Page 9 of For Better or Hearse
Ash trips over her suitcase, the laces of her untied boots tangling in the wheels. She swears as the overpacked bag on her shoulder jerks her into a 360-degree spin. “What did you say his name was again?”
“I didn’t,” Augustus says, keeping his focus fixed on where they’re headed. “Nathaniel.”
Her whole body freezes. Ice courses through her veins. She tries not to choke on her own tongue. “Nathaniel. That’s, uh, short for Jonathan, right?”
Augustus doesn’t reply. He’s already shoving through the sliding doors that lead to the baggage claim area. “He’s here,” he exclaims with a kind of giddy little kid excitement.
Ahead of her, Augustus is pulled into a hug by a very tall, very broad, beige-ish figure.
She tilts her head up.
And up.
Holy shit. Holy fucking shit.
Ash stops. As does her heart.
This cannot be fucking happening.
The man letting Augustus loose from a hug is none other than Nathaniel Rhodes Whitford.
His eyes land on her, and he freezes too. The moment is like that terrifying jump cut at the end of a horror movie.
As Nathaniel takes her in, shock creases his expression. And then it slowly morphs into a more suitable look. A scowl full of loathing and disgust.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he says.
In response, Ash’s entire body locks.
His eyes of pale-blue ice skim over her body. And not in a sexy way. In a how-you’d-look-at-someone-if-you-were-plotting-out-their-murder type of way.
“You’re the driver, right?” Ash asks, even though she knows he’s not the driver. Unless Augustus is very into giving out free hugs to just about anyone.
“The grandson,” Nathaniel bites out, his jaw as rigid as his posture.
Ash stiffens as if her body’s filling with cement.
That voice. Stern. Curt. It’s haunted her memory. Sure, he said less than five words to her that day, but those words were sandblasted into her brain.
Ash takes him in, her gaze shrewd. Unfortunately, the man matches the memory. As unfairly good-looking as she remembers. Obscenely tall. Muscular and broad-shouldered. Thick, wheat-colored hair that would make any normal woman want to rake her claws through it. Expensive chinos. The white linen shirt shoved up to his elbows exposes tan, corded forearms, an expensive dive watch. She could huff the Ivy League stench wafting off him. Which is unfortunate, because it’s obvious his face card is never declining.
Augustus looks from her to Nathaniel. “This is Ash.”
She stiffens, bracing for the blow. For Nathaniel to reveal to Augustus that she’s a home-wrecker. A terrible person.
Instead, all he says is “Ash? Just Ash?” He looks down at her with an expression of distaste. His upper lip curls. “Like soot from a chimney?”
Ash bristles but quickly shakes it off. She won’t give him the satisfaction of letting on that she’s uncomfortable. “The best kind.”
His brow lifts. “And you’re a…”
“A death doula. Your grandfather’s.”
Nathaniel surveys Augustus, doubt etched all over his grim face. Then he turns back to her. Amused now. “So, essentially, you’re unemployed.”
Asshole. Of course employment would be the first topic on his mind. This man has probably never missed a day of work in his life.
Fine, then. She can give as good as she gets. Ash shoots back, “I wasn’t aware Hawaii had a welcome committee that insults its tourists.”