Page 20

A small laugh fell from her lips. “When I was twenty-three, Eleanor was four. I was well beyond youthful impulsivity. My stupidity and arrogance manifested at seventeen when a friend and I attended a yacht party unsupervised while on a tour of Greece.”

They boarded the elevator, and once the doors closed on only the two of them, Merchant glanced her way. “He wouldn’t have.”

“I know.” With a slight grimace pinching her brow, Caitlin waved her salad. “He’s strung tight and hasn’t — won’t — slow down to process the grief. He simply doesn’t need her as a complication.”

With a jerk, the elevator came to a halt, doors whooshing open. She sucked in a breath, calming the irritation and pulling on her professional demeanor.

“Besides, our prenup has an infidelity clause. If he were to cheat, I get the dog, his truck, and his boat.”

Merchant laughed, a bell-like sound loud enough that Beatty looked up in his cubicle. “Not the boat.”

“Mmm.” Caitlin smiled, remembering his horror and that exact phrase falling from his mouth in a chuckle as they’d hammered out that particular clause. “Yes.”

“What does he get if you cheat?” Setting her food on the second chair, Merchant settled before Caitlin’s desk.

“My shoes.” With a self-deprecating smile, she folded into her own seat. “And my share of the family villa in Turks and Caicos.”

“Your shoes. Of course.” Her earlier tension drained away, Merchant shook her head and opened her salad container once more. “You two are ridiculous.”

Her tension lightened, Caitlin unscrewed her water bottle, although worry still tugged at her. Tired or not, they were absolutely talking.

Tonight.

“Tell me about your rookies.” Caitlin flipped back the duvet and sheet, then adjusted their pillows.

“You met ‘em.” His muffled voice drifted from the bathroom with the low drone of his toothbrush. The house lay quiet beyond their closed bedroom door, the girls long gone to bed and Zeb sleeping in the hallway between their rooms.

“For all of a few minutes.” She climbed onto the bed and looped her arms about her updrawn knees. “Tell me about them.”

“They’re smart enough. Zero road experience. Ransome was a Marine. Everly’s straight out of grad school.” A pause hung, the toothbrush buzz ceasing. “FSU grad school.”

The disdain for the rival school — he was as loyal to UGA as he was to her — had amusement curving her lips. Water ran, followed by the pfft of his spitting.

“He’s . . . the kid is a little bit of a chameleon.” A drawer rattled. “Hoping he’s not another Aviles.”

“Oh, I don’t think he’s the one.” She gazed at the doorway. “She is.”

“Yeah?” Glass clinked, the sound of his aftershave moisturizer. “What makes you say that?”

“At lunch, she wanted to know how married you are.”

Glass clattered against marble, and he appeared at the doorway, navy boxers low on his hipbones, eyes narrowed. “What?”

She arched a brow. “Apparently her sexual experience of choice involves stressed married men with no commitment.”

“Shit.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Holy hell. You’re serious.”

“Quite.”

He flung himself on the bed, an arm over his eyes. A groan rumbled from his chest. “Fuck me.”

One corner of her lips tugged, hard. “I believe that was the intent, yes.”

“Don’t be a smartass.” With his free hand, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her down next to him. “I don’t need the complication."

“I believe any interest in you as a possible no-strings partner is defused.”

“Don’t do that, either — use the word partner in that context in reference to me and another woman. Lord help me.” He dropped his arm to reveal his face. “You know you have nothing to worry about.”