Page 145 of One Wrong Move

My next question is easier to ask to his shoulder blades than to his face. “Dean… once mentioned that you had been engaged? Before I knew either of you, but that it didn’t work out.”

Nate shrugs. “Dean ran his mouth a lot, I’m learning.”

“Was that a secret?”

“No,” he says and braces his arms against his bent knees. Water sloshes softly against the edges of the tub. “It’s just not something I talk about often.”

“Is it sensitive?”

“Not particularly,” he says, sounding genuine. Not bitter. “It was a long time ago. Yeah, I was engaged to a woman I met at work in my mid-twenties. We dated, moved in together, got engaged. It ended… What is it now? Seven years ago. I was thirty-one at the time.”

“What happened?”

“She decided she wasn’t in love with me anymore,” he says.

My hand jerks across the expanse of his back. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

He chuckles. “God, don’t be. That wasn’t meant to be. I don’t regret it.”

“That’s a very healthy way of looking at things,” I say softly and start kneading the muscles of his shoulders.

Nate groans, and his head falls forward. “Jesus, Harper. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this.”

“Maybe you don’t need to do anything to deserve it. Maybe you just need to be you,” I say.

He’s quiet for a long moment, and then he chuckles dryly. “That goes against the entire Connovan ideology.”

“Your dad didn’t raise you like that?”

“I think,” he says, “that’s another question. And you still need to remove a piece of clothing for your last one.”

“Demanding,” I murmur, but I reach for the hem of my camisole. Whip it clean off, leaving me in only a skirt and panties.

Nate leans back against the tub and gestures for me to move so he can see me. I shuffle to the right, loofah in hand, and give a little ta-da.

His smile widens, eyes sweeping over my collarbones, breasts, and stomach.

“My favorite art piece,” he murmurs, arms draping over the edges of the tub. “Perfection.”

“You’re biased.”

“Entirely,” he agrees.

I dip the loofah under the water and then run it across his chest. His eyes are warm on me. “Right. No, we weren’t raised thinking that ‘good was good enough.’ Rest was wicked, failure was unacceptable, and the goal was always to make Contron the best it could be. I knew exactly where I would be working since I was ten.”

I glance up at him. He doesn’t sound bitter… but how can he not be? “That sounds hard.”

He shrugs, and the surface of the water ripples. It’s still mostly covered in bubbles. “It was. But I was very privileged. We all were. I can’t complain that I got a chance at a career many people work their entire lives for.”

“You’re allowed to complain. It’s your life.”

“Mm-hmm. Well, complaining is another thing Connovans don’t do. Unless you’re my father, of course. He’s allowed to complain about our performances as much as he wants.”

“That’s unfair.”

“Life is unfair,” he says. “Another of Dad’s favorite slogans.”

“Okay, I’m not liking this man,” I say with a frown. Beneath the water, I’m using the loofah across his stomach and abs.

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