he came through when she needed him.

Frenemies. That’s it. That’s what they are.

That’s when her bleary gaze lands on a shoebox on top of the coffee table. She sits up and slides it toward herself. On top of it, a piece of hotel stationary pad with the wordsHope you can still stomp in these, Bigfoot.

She opens the box, pushes aside the tissue paper and gasps. Then laughs.

Inside, she finds a pair of black spiked, studded sandals. Violent and vixenish—just the type she would wear if she liked sandals.

They’re too expensive. Fancy hotel boutique wrapping from Rosalea Resort. Which means he must have bought them before they left.

Her face heats.

She should return them, should march back up to his room and sayno, thank you, because Nathaniel Whitford and nice things do not go together.

She swallows hard. Forces back all emotion. It’d be stupid to return the shoes. She needs them. They’re her style, and surprisingly, her size.

She slips them on. Holds her breath.

The sandals scare her and thrill her all at once.

Because she can’t think of a time when Jakob was this thoughtful. When he went out of his way to give her something she needed, even when her attitude was the worst. The thought makes her itch, has her biting down hard on her lip.

She doesn’t know what to make of the gesture. Doesn’t know what to make of her heartbeat.

Not only did Nathaniel take care of Augustus last night, but he bought her shoes. Fucking spiky shitkickers that put a little flutter into her heart. They’re stylish…and yet…they’re perfectly her.

A door cracks. Augustus, dressed for the day, steps across the threshold of his room. He stops when he sees her, crosses his arms.

“New shoes?” He’s smiling.