Page 66 of For Better or Hearse

Nathaniel moves close to her. Once again, his broad palm has attached itself to the small of her back. The warmth of it has butterflies swarming in her stomach. Ash wonders what that big, tan hand would feel like drifting over her bare skin.

Oh god. What’s wrong with her? She’s lust addled. Lightheaded. And not because her blood sugar is low.

“Thank you,” he says to several people as they pass down the line. “We appreciate it.”

“We?” Ash snorts. “There is no we.”

“Eat,” he orders as they approach a picnic table. Square jaw locked tight, he hands her the shave ice. “Now.”

Sitting, Ash does as she’s told. The shave ice is cold and icy and sweet-bitter and probably exactly what Nathaniel Whitford’s heart tastes like. Delicious.

From his seat across from her, the man himself watches, wearing an intent expression.

Ash eyes him warily, waiting for more. For a scolding lecture about the perils of low blood sugar. It’s been the bane of her existence for so long. For so long, she’s been treated as if she’s fragile or weak because of her diabetes. When it gets low, people always assume she’s irresponsible. The reality? Controlling it is one of the hardest things she’s ever had to do.

It’s the kind of thing a person can’t understand unless they’ve been there, and Ash wouldn’t wish it for anyone else.

“You’re here to help my grandfather,” Nathaniel says in a lowvoice. His pale-blue eyes, warmed by the sun, stay fixed on her face. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t take care of yourself.”

For a second, she can’t speak. His words have carved her to pieces.

It should be triggering, even the smallest worry over her diabetes. It isn’t. Not with him. Nathaniel’s offering to help and doing it in the most alpha not-at-all-attractive-way he knows how. Taking charge. Being calm.

“Okay,” she says quietly. “I will.”

“Good.”

It’s a fleeting second. The space warming between them.

Ash’s bench is rudely rocked as Tater, baseball cap twisted to the side, drops beside her. “Really going hard on that sugar, dawg.”

“She has low blood sugar,” Nathaniel snaps. With well-practiced big-brother ease, he turns a death glare on Tate. “You don’t need a dissertation on how it works.”

“It’s okay.” She’s always happy to talk about being a type-one diabetic. “It’s not a death sentence,” she tells Tater. “We can have sugar. Like everything, it’s in moderation.”

Tate blinks slowly, nods. “Cool, cool.”

Nathaniel’s blazing gaze skims her face. The look twists her insides into heart-shaped bruises. He rests his hand on the tabletop. Those long, strong, tan fingers inches from hers. His palm is big as hell. A tap on her ass would probably sound like a microwave being slammed shut.

Fuck. Stop.

Why is she thinking about Nathaniel’s hand and her ass in the same brain sentence?

Ash licks faster, but the move only creates an image in her mind of her tongue scraping down the side of Nathaniel’s well-scruffed face.

Holy shit. She needs an exorcism. Clearly, she is diabolically horny.

“Ash?”

She swallows, pulled out of her trance by Nathaniel’s rough voice. “What?”

He tilts his head to the side, eyes dim with concern. “Better?”

She inhales. “Yes.” Her blood feels less on fire.

The bench is rocked again. This time Delaney plops herself down beside Nathaniel. She takes in Ash, the shave ice, sniffs the air, then smirks. “You got his favorite.”

Ash blinks. “What?”