Page 142 of One Wrong Move

Dean’s eyes flash with indignation. “As if you haven’t done that and worse in business.”

“Sure. In business. Not to a woman I love.” I reach into my pocket and grab my phone. “Let’s see. With interest, right?”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m setting up a wire transfer. I’ll have that to you with… let’s say I round it up for good measure, hmm?… By Tuesday at the latest. My assistant will call you to confirm.”

“You can’t do that,” he says.

“Of course I can. And I just did.” I slide my phone back into my pocket and gesture to the street. “Now, I suggest you get a cab. Check into a hotel… and grab the first flight back to New York tomorrow.”

He takes a step back, hand tightening around the handle of his suitcase. “You can’t keep her locked up here,” he seethes and looks toward my townhouse. “You can’t keep her from me.”

“If she wants to see you, Dean, she’s more than welcome to. But last time I checked… she doesn’t. Has asked you repeatedly to stop calling. Tried amicable ways to resolve the cancellation fees. So I’m telling you, not advising you, to leave London. Now.”

Dean’s eyes burn. “I always fucking hated you. You know that? You had it so easy in college. Got a multibillion-dollar company handed to you. Fuck you, Nate. You can have her.”

I smile. “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you.”

“Screw you,” he scoffs again, then he turns and walks quickly down the sidewalk. Past the park and back to the main road.

I remain standing in the same spot long enough to make sure Dean is really gone before I grab our bags and head inside my home, where Harper is waiting for me.

Harper

“Do I have to?” Nate asks. He’s leaning against the doorframe to his bathroom—so much larger than mine—and stares at the tub as it fills like it’s a snake poised to strike.

I dip my hand in the bath water. It’s the perfect temperature. “Yes. And if you hate the experience, you’ll get to gloat forever.”

He looks at me, and that curved smile that transforms his face is back. I love seeing it. Along with the teasing glint in his eyes that is present more and more often when he looks at me.

Something about those stares of his makes my chest warm.

Nate reaches for the buttons of his shirt. He’d gotten in from work just twenty minutes ago, and I was quick to grab him for a bath. Dragging him up the two flights and stairs and through the bedroom I’d only briefly seen before.

“What’s that?” he asks while shrugging out of his shirt. Broad chest on full display, and I almost drop the bottle of bubble bath liquid I’m pouring into the stream.

“Oh. It’s soap. I love the scent, and it will make the water foamy.”

He unfastens the buckle of his belt. “I’m an idiot,” he says, “for not immediately realizing this would mean I’m naked around you.”

“Did you take a bath fully clothed last time?” I tease. “That’s why you didn’t enjoy it. You weren’t doing it right!”

He smiles. “Oh, that explains it.”

“Stick to the Excel sheets and cars.”

“I don’t work in Excel,” he says, “but I’ll take the latter any day of the week.”

I look down at the tub, the swirling soap, and the quickly forming bubbles. The water is almost halfway up by now, and the steamy air is getting heavy with the floral scent.

“You didn’t… has he contacted you since Sunday?” I ask. It’s Tuesday, and it’s been two days since the showdown outside the townhouse. Guilt and fury has been swirling inside me ever since, my mind vacillating between the two.

Nate’s hand comes under my chin, and he tilts my head up. I’m sitting on the edge of the tub, and with his height, he’s looming over me, but his face is thoughtful. “Are you worried about him coming back?”

I swallow. “A little bit. He knows where I live now.”

“I’ll hire security.”

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