Written with Regret (The Regret Duet #1)(38)

Caven’s face got hard. “You two working on something I should know about?”

“No!” I exclaimed, rushing forward to stand between them. “Beth is actually my best friend, not just my attorney. We’ve known each other since we were kids.” I grabbed her arm and dragged her toward the door, not giving the first damn if my paint-covered hands ruined her shirt. “She just stopped by to see if I wanted to go to brunch. Unfortunately, I’d already eaten. So…” I snatched the door open and shoved her out. “See you later, Beth.”

“Hadley,” she growled as I slammed the door in her face. She’d forgive me when I called her later to fill her in on all the details. Right after she scolded me—again—for talking to Caven without legal representation.

Whatever. It was a risk I was more than willing to take.

“Can I get you something to drink?” I asked on my way to the kitchen sink.

“No. Thanks. I’m good,” he replied, turning in a circle as he took in my living room.

I gave my hands a good scrub, all the while trying not to stare from the other side of the bar as he walked to the pictures hanging on the wall, thoroughly inspecting each before meandering to the next.

I hadn’t had a lot of company since I’d bought the place, but even Beth had been in awe the first time she’d come over.

I might have lived in Jersey, but I’d brought the tropics of Puerto Rico with me.

My entire house had been decorated in varying shades of green and Caribbean blues. My furniture was rustic, distressed wood with cream cushions and throw pillows offering loud pops of color, and R.K. Banks originals hung on nearly every wall to the point that they almost looked like windows to the rainforest.

It was my own little private paradise. A sanctuary so bright and so relaxing that it was impossible not to smile when I walked through the door.

“Wow, this place is…”

“I know.” I smiled, drying my hands on a bright-yellow dishtowel.

He did not return it. “Your credit’s shit. How’d you afford this place?”

My back shot ramrod straight. “What?”

Shoving a hand into the pocket of his jeans, he quirked an eyebrow. “City records said you paid in cash. Where’d you get the money?”

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.