The speculation will follow.
Just like it did when Ashley fanned the flames. Just like it had in Scarlett’s notes. Everyone offering their two cents on how such a horrific childhood created the heartless man I am today.
Everyone and everything I care about will be thrust into the spotlight. Raked over the coals. And I’ll be left to pick up the broken pieces—again.
The printer falls silent and I collect the remaining pages. I don’t bother looking at them as I stuff them in my bag. I’ve seen more than enough.
It’s time Scarlett and I had a little chat.
Perhaps a better man would give her a chance to explain. But I’m not a better man.
I’m Hartless.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Scarlett
It’s dark when I enter Nick’s apartment, but with the Austin skyline sparkling just beyond the balcony, I can see well enough as I cross the living room and drop my bag on the kitchen island. There’s a sliver of soft white light illuminating the long hall and I don’t have to look to know it’s coming from Nick’s home office.
Does the man ever take a break?
A slow smile curves my lips as I make my way down the hall, heat stirring in my belly.
Perhaps he just needs proper motivation. A distraction he can’t ignore.
I smooth the wrinkles from my dress and run my fingers through my hair, giving it what I hope is a tousled, sexy look before I nudge the office door open.
Nick sits at the desk with a nearly empty glass of scotch in hand. The bottle is open before him, and judging by the dark expression on his face, it’s not a celebratory drink.
His eyes narrow and his gaze slides over me with predatory calm, but the usual heat of his stare has been replaced with something colder and more intimidating.
My smile slips, concern taking root. “What’s wrong?”
“Judging by Operation Improve Employee Morale, everything.”
So much for a night of hot sex.
That’s my first thought when Nick speaks. Shameful, I know. I attribute it to the complete and utter sense of shock that presses down on me like Texas humidity.
It doesn’t take long for panic to set in, anxiety turning my belly like a twister.
“I can explain.” I wring my hands as I approach.
The look of cold fury in his eyes sets my teeth on edge and, for an instant, I’m glad the desk stands between us.
I’m not afraid of Nick. He’d never hurt me. Not like that, anyway. But I know right down to the tips of my Mary Janes that if I reach for him now, he’ll pull away.
And thatwouldhurt.
“What is there to explain?” he demands, words clipped and laced with anger. “From what I’ve seen, it looks like you’ve been using me—manipulating me—from the start.”
What? No. After everything we’ve shared, how can he possibly think that?
I’m too stunned to respond. The accusation leaves my tongue thick and clumsy, my mouth bone dry.
Don’t just stand there! Say something.
I flashback to the old Scarlett. The one who could never find the right words. The one who didn’t have the spine to stand up for herself. The one who apologized for everything and who would sooner fetch coffee for a misogynistic middle manager than make a scene.
