Page 43 of Ruthless Love

Gabe and Evie are looking at each other, apparently tackling the mental math problem together.

Evie’s smile is pure evil. “It’s been years.”

“Years. Yes,” Gabe says. “Years, for sure.”

At this point, my arms are tightly folded across my chest, though I have no idea why. I’m certainly not jealous of the twelve-year-old Alli brought home as her date. Or that this very much engaged woman of the world has seen other men naked. But still, it rubs me the wrong way.

Evie’s laughing, but her giggles dry up as she shouts, “Austin!”

Her gaze focuses behind me, and I spin around to a small trail of smoke escaping from the oven. As soon as I open the door, the cloud of smoke has me switch on the super-industrial exhaust fan that I helped Coop install, and I take back everything I said about the ridiculousness of the several-thousand-dollar piece of equipment.

Fanning the remaining smoke with a kitchen mitt, I yank the tray from the oven. Just a grease burn, thank God.

I snatch a piece and chomp. “Hope you all like your bacon crispy.”

Nearly every hand in the kitchen reaches around me to grab a slice, with each person savoring the snap of each bite.

“Mmm,” Evie says as she grabs another one. “Give me three minutes on the eggs, and we can eat,” she says, chomping away.

“What about Coop and Margot?” Gabe asks, all polite and not at all like a man who galivants around in the nude.

“Margot will be all about the pastries,” Evie says.

“Coop too,” I say, lying because I can seriously eat this whole tray of bacon myself. You snooze, you lose, cuz.

Alli and Gabe are all lovey-dovey at the coffee maker, and I grab a pan from the drawer and set it on the stove as Evie comes up with her giant bowl of whipped eggs. She’s busy getting the pan ready, and I hand her a spatula.

“Are naked men a hobby of yours?” I ask, trying not to sound jealous but pointing an accusing piece of bacon at her.

“I wouldn’t exactly call it a hobby. Take you, for example. There I am, minding my own business, when—pow—naked man,” she says in a whisper, giggling before snatching the bacon right out of my hand. Delighted, the little thief gives several exaggerated chomps as she works the eggs to a fluffiness that would rival any chef on the Food Network.

Her bright blue eyes meet mine as her elbow jabs me in the gut. “Gabe’s mom was my nanny, but I liked watching over him. He was like a living, breathing, peeing doll.”

Gabe approaches with two fresh cups of coffee.

“I object to being referred to as a doll. More like a really young hostage. I’m guessing this is yours,” he says as he hands Evie the fragrant, creamy one. Then he offers a dark roast to me. The strong smell is heaven. “Alli said you prefer diesel, but that this would do.”

“She’s right,” I say, savoring the glory of the pure cup of Arabica. “I’m glad to meet you, Gabe. A friend with blackmail-worthy scoop on Evie.”

“Don’t get your bromance hopes high,” Evie says, shutting off the stove and emptying the eggs on a large platter Alli has ready. “I’m the queen of blackmail. I’ve got more dirt on Gabe than a bulldozer. Photos too,” she says with a jovial wink.

“I wouldn’t exactly call my toddler butt blackmail material. My mom posts more embarrassing pics of me on Facebook than you could ever dream of. Bring. It. On.”

“I know,” Evie says, undaunted. “Where do you think I get my material?”

Chapter Twenty-Three

EVIE

Dallas, Texas

After a day at the office that feels like it would never end, I’m already missing the weekend. The fun. Austin.

The sun’s still out but fading fast as I get home, taking a long look at Austin’s before I pull into the garage. Dimitri’s daily texts are getting old, and I’m a thousand percent positive he’s doing it out of some antiquated sense of possession or ownership. Or worse, an obligation reminiscent of a ball and chain.

The ring that’s been heavy in my pocket has only been there so I can return it if he dropped by. Which he didn’t. Of course. Because as usual, he’s the king of timing, and manages to make himself scarce right when I’m ready to break it off. For good.

Swallowed by doubt, I stare at the heavy cushion-cut diamond set in platinum. What if I try and fail? Again? But I can’t break things off with a man whose very touch keeps this ring on my finger.

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