Page 44 of Written with Regret (The Regret Duet 1)
I twisted my lips, feeling a little—okay, a lot—insulted. “I don’t know, Caven. Where do you get money?”
“I work for it. But there’s no traceable record of you having a job in the last five years, and up until two months ago, you had over a hundred thousand dollars in credit card debt. Care to explain where this sudden influx of cash came from?”
Discarding the towel on the counter, I crossed my arms over my chest and glared at him. I told myself not to be pissed that he’d pulled my credit. He had plenty of reasons to doubt me, and honestly, I’d have willingly given it to him if he’d asked.
But the fact of the matter was he hadn’t asked.
Walking past him, I headed to my makeshift studio, waving over my shoulder for him to join me. “Have you ever heard the saying about what happens when you assume? You make an ass out of you and me.”
“Answer the question, Hadley. I don’t know a lot of unemployed people who can afford to drop that kind of cash. Where’d you get the money?”
I walked into my studio and waited for him to round the corner. He didn’t follow me in, but rather propped his muscular shoulder against the doorjamb.
Standing in the center of the room, I spread my arms wide. “I work, Caven. That’s where I got the money.”
He scowled as he stated—not asked, but stated, “You said you were a photographer, not a painter.”
“Are you ass-uming that a person can’t do both?”
I was supposed to be winning him over with hopes that he’d let me see Rosalee, but I was not about to stand there and take his shit in my own damn house.
I advanced on him, not stopping until I was in his space, smelling his cologne all over again and pretending that it wasn’t intoxicating. “Ask me a question, Caven, and I’ll be happy to answer it. But every word out of your mouth since you dropped the sexy grin has been an accusation.”
His eyebrows shot up and my stomach sank when I realized I’d mentioned the sexy grin, so by way of distraction, I persevered.
“Yes, I’m a photographer. Yes, I’m a painter. For your information, I even like to dabble in interior design and on occasion have been known to do a fashion sketch or two. I own a business, Caven. My sister and I were known as artist R.K. Banks before she passed away a few months ago. I’m sick of losing people I love. My parents are gone, their parents are gone, and now, my sister is gone too. Rosalee is literally the only thing I have left in this world. So yes, I sold my house in Puerto Rico, paid off all my credit cards that I’d been neglecting while…ya know, grieving. And then I paid over a million dollars in cash for a house so I could live fifteen minutes down the road from my daughter if and when I’m allowed to finally see her again.” I pushed up onto my toes, tapped his hard pec with my finger to really drive home my point—not because I was dying to touch him or anything—and seethed, “And we could have calmly had this discussion like two grown-ass adults if you’d just asked the questions sans the accusations.”
He stared at me for several beats, his head tilted down, his face unreadable. But I was not backing down. For Rosalee, I would beg and plead with this man for the rest of my life, but I wasn’t going to be on my knees for him while I did it.
“Do we understand each other?”
“I don’t know. Should I have asked these questions before or after I ‘dropped the sexy grin’?”
Heat bloomed in my cheeks, but I forged ahead. “Before. You’re not as big of an ass when you smile.”
I had no idea what was going on in his head as we stood there, our gazes locked, but neither of us moved. We were close enough to breathe the same air, and I fought to convince my hands to remain at my sides.
I was all too aware that Caven felt nothing but contempt for me, but the wild hum I’d had for him in my veins since I was only eight years old couldn’t be tamed.
God knew I’d tried.CAVENClearing my throat, I stepped as far away from her as I could get in a single stride.
Why did she always look at me like that? It was the most bizarre combination of anguish and adoration, like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to burst into tears or launch herself into my arms.
And even more bizarrely, I couldn’t decide if I wanted to run as far away from her as I could get or… No. There was no or. Not with her.
