For Better or Hearse

Chapter Eleven

N athaniel yanks Ash into his chest before she can tumble down the sheer face of the cliff.

“Jesus Christ, Ash.” His rough voice grates against her cheek. “You almost died to send a goddamn text.”

“Tessie,” she croaks. Her voice is faint amid the dizzying rush in her head.

His tennis shoes crunch on the gravel as he moves away from the ledge. Nathaniel’s racing heart pumps hard against hers. A perfect sync. A rhythm she wants to pretend is so not happening.

How he did it, she’ll never know. It took seconds, not minutes, to clear the space between them. He snatched her up before she could go over the side of the cliff. She squeezes her eyes shut and presses her face into his neck.

She wants to cry. Instead, she’s distracted when she gets the most amazing whiff of Nathaniel’s natural scent. Internally, Ash is a 360-degree eye roll. Of course the man doesn’t wear cologne. He naturally smells like the sea and sun. Of fucking course.

She whimpers. Her brain forever chemically altered with one hit of him.

“You’re okay.” He squeezes her tighter. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Eyes watering, she nods, nods, nods.

It’s so goddamn embarrassing, clinging to him like a deranged koala, but she can’t help herself. Nathaniel’s solid, tall form is like an anchor. A reassurance that she didn’t just literally drop dead.

“Am I alive?” she gasps.

“No, you’re in heaven, and even the angels don’t want you.”

That pulls a laugh from her. “But what if?” she whispers.

His body rumbles with a brusque chuckle. And then he’s sliding her down his warm frame until her boots touch steady ground. When he sets her gently on her feet, she looks over her shoulder at the drop. “Holy shit, I don’t—”

A broad palm cups her face. Moves Ash’s gaze, up, up, up.

Vaguely, she’s aware of people staring. Hushed murmurs of concern. There’s a whole world around them, and all she can see is him. All she can feel is him. The way his big thumb skims her chin, how his long fingers tangle in her snarled hair.

“Ash?” Nathaniel’s ice-blue eyes shoot to hers, full of concern. Not the annoyance from earlier today. “You okay?”

His response causes her stomach to tighten. She clamps down on her emotions. Fights to control her breath. The last person she wants help from is him.

“I’m fine.”

His soft expression sharpens. “You’re an idiot.” The words are harsh, but she doesn’t miss the tremor in his voice.

“Your bedside manner is impeccable.” With a huff, she shoves a hunk of hair out of her face. “I bet your patients beg for a timely death.”

With a dubious grunt and a tense jaw, he inspects her. He’s back to annoyed. Doctor Robot. That’s him. And that’s why he’s doing this. Checking her over like she’s a glass-jarred specimen.

“Holy shit, that was next-level death defying.”

Both Nathaniel and Ash bristle. Slowly, they turn their heads.

The offender wielding the selfie stick is back, Hawaiian shirt and all. “I got it all on video,” he says, lifting the stick in victory. As if that was his sole mission. To push Ash off a cliff for the sheer sake of views.

Almost killed by a rogue TikToker. She’ll never live it down.

Ash flinches as the selfie stick whizzes past her ear.

“Get that fucking thing out of her face, asshole,” Nathaniel snarls, shoving the stick and the man backward.

Eyes wide, Ash bites her lip. Not Nathaniel literally confirming he can fight .

“I just want her name for the video—”

“Take your fucking stick and keep moving unless you want it up your ass,” Nathaniel snaps, stepping in front of her to block her from view.

“Fuck you, dude.” With that, the guy storms off.

Ash looks up at him, brow cocked. “Impressive. Violence before lunch.”

He blows out a hard breath. “Fucking people.” Placing a hand on her elbow, he steers her toward a less populated area. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

His stern, bossy tone steamrolls her stomach.

She nods, straightening up, convincing herself to rally. And then a weight’s lifted from her, literally. Nathaniel slips her pack down her arms and hooks it around his broad shoulder.

“You don’t need to be any more off balance.” With those words, he drops to his knees. Lifts his eyes. “And you don’t need to break your neck either.”

