Page 165 of Fiery Romance

I wipe the ointment on her knuckles and she hisses.

“Does it hurt?”

“No. It’s just hot.”

I continue to rub it into her skin. “Why haven’t you gone to a doctor to diagnose your hand?”

“I have. They told me it’s carpal tunnel. Not unusual for people who use their hands for a living. The doctor gave me these exercises to—” Her eyes pop open. She wags a finger in my face. “Don’t try to change the subject. How long have you been spying on me?”

“We provide security for the salons. It’s normal practice and perfectly within our right to review footage.”

She narrows her eyes.

I massage her hand in a circular pattern, noting the way her mouth slacks in relief.

“Does that feel better?”

“Surprisingly, it does.” She wilts into the arm of the sofa. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

A healthy silence falls between us.

I interrupt it. “What did you want to speak to me about?”

“Um…” She inhales deeply and seems reluctant to leave her calm state in order to fight with me. Hesitantly, she pulls her hand out of my grasp. “It’s about Abe.”

I retrieve her hand and continue my massage. There is no need for us to lose our physical connection while we speak of difficult things.

“Did he tell you about the photos?”

Her back goes rigid and she seems extremely uncomfortable. “Did you take them down because of me?”

“Yes.”

She flinches.

“It was also because of me.” I set her hand gently on her thigh and lift the other. Her right hand is more damaged, but the left might not be far behind. Is there a way I can convince her to take on less braiding clients? Or perhaps I can pay someone to create a machine that can braid for her?

“Clay,” her voice has a layer of frustration and a heavy dose of guilt, “what are you trying to do? Why would you randomly take down Anya’s pictures? And without talking to Abe beforehand?”

“I’m his father,” I say. “I have every right to make that decision without consulting him.”

In a snap, frustration eclipses her guilt.

The twin flames in her eyes burst to an inferno.

Island yanks her hand away and bounds to her feet. “See that, Clay? That’s not going to work. You can’t just drop a bomb on your son because you’re ‘the authority’. Abe has feelings. He has his own struggles. He’s a human being. Not your soldier.”

I grind my teeth and accept her verbal lashing though it sounds strangely like Genevieve’s.

Normally, I would be upset at both her tone and her words. If it were anyone else—male or female—I would put them in their place.

But because it’s coming from her, I bite my tongue and listen.

“Don’t you care about what he’s going through?” Island asks, her eyes peering into mine.

“Of course I care,” I respond honestly. “He’s my son. And I want the best for him. But I can’t keep holding on to the past for him.”

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