“You’re still my wife, according to the state of Nevada. It absolutely is my business. And I’m not going to give you an update until you give me a visual. If I’m going to be reprimanded, I want to see who’s doing it.”
Before I could answer, the call dropped. Or maybe he hung up. Moments later, both my phone and computer began to ring, this time with a FaceTime call.
“What? No.” I ignored the call, but it only started up again. Over and over, I rejected it, but eventually, it because clear that my choices were either to turn my phone and computer off completely or answer.
I knewwhat wasthe right choice. But I couldn’t seem to make it.
“Ronan,” I said once I answered the call on the computer (admittedly after checking to make sure I didn’t have mascara smeared under my eyes). “You’re a very persistent person.”
“So I’ve been told.”
He looked better than any human had any right to look over a video call. A five-o’clock shadow darkened the lines of his cheeksand jaw, his full mouth half curled in that dangerous smirk, and those big, dark eyes gazing expectantly through the screen.
I was beginning to understand why Mom had called them “bedroom eyes.” With a face like that, all he had to do was blink, and most girls would follow him straight there.
“Where are you?” I asked once I managed to look beyond the face to notice the background behind him. “Home?”
He was sitting on a bed, if the pile of plush, creamy pillows surrounding him were any indication. Just above his head was a rather unremarkable picture of a rowboat mounted on equally neutral paint, but maybe he wasn’t into decorating. He certainly looked comfortable, if indecently good in a simple white button-down that was undone to his clavicle, revealing a dusting of dark hair. A thin silver chain gleamed there through the screen.
He looked around him as if confused. “What? Oh, God, no. I’m on another, um, work trip.”
Well, that explained the boring decor. It did look like hotel art. “So I was right about the new city every week, huh?”
His brows scrunched together at the idea. “I plead the Fifth.” Then his head tipped as he looked me over through the screen. “I’d say you’re not at home, but I happen to know you live where you work. Still in the office, I see.”
I glanced behind me, where the big whiteboard calendar, which still bore my mom’s half-smudged writing after a year, hung on the wall beside the mood boards, samples, and near-empty stock shelves that used to be full when this was her office. Then I turned back to Ronan and shrugged.
There was nothing else to say.
He seemed to hear it all anyway as those bedroom eyes softened. “You look tired, sweetheart.”
There was that twinge again. It was the endearments that did it. When was the last time someone called me their beloved and meant it? “I am tired.”
“Why?”
There was no joke. Not even a hint. Just a direct question he clearly expected me to answer.
“I—there’s just a lot going on.”
“Tell me.”
For a moment, I wanted to. Even through the screen, it was obvious he was used to people following his orders. If he wanted to know something, they told him. If he told them to jump, they asked how high.
And in my case, if he wanted her to get married, apparently she did that too.
I frowned. “No. It’s not important.”
“It is. Tell me. You’re obviously worried about something. Let me help.”
Part of me wanted to. Part of me looked into those puppy dog eyes and wanted more than anything to believe that he actually… cared.
“Well, you know I run my mother’s business now.”
“Instead of finishing your dissertation, Professor. What happened there?”
He had a good memory, at least. I smirked and enjoyed the way he smirked back. “I took over when my mom got sick again. Then I kept it going after she died. That was about a year ago.”
Once again, humor evaporated from his face. All I saw was sympathy. “Jesus. I’m sorry.”