Feeling almost lightheaded, she stares down at him. “Nathaniel, you don’t—”

“You almost fell down a fucking cliff,” he grits out, “because of your goddamn boots.”

Before she can argue with him, he wraps his warm, broad palm around her right ankle and sets her boot on his thigh.

Ash stiffens at the feel of his hands on her.

Head bowed, face furrowed in concentration, he ties her laces. His long fingers dexterously loop the bows. He tightens them extra-tight, as if he’s angry. To steady herself, she places a hand on his shoulder. In the morning sunlight, the honey-wheat hue of his hair, the flex of his jaw, do something ominous to her heartbeat.

Because, holy shit, is this the hottest thing a man has ever done for her? On his knees tying her shoes? Yeah, right. Ash shakes herself out of her moony daze. He’s treating her as if she’s a toddler. He’s behaving exactly as a doctor should. This does not mean he cares. Because a man like Nathaniel Whitford doesn’t care about anyone but himself.

She’s pulled from her ridiculous thoughts when Nathaniel lifts his head. She watches as his gaze roams over her tattoos. Stiffens when his thumb strokes across her calf in a sweet, calming motion. He shouldn’t be touching her there. And she should absolutely not be enjoying it.

He looks up at her, his eyes lasered firmly on her face. The air changes between them. Electrified. Intense.

Ash sucks in a breath, wanting to push him away, wanting to push herself into him all at once. “I think you throttled the laces enough,” she says quietly.

With visible effort, he removes his hands from her and dusts dirt from his pant leg. Then he rises to stand tall over her. “There,” he says. His biceps ripple. He’s so close she can feel the heat radiating between them. “If you fall now, it’s not on my conscience.”

“That’s presuming you have one.”

Fuck. It’s the wrong thing to say.

Nathaniel’s face wipes clean of its softness, hardening into an emotion she can’t place. Seething anger maybe. Irritation.

Distressingly, it upsets her that she’s upset him.

Despite her dislike of moody billionaire doctors, she opens her mouth, determined to take it back, but she’s too late.

Nathaniel lets out a humorless laugh. “Here.” He shoves a solid object into her hands.

She looks down. Blinks. It’s her phone. Her throat goes tight. He even managed to save that.

“Your one and only will be glad to know you only barely survived.”

Then he turns abruptly, and his tall, broad-shouldered form disappears down the stairs. His pace is brisk and brutal. One Ash has no hope of keeping up with.

She gnaws at her lower lip. Looks down at the phone clenched in her hand. At Tessie’s text that says Mabel? and exhales. Glances over her shoulder at the boulder, the warm sear of Nathaniel’s touch echoing across her skin.

In the moment she slipped, it’s like a life she didn’t know she wanted flashed before her eyes.

The first thing Ash does when she gets back to the hotel is head to the pool. The trip down Diamond Head was much faster than going up. The van ride back to the hotel was full of awkward silence. Augustus pressing her and Nathaniel for photos of the view, a summary of their experience. All Ash could do was show him the lone photo she took. Nathaniel ignored her the entire way back.

Opposite seats. Cold shoulders.

Perfect.

She needs that.

A return to her senses.

Not the strange, swoony feeling in her stomach.

Ash rolls her neck out and claims a lounge chair. If there’s one thing a near-death experience calls for, it’s time poolside.

The Whitfords broke to do their own thing the second they got back to the resort. It’s only day two of vacation, and already, they’re foaming at the mouth to get away from one another.

After placing an order with the server—a very, very large pi?a colada, stat—Ash gives herself a quick shot of insulin to combat the upcoming sugar rush. Then she reclines on a lounge chair and takes in the scene.

This is better. How vacation should be. Sitting in the sun and judging people. A little boy with violent red hair runs back and forth across the pool deck, banging a plastic shovel against a sandcastle bucket. Seagulls claim leftover sandwiches. Hikes that nearly kill her and rude doctors who want to do the same should be forbidden.

