Last Summer(54)

Ella swears, thinking of how they must have looked leaving, arms wrapped around each other, and the way Nathan had looked at her when she came to his rescue. The photos his fans took will go viral.

Nathan slides on his Oakleys. He glances back at the store’s entrance. “I’ll come back later when it’s less crowded.” Only then does she realize he dropped his basket of items somewhere in the store.

“Where are you headed now?” she asks.

“The kennel. You?”

“I got what I needed. I guess I’ll find a coffee shop somewhere and organize my notes from yesterday until you’re ready to head back to your place.”

Nathan removes a key from his key chain. “Here. You can work at the house.”

“Thanks.” She takes the key.

“The guest room is on the main level, across from the bathroom. It’s ready for you. Towels are out. I’ll pick up something for dinner and meet you at home later.”

He briefly touches her shoulder, then heads for his truck. As she settles into the driver’s seat, it dawns on Ella that he doesn’t seem at all fazed that their faces could be plastered across social media, where the photos can be picked up by Access Hollywood and ETonline. Gah! Or TMZ, the worst of the bunch. Grocery store tabloid on television.

Hugging the steering wheel, Ella drops her head and groans. Why did she call him “darling”? Nathan was panicking. She acted on impulse. She can imagine TMZ’s headline: Grieving Celebrity Adventurer Dumps Mother of His Deceased Son for Lifestyle Journalist.

She’s such a moron. But in her defense, she did for him what anyone with a conscience would have done to get him out of an alarming situation. She did what she would have done for her husband.

Damien.

Fuck.

He has no patience for entertainment news and social media, so he doesn’t read it. But any of his employees would recognize her and forward the link to the photos. She needs to call him so that he can get his PR department on this fast. She needs to tell him that her relationship with Nathan is, well . . . It’s not what he thinks.

But her call goes straight to voice mail. It’s early evening in London and he’s likely in meetings. Unless . . . he’s still upset with her after yesterday’s call and ignoring her, which is a real possibility. She leaves a brief message, then drives to Nathan’s.



Ella’s on the deck taking photos when Nathan joins her that evening. At the sound of the door, she turns and snaps a photo, startling him. He’d shucked his jacket and cap inside and made a visit to the fridge. He shows her two open beers, closing the door behind him. She snaps another photo.

“Stop,” he says, coming to stand by her at the rail. A faint smile shows her he doesn’t actually mind.

“Just a few more. My editor needs them for the article. It’s either me or she sends a photographer with us to Alaska.”

He puts down the beers. “Snap away, Skye.”

She goes to work, posing him one way, directing him to tilt his head another way. Of course, he’s a natural in front of the camera. About fifteen minutes into the session, Ella lifts the camera and catches movement behind Nathan. “Look,” she whispers, pointing.

Nathan turns around. A doe and her fawn traverse the yard.

“They’re a couple of my regulars.” He glances back at Ella and motions for her to come stand beside him. “They cut through my property this time most evenings. I think they rest over there.” He points beyond the tree line.

“She’s beautiful.”

They watch the deer nibble leaves. Above them, the bright blue of the sky has darkened to deep shades of pink and lavender. Gray clouds and jet streams are chalk streaks, interweaving. Smoke clings to the air. Nathan must have started a fire. The woods surrounding them are surprisingly quiet. Ella feels at peace, which is probably why she doesn’t move away when Nathan puts his arm around her. She leans into him.

When the doe disappears into the thicket, her fawn follows. A touch of sadness falls over Ella. Her hand trails to her pelvis and hovers over her C-section scar.

“What do you remember most about your son?” she asks softly.

Nathan releases a long sigh. His arm falls from her shoulders. He grabs a beer and takes a swig.

“He was always doing something. Building, crafting, calculating.”

“Did he want to be an engineer?”

“And an astronaut, and a lawyer, and the president of the United States. But don’t all kids when they’re young?”

She shrugs. She wouldn’t know. Would Simon have wanted to travel to space? Or would he have been a programmer like his father? A writer like her? She’ll wonder about the answers for the rest of her life.

“The thing about Carson is that he could demolish whatever he was working on ten times faster than he’d built it. It was like a switch flipped. Totally engrossed in his project one moment and kicking boards and throwing bolts the next.

“Once we built a tree house together, just a small fort about fifteen feet or so above the ground. It had a platform with rails and one-by-fours we’d nailed into the trunk to use as a ladder. Very old school.”

“It sounds perfect.”

“It was, once we finished. But while we were building, I had Carson work on the bottom three rungs. I showed him how to nail the boards into the trunk so we wouldn’t damage the tree. Well, he couldn’t get the nail in the way he wanted to, and rather than asking for my help, he started swinging the hammer around like Thor. Before I could climb down from the platform, he climbed up the metal ladder I’d been using and destroyed half the rungs I’d nailed into the tree above him. His temper flared so quickly and I used to hate that. It drove me mad when he got that frustrated and irrational. But it’s one of the things I miss most about him. He would have learned to channel that energy into testing his own limits. I did. I’ll never . . .” Nathan falters. He swallows and tries again. “I’ll never get to witness that.”