Why Resist a Rebel - By Leah Ashton Page 0,36

good, actually.’

Her words were all rambling and jumbled, and she sighed, resisting the urge to run her hands through her hair.

What was it about Dev?

Now Dev pushed away from the doorway. ‘I wasn’t ignoring you, Ruby,’ he said, his voice low as he walked towards her. ‘In fact, I don’t think it would be possible for me to ignore you.’

He stood on the other side of her desk, watching her. He was so close, close enough that too many memories of Saturday night rushed right back to the surface, despite many hours of determinedly burying them all.

Most clear was the feel of his hands on her. Skimming across her skin, pressed against her back, gentle as they traced her curves.

She shivered, and that unwanted response snapped her back to the present.

‘You should go,’ she said. Very calmly.

He blinked, obviously surprised. ‘Why?’

She laughed. ‘Come on, we both know what Saturday was. You don’t need to spell it out to me. I get it.’

‘Get what?’ he said, his forehead forming into furrows.

She sighed loudly. ‘That it was a one-off.’

‘You think I came here tonight to tell you that?’

‘Why else would you be here?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said, his gaze flicking to her lips. ‘Maybe I was hoping for another kiss.’

It was so unexpected that Ruby was momentarily shocked silent. Another kiss.

It was...almost romantic. Somehow he’d taken what they had: a one-night stand—something you’d never associate with anything sweet or innocent, or meaningful—and ended up with that. A request for a kiss.

‘That would be taking a couple of steps backwards, wouldn’t it?’ She spoke harshly, deliberately implying a tawdriness that the night they’d shared deserved.

He took a step back, as if she’d shoved him away with actions, and not only words.

His eyes were wide, and he went to speak—but then stopped.

His gaze sharpened. Darkened.

‘Don’t work too late,’ he said.

Then turned on his heel, and left.

All week, his mum kept calling.

And every time, he let it ring out. She left messages, but after a while he didn’t bother listening to those, either.

Couldn’t listen, maybe?

It didn’t matter.

He knew what she was calling about. The funeral. It had been more than three months now.

That first call, the worst one, hadn’t been from his mum, but from his eldest brother, Jared. He was a doctor, a surgeon, actually, and he’d been using his doctor voice when Dev had answered his phone. As always, Dev had been on edge, used to his brother’s patronising calls, his regular requests to visit home more often. That his mum missed him.

Never his dad.

But this call had been different. The doctor-voice had been the thinnest of veneers, and it had taken no time at all for Jared to crack. And that was when Dev had finally understood that something was very, very wrong.

A heart attack. No warning. Nothing that could be done.

Dad’s dead. The funeral’s next week. You can stay with Mum. It would be good for her, she’s...lost.

Except he wasn’t going to the funeral. And he didn’t.

He was pathetic not to answer her calls, or to listen to her messages. Pathetic and weak and useless.

But he just couldn’t do it—he just couldn’t deal with it. Not yet.

It was ringing now, as it had every day since he’d arrived in Australia. Dev couldn’t stand it, so he pushed away from his dining-room table to where his phone sat on the kitchen bench, and declined the call.

Gutless.

That was what he was.

Eventually he walked to his bedroom, around his bed and straight to the en suite. The tray of sleeping tablets was looking bare. He knew he shouldn’t be taking them every night, his doctor had warned him of the dangers, of the side effects—but he couldn’t risk what happened on his last film again. Back then, each night, he’d had every intention of making it to set the next morning. He’d had his alarm set well before his call, he’d reread his script—everything. Then sleep wouldn’t come at all, or he’d wait too late to take the tablet that would lead to oblivion. And by the time he woke up it was too late. Or—worse—he did wake up in time, but in the raw of the morning, before he’d had a chance to wake up, to remind himself who he was, how hard he’d worked, what he’d achieved...he honestly didn’t care. He didn’t care enough to get out of bed, to get to set. He didn’t care about anything.

But this film was different. The mornings hadn’t changed, not really—more often than not he