Trust Fund Fiance - Naima Simone Page 0,66

me Reagan. And thank you again for the tea.”

“You’re more than welcome.” Lauren glanced over at the food truck where the line of customers had lengthened again. “I should get back. Thanks again, Reagan.” Waving, she retreated back to her truck.

Reagan paused to finish her beverage, then headed toward her car across the street. A sense of accomplishment filled her. It was always awesome when good things happened to good people. And though she’d just met the other woman, Lauren seemed honest, hardworking and nice. Reagan looked forward to seeing her at the ball—

She stumbled to a halt. Shock swelled and crashed over her, momentarily numbing her.

Too bad she couldn’t stay that way.

Already, the hurt and anger started to zigzag across that sheet of ice, the fissures growing and cracking. All at the sight of Ezekiel leaning against her car.

God, it wasn’t fair. Not at all.

After the way he’d basically cast her aside, the only emotions bubbling inside her should be fury and disdain. She might have walked away, but he’d let her. Without the slightest fight. That, more than anything, relayed how he felt about her.

Yet beneath the fury, there was also gut-churning pain and grief, for how not just their marriage but their friendship had ended.

And the ever-present need... Just one look at his tall, powerful body wrapped in one of his perfectly tailored suits—this one dark blue—and that handsome, strong face with those smoldering green eyes... Just one look, and she couldn’t stem the desire or the memories that bombarded her, both decadent and cruel.

Slowly, he straightened, and she forced her feet to move and carry her across the street. Over the short distance, the anger capsized all the other emotions roiling inside her like a late-summer Texas storm. If he’d come to see if she was all right after he’d broken her heart, he could go straight to hell. She didn’t need his pity. And she refused to be a balm that he could smooth over his self-imposed guilt.

No, thank you.

She’d wanted to be his wife, not an act of reparation.

“What are you doing here, Zeke?” she asked, voice purposefully bland, even though it belied the knots twisting in her belly or the constriction of her heart.

“Looking for you,” he said simply, his gaze roaming over her face. Almost as if he were soaking in every detail.

Mentally, she slapped down that line of thinking. It could only lead to the seed of hope she’d desperately tried to dig up sprouting roots.

“After handing my ass to me in a sling, Harley told me where you were.”

Okay, so Reagan and Harley needed to have a serious come to Jesus talk about consorting with the enemy. Or since the enemy was Harley’s cousin, at least giving the enemy classified information.

“Well, you’ve seen me.” Reagan sidestepped him and reached for the door handle. “Now if you don’t mind, I have a meeting.” Not a lie, she had an appointment with a realtor to find land for the girls’ home she planned on building.

“Reagan,” Zeke murmured, lifting a hand toward her. But when she arched a brow, daring him to complete the action, he lowered it and slid it into his pocket.

Self-preservation demanded he not touch her in any way. Her mind asserted she could withstand the contact, but her heart and her body? No, they were decidedly weaker when it came to feeling those magnificent hands on her.

“Reagan,” he said again. “I know I don’t have the right to ask you for it, but can I have just a couple of minutes? I want—”

“Let me guess. You want to apologize. You never meant to hurt me. And you would like to find a way to be friends again.” She inhaled, bracing herself against that wash of fresh pain. But damn if she would let him see it. “Apology accepted. I know. And no. Not right now.”

She went for the door handle again. But his fingers covered hers, and she stilled, the don’t touch me dying a quick and humiliating death on her tongue. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t move when her nerve endings sizzled as if they were on fire.

He shouldn’t affect her like this. Shouldn’t ignite this insatiable, damn near desperate need for him. How many years before it abated? Before her body forgot what it felt like to be possessed by him?

She feared the answer to that.

“Please, sweetheart,” he murmured, removing his hand, then taking a step back. “Hear me out, then I’ll leave you alone.”

“Fine,” she bit out,