Distressingly, before everything—including her—went south, today was fun. Sure, it was death defying and involved more exercise than she would have liked, but she enjoyed herself.

The thought disgusts her.

She let her guard down. She laughed. She told Nathaniel about Tessie and the truth/lie game. They bonded. No. She wouldn’t consider it bonding exactly. More like hate-enjoying each other’s company.

She reminds herself of who he is. He’s a man like Jakob. A cheat. A liar. A person who hurts others because all he cares about is himself.

She is here for Augustus. For a job. She cannot create more messes in her life. Casual, clean chaos is all she will allow herself.

The heat of the sun coasts over her. Even with the umbrella providing a modest amount of shade, small torches have implanted themselves beneath the skin of her shoulders. Sunscreen failed her. Ash flicks a look at her boots. They’re kicked up on the lounge, mocking her for being an idiot without sandals.

Untie them. It’s easy. Just untie them and let your feet breathe.

And yet…

Nathaniel tied them. It feels like undoing something that’s only just begun.

Which means absolutely nothing.

Nothing except—

Movement in front of Ash startles her, and she nearly drops her pi?a colada.

“Shit,” she swears, sinking lower onto the lounge chair.

Speak of the devil.

Nathaniel strolls to the poolside deck. His board shorts sit low on his hips. His teeth white and gleaming as he grabs a towel from the bin.

Eyes closed, she groans. She can’t escape him.

When she opens them again, he’s diving into the pool. He swims its length and then emerges in a perfect Bo Derek 10 run, minus the problematic braids .

Strangely entranced by the rivulets of water streaming down his body, Ash sips her pi?a colada. Allows herself a moment to shamelessly ogle.

Ugh.

Too perfect. Too infuriating. Too tall. If this were the Dark Ages, he’d be the healthiest specimen of man. Tone and tanned and muscled. Broody and most definitely ready for the Crusades. If only she could send him into battle, never to return.

“Christ,” Ash mutters as Nathaniel towel dries his abs in what feels like slow-motion. God, is this a scene from a Baywatch movie?

Her stomach flips, and she growls a reminder to herself to cool it.

She’ll literally rip her eyes out of her face if she doesn’t stop checking out Nathaniel Whitford.

Is this how it will be at all the resorts? Stalked by his absolutely flawless body?

“Disease,” she mutters. “I have a highly contagious disease. It’s the only valid option.”

This morning, he was like a German shepherd, shifting into protective mode. Tossing the TikToker aside like he was a pesky gnat. Something tells her if he had taken a swing at the guy, he’d likely be sleeping for a year.

Ash shifts uncomfortably, resisting the urge to take a dip into the shallow end of the pool. She shouldn’t have liked that macho display of dicks out. And yet…her stomach feels gooey and warm every time she replays it.

Fuck. Why are all her emotions jumbled?

The memory of Nathaniel sprinting the distance and pulling her into his arms is seared onto her brainstem.

He wasn’t worried about her. Was he?

To distract herself, Ash pulls out a magazine from her beach bag. She flips through the spreads, but she can’t help but peek at Nathaniel over the edge of the pages. His effortless glide through the water. Sunkissed forearms. Those sexy veins running from his biceps down to his hands.

He’s soaking wet, but so is she.

Focus, Ash.

Resisting the urge to fan herself with the magazine, she reroutes her attention to a twenty-page spread about cryptids.

Miraculously, she loses herself in the article. She’s been successfully reading for ten minutes when the lounger beside her squeaks. “Catching up on Cryptozoology Weekly ?”

“Monthly, actually,” Ash deadpans. “Only so much can happen in thirty days.”

Nathaniel takes it from her, holds it at arm’s length like it bites. He cocks a brow, squints dubiously at the centerfold.

“Which one’s your favorite?”

Delighted by the question, even though Nathaniel looks like he regrets it, Ash lifts her sunglasses. “Bigfoot. He is truly the OG of the cryptid world. Hairy. Smells. Has a whole forest to himself. And yours?”

