Page 57 of Worth Every Penny

“Ugh.” I give a shudder, recalling the feel of Curtis’ hand on me. “There’s something deeply off about that man.”

Jack hauls himself out of the water, coming to stand next to Nico. “What was that about?” he asks stiffly. It’s clear he didn’t see the entire exchange between me and Curtis, or hear Nico’s threatening words, because if he had, he’d have more to say about it.

Nico’s brows draw together for a fraction of a second and he glances at me, as if to check what response we’re giving.

“Nothing,” I tell Jack. “Everything’s fine.”

Jack assesses us for a moment. “Sure?”

“Absolutely.”

A muscle in Nico’s jaw feathers like he’s biting down on the truth, but I’m not about to fill Jack in, because I don’t want him going mental about it too. We still have the rest of the weekend to get through, and it’s already going to be awkward now.

“All good,” Nico confirms.

“Great. I’m gonna set up the barbeque,” Jack announces, all casual ease again. “Nico, can you go get the meat from the fridge? Mum can show you where it is. Caterers marinated it all, so it should be ready to go.”

“Sure.”

Jack grabs his towel, roughly dries himself, and heads towards the barbeque, where he tears open a bag of charcoal.

When I turn back to Nico, he’s staring at me, a puzzled look on his face. He takes me in as I lie on the lounger, and his appraisal couldn’t feel more different to Curtis’. I could bask in Nico’s attention forever, relishing the way my nerves dance beneath my skin.

As our eyes meet, his gaze turns heated. He looks away almost immediately, but I sense it’s more than avoidance. Something has drawn his attention.

I follow his gaze.

He’s staring at the hot tub.

When he looks back at me, there’s a little furrow between his brows.He remembers. I know he does.

18

KATE

I’m still dripping wet from the shower when I sink onto the bed in my childhood room. It’s mine in name only. When I left for university, the year after Dad died, Mum redecorated, and now my bedroom is a soulless spare room.

It’s like she erased me.

I try to shrug it off, which I’ve found to be the best way of dealing with Mum’s underhand attacks. Does it really matter if my bedroom isn’t really mine anymore? I’m not here that often. But Jack’s room is untouched, a shrine to his perfect childhood, which makes the whole ‘shrugging it off’ thing a little harder.

I shove it out of my mind and get ready for dinner. I don’t want to look like I’ve made too much effort, especially not with sleazy Curtis around, but the last time Nico saw me dressed up I was wearing hot pants and couldn’t see straight.

I put on a pale blue dress and slide into the silver heels Nico bought me. Absolutely identical to the ones I lost. I vaguely recall articles linking Erica Lefroy and Nico. Did he ask her directly for them? The idea of them being that close unsettlesme. Perhaps his PA sourced them. She must be brilliant if she found them at short notice.

But either way, Nico had to give the instructions. He had to explain what they looked like. What size they were. What brand. He didn’t just get any sparkly pair of shoes; these are the exact same shade: a cross between silver and rose gold. He noticed all those things… My heart constricts. These shoes are the most thoughtful thing someone has bought me… well, in longer than I can remember.

Is it possible that Nico Hawkston actually cares about me?

I don’t know where I stand with him, but something between us has shifted. There’s a safety to his presence that I didn’t feel before, or at least I haven’t felt in a long time. I’m eager to be near him again, and no matter how hard I try to deny it, I like him. No, it’s more thanlike. Whenever he’s in the vicinity, my body tingles with delicious awareness, heat pooling in secret places.

With thoughts of Nico circling my mind, I head down to the kitchen.

I pour myself a glass of chilled white wine and make my way to the dining room, where everyone is already sitting and eating.

“You’re late,” Mum snaps, her fork paused halfway to her mouth. “You know we always eat at eight.”

I glance at my watch. It’s only five past. I swallow down the urge to protest or make excuses. It’s not worth it. “Sorry,” I offer.