Page 29 of Lush

“It’s an emergency.”

“You’ve got five minutes,” he muttered, stepping aside just barely enough to let me in.

The faint scent of cedar and old leather hung in the space, mixed with something rawer, more…Reese—a touch of sweat, salt, wood, and whiskey.

His smell was still the same.

“What’s the emergency?”

I swallowed hard as I took in his space.

The walls were lined with books, but none of them looked pristine. Some books had edges curled and pages dog-eared. A guitar rested against the wall. A stark black-and-white photograph of a barren landscape, with a cracked earth and twisted trees, hung above the fireplace. The place felt lived-in, but in a way that made it clear Reese was the only one allowed to really exist here.

“Working on a weekend?” I muttered, looking down at the coffee table, where a cigarette was burning in an ashtray, surrounded by scattered business papers. “That’s unlike you.”

The thud of his bare steps vibrated through the space, and Ihad to remind myself how to breathe. I wasn’t twenty-six anymore, lost in his bad boy charm. So reckless, so perfect for a girl like me who didn’t break the rules.

“Don’t come here pretending like you give a shit now, princess.”

I’d dated other men since Reese, knew how to make them want me, how to stay in control. And yet, two minutes in, and I was twiddling my hair and trying to find the right words to say. I sank into the cushions, crossing my legs as I scanned the room.

“Did somebody die?”

I fought the urge to roll my eyes. “I’ve been calling you.”

“I don’t answer unknown numbers, and I blocked your old number years ago.”

He grinned as he said the last part, and I clenched my fists. The man in front of me wasn’thim—wasn’t even close to the guy I used to know.

“I got a photo this morning.”

Reese raised a brow. “What photo?”

I tossed the photo onto the coffee table between us. He glared at me, then squinted at the photo, before looking back at me.

“What the hell is this?”

I pulled the letter from my bag and slid it across the table to him, my fingers brushing his hand as he reached for it. “Blackmail.”

His jaw clenched, and he snatched the letter from me with more force than necessary.

“Is that why I got those?” He pointed over to the mantel.

A vase of lilies.

I jumped to my feet and slowly walked toward them. I’d seen the news photos from Conrad’s funeral, and lilies had been everywhere. I pulled out the unopened envelope nestled in the flowers to find a newspaper page.

Mama already had us on the front page of the society paper.

The headline read “Wedding of the Century,” but it was crossed out, replaced by jagged, angry strokes of red ink—“Death of the Century.”The photo of me and Reese, on stage at our engagement party, had ink scribbled over our faces, holes where our eyes used to be.

I gasped, dropping the paper.

“Did you plan this? Is this how low you’ll go?” Reese’s voice was calm.

I whirled around on him.

“You think I set this up?”

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