When he opens his mouth only to look baffled, she laughs.

“Nathaniel,” she says, “you disappoint me. How do we hope to ever have cryptid discourse if you can’t name a single one by heart?”

He rolls his eyes but says nothing. Just leans back against his lounger.

Ash slurps extra loud on her straw in the hopes of driving him away.

The only thing she gets is an unfairly handsome brow furrow.

With a withering sigh, she tosses the magazine on the seat near her feet. So much for peace and quiet. “Why are you here, Nathaniel? Can’t you just let me lounge poolside in peace? Don’t you have family to annoy?”

He takes in her boots, then surveys her face.

He points at the beach. “Tate’s up there right now.” In the bright blue sky above, a parasailer flails. “My mother’s at a massage, and my father’s probably virtually carving up the face of a pre-teen girl. ”

Ash lowers her sunglasses, squints at the sky. “Over under odds Tate gets attacked by a seagull?”

Nathaniel’s lips flatten into an almost smile. “Twenty-to-one.” Then, in a disappointing move of modesty, he pulls a shirt from his gym bag and shrugs it on.

Ash sits up on her elbows. His shirt’s plastered to his damp skin. All those toned muscles beg to be free. “Why would you wear clothes? You work so hard to earn validation from the female species.”

Shaking his head, he sets his beer on the table. “I think the female species will survive.”

“You’re too handsome.” She appraises him. “Maybe you need a scar.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What’d you have in mind?”

She can’t help the wicked grin that crosses her face. But it’s wiped away when her lounger is rocked. Ash snaps her head to the left.

The redheaded little boy smirks at her and slams his shovel against the metal frame of her chair.

Ash flinches at the sound. Then growls at him.

With a squeal, he takes off.

“Weird-ass little kid,” Nathaniel mutters.

“He’s like Chucky roaming the grounds, minus a murder weapon.”

The boy runs over to a woman in big Jackie Kennedy sunglasses. But those aren’t what snag Ash’s attention. It’s her sandals. Strappy, jelly-like flip-flops covered in spikes. They’re right up Ash’s alley.

Nathaniel nods at the sandals. “You like those?”

Love them .

She shrugs. “They’re fine.” She will never admit her feet are small forest fires in her boots. Nathaniel needs no more fuel to add to his ammunition.

He laughs. Something soft, quiet falls between them.

Ash inhales. Fights the sudden tightness in her lungs. She has to do it. Be bigger. It’s the only human thing to do. Because, like him or not, he did save her life .

“Thank you,” she says softly.

His response is a confused frown.

“For earlier,” she clarifies. “For not letting me fall to my untimely death.”

“You’re a pain in my ass,” he replies. “But even I wouldn’t shove you off a cliff.”

Ash arches a brow. “That statement does leave room for you to hire someone with all your billions.”

A chuckle rolls off his lips. “Despite what you think, I’m not that entitled.”

Her phone chimes.

Forcing her attention from his unfairly gorgeous face, she leans over to the small table and silences the warning from her blood sugar monitor.

Nathaniel’s eyes sweep over her, linger on her sensor. Attached to the back of her arm like a Frankenstein bolt. A long time ago, she’d be self-conscious. Now? Her diabetes is not the thing. It’s just her thing. A part of her that’s overall cooperative, even if, at times, it’s a pain in her ass. She deals. She survives. She conquers. Sugar is not death. Everything in moderation.

“How do you like that compared to the finger prick?” Nathaniel asks, brows high.

Her heart briefly stutters at the question. “It lets me feel like I have a life.”

He nods like he understands. “When were you diagnosed?” Before she can answer, he holds up a hand. “Don’t feel like you have to answer. I’m a doctor. I’m naturally—”

“Nosy,” she finishes.

Expression soft, he says, “I was going to say curious.”

“I don’t mind.”

Nathaniel butting in, being interested, is more than she ever got from Jakob.

“I don’t need the gory details, Ash,” Jakob said when she tried to explain it to him once .

