Page 70 of Unlock My Heart

“Afraid you’ll like what you see?” Fabien teases. “You always did.”

“Still cocky,” I say in a bored tone, hating the way my body feels like a live-wire seated so close to him.

“Still guilty.”

Refusing to banter with the likes of this man, my jaw clamps shut.

It feels like hours pass before I dare a glance. Fabien smiles, reaching over and fingering the lace edge of my veil.

I smack his hand away.

He chuckles, placing his arm over my headrest and sprawling out, his knee bumps into mine. Yet again.

“Should I move to the trunk?” I gripe.

“There’s plenty of room.” He pats his thigh with his free hand.

My attention snaps to the window as we make our way to the city, where traffic grinds to a halt. “Carnaval season might not have been the best wedding date choice,” I muse.

“Perfect wedding date choice,” Fabien counters.

“It’s your funeral.”

The deep baritone of his laugh skates down my spine, and I ignore it and go back to ignoring him.

From the corner of my eye, I catch his hand coming toward me. I shirk back against the seat, bracing for impact.

Fabien jerks the veil from my head.

“How many times did Michele lay a hand on you?” His voice is nothing but a rough whisper.

Snatching the veil away from him, I can’t help but snipe, “As usual, you’re a day late and a dollar short.”

He grabs my chin, yanking my face inches from his. “Why didn’t you reach out to me?”

“You know why.” I jerk out of his hold, hating the way my chest is heaving.

The vehicle slows, and we turn into an iron-gated drive; the house, a stunning Greek Revival plucked from a New Orlean’s post card, framed by majestic oak trees.

It’s the same property I admired what feels like a lifetime ago, completely restored.

Fabien remembered.

I hate that he remembered.

“Your new design studio. And this fulfills my end of the deal.”

I vehemently shake my head. “We agreed on cash, not real estate.”

He flashes a smile, like the cat who got the canary. “We agreed on a million; you didn’t specify cash. Although my original assessment was correct: this house is a money pit.” He laughs softly. “A million barely got me in the dilapidated door.”

Good. I hope the restoration bled him dry.

Grinning, he continues, “We’ll call what I invested above your asking price a wedding gift.”

“How noble,” I say in a dry tone, all the while I’m internally kicking myself for being played by this man.

Again.