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The camera swung toward her and Phillip, and worry creased Brock’s forehead. But she was a professional—even if petrified of public speaking—and he knew she would handle herself under pressure. They’d worked together, fixing problems behind the scenes before, though nothing of this magnitude. Ashley straightened her shoulders and stepped toward the camera, reminding herself to be steel, and listened for what Lori would ask next.

“There she goes, leaving again,” Phillip muttered under his breath.

Brock seemed to sense the brooding trouble and loudly, if not smoothly, pulled the camera’s attention back toward him.

That was her cue to get rid of Phillip. With an elegant turn, she whispered, “Go away.”

“Not yet.”

Ashley wanted to shake that smug, cocky half grin from his face. Instead, her hands clenched, and she muttered, “To think, I forgot how I hated you.”

Phillip cackled as though that were what he was hoping to hear. “Glad to see nothing has changed.”

Gah!She hated this…feeling,whatever it was.

Lori cleared her throat.

Ashley focused on the waiting microphone. Embarrassment rocketed up her spine, flushing heat across her face. Her stomach turned as Lori repeated her question, and Brock, again out of the frame, mouthed, “We’re still live.”

CHAPTER FOUR

This was the second time that day Phillip had felt like he was having an out-of-body experience. The first had been when he and Brock had rolled from the golf cart—and lived—only to run toward the event tent, terrified that he’d killed people inside.

The second was occurring now. Brock and Ashley morphed into caricatures of themselves, impeccable on-air talent. Caricature or not, Ashley was riveting with her effortless laughter and easygoing banter. Phillip wanted her to act more like Agatha Cartwright—uptight and a pain in the ass. That would make Ashley easier to dislike. Hell, that had been what he’d held on to when they broke up, telling himself he’d dodged a bullet.

And what a gorgeous bullet he’d dodged. Phillip eased back, continuing to watch her. Ashley gracefully laughed off their personal spectacle, and Brock made a joke about how Blackthornes lived under a microscope.

Even as they talked, Ashley’s words ran through his head.I hate you.He couldn’t stop the replay, just like he couldn’t forget the punch in the gut when he’d first seen her today, scared, worried, then angry when she saw who she could blame.

I hate you.He wanted to hate her, too. She’d had his heart then torched it, even though he might have deserved it.

Phillip needed to walk away, but he couldn’t move. Even though he’d heard she lived in King Harbor, he’d avoided her at every opportunity. But now, an arm’s length away, he was her captive.

The reporter inched closer to Brock. Phillip could tell she’d readied a hard-nosed question, and he almost grinned. It would take more than knocking down a charity tent and airing an old romance grievance for Brock to falter.

“The damage appears to be extensive,” the reporter said.

Phillip noted how Ashley’s jaw tightened. The tip of her tongue darted out, wetting her bottom lip, as she tried to relax. No one would notice. It was an old habit that he remembered. A trip down memory lane came, and he recalled far more about those lips, that tongue… The back of his neck warmed, and he shifted, rubbing a hand into his hair.

“The golf cart collided with a hundred thousand dollars of donations.” The reporter dangled each word like she hoped for a Daytime Emmy. “Maybeeven more.”

Brock took the question with convincing charisma, effortlessly answering as if it had been scripted and planned.

The theatrics aggravated Phillip, and he shoved his hands into his pockets. But he also became increasingly uncomfortable, and he glanced at the upturned table. A hundred thousand dollars of donations? If it has been his nonprofit Project Sunshine, they would’ve taken a massive hit if donations he expected to help fund his summer camp didn’t come.

Phillip ballparked the cost to pull off an event of such magnitude. The budget alone had to be five figures. Golf course rental, catering, music, tables with flowers that he knew Ashley had planned to match her clothes. Or maybe it had been the other way around, and the flowers had come first. Either way, he’d screwed over a nonprofit. That was a world he knew better than Brock, maybe better than Ashley.

“Was this an accident or incident?” the reporter asked in a way that pulled Phillip back to the interview.

Brock grinned. “Is this one of those questions where we debate what the definition ofisis?”

Ashley and the reporter laughed. Phillip didn’t. It wasn’tthatfunny.

Brock’sexplanation only strayed slightly from the truth, but the reporter tried again.They volleyedhow and whyin their fruitless tete-a-tete.It wasn’t as if Brock would simply explain that Phillip had careened a golf cart down a hill like a thoroughbred leading at the Derby.

Their voices mixed with King Harbor’s summer air, which lifted Ashley’s hair as it rolled through the damaged tent. A dull, needy ache squeezed his chest. She was beautifulin a way that had always torn the breath from his lungs.

At Harvard, Brock had told Phillip he didn’t have a chance. Phillip couldn’t remember how long it had taken to convince his younger brother to introduce him to Brock’s freshman dorm resident adviser. But after Brock gave in, the rest was history—including the part where Brock had promised they would never last.

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