She shifts on the lounger. Well aware of the meager inches separating their bodies. “I was twelve. Height of middle school, so you know, the timing was”—she smacks her fingers with gusto—“chef’s kiss.”

Nathaniel’s presence, his intense gaze on her, doesn’t slow her down. No. Surprisingly, it makes her want to talk to him.

“I didn’t know what was happening. For a few months, I felt off. Thirstier than normal. Tired. I passed out in school. I was in a coma for a week, if you can believe that. I almost died. Clearly, I didn’t. But it did get me out of gym class for a month. Bright side, right?”

Gently, Nathaniel says, “Jesus.”

The memory comes to her with ease. She’s thought about it every day since she was diagnosed. Tessie, shaking her, screaming Ashabelle! like the sound of her full stupid-ass name would be enough to snap her out of the coma. And maybe it did, because it’s the only thing she remembers about that awful time in her life.

Her heart pounds as she goes on. “It took a bit to understand what I was dealing with. I hated it, hated myself. At the time, it was like a scarlet letter embedded on my forehead. Everyone knew. It’s all they wanted to talk about. All they worried about.” She traces a finger over the rose on her thigh and takes a deep breath. “It really fucking sucked. Everyone acting like I had glass bones and paper skin. They thought if I touched a piece of sugar, I’d drop dead. Or they excluded me from birthday parties because suddenly, I was no longer normal.”

Nathaniel’s frown deepens, his shoulders sinking. “They did that?”

“Oh yeah. Kids are mean.” She smiles. “But then my parents put me in a camp when I was thirteen, and it was like a bong hit for every one of my senses. Every camper, every counselor there had it. I wasn’t alone. It was normalized—as much as you can normalize diabetes. ”

A strange softness washes over his handsome features, his usually icy blue irises warming.

Ash drops her stare, takes a sip of her slowly melting pi?a colada. “It’s cheesy, but now it’s just me. Diabetes doesn’t control me. There is nothing I can’t do. I’ve lived an awesome fucking life so far. I can still eat chocolate, have a beer, travel the world, and almost fall off the sides of volcanoes.”

Nathaniel chuckles. Then scrubs a hand across his jaw, contemplative. “And all of this plays into your morbid obsession with death?” Not an ounce of judgment in his tone. Just stark curiosity.

Ash sobers. Squints at him. “It’s not an obsession. Technically, it’s probably existential OCD, but what’s so wrong with caring about death anyway? Babies, marriages, first homes. Those are big life events. Death is too. Everyone deserves their last wishes.”

He assesses her quietly for a moment and then says, “That’s an interesting take on it.”

She bites her lip as a prickly defensiveness that always hit when she was with Jakob crashes over her. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

He pins his gaze to hers. Frowns.

Her stomach blooms with heat at the intensity of his eye contact.

With a sigh, he says, “I didn’t say you were wrong.”

Inhaling deep, Ash calms her tongue and her defenses. It’s a strange sensation. A man listening. Looking at her in a way that makes her think she could tell him anything and he’d accept it.

Maybe Nathaniel Whitford’s one positive attribute in life is that he pays attention.

He tilts his head. “Where’s your big, dumb floppy hat?”

She snorts. “Trash. Why?”

“You’re getting burned.”

“Despite what you may believe, I have lubed up many a time.”

At her answer, Nathaniel clears his throat, and she smirks at his obvious discomfort .

Ash lowers her head, inspects the pinkening tinge beginning to bloom on one arm. “My skin is repellant, I swear. The sun hates it.”

“That’s because the sun down here is a menace.”

“I could say the same thing about you.”

Brows raised, he flattens his mouth and gives her a look. “It’s because of all the sand. It reflects the sun.” He dips his chin. “Turn around. You missed your shoulders.” When she hesitates, Nathaniel’s mouth quirks to the side. “Melanoma is a real risk.”

“My god, you have such a boring doctor brain.” Breath held, Ash moves onto the edge of his lounge, giving him her back.

With a chiding sigh, he grabs the bottle of sunscreen. Into his hand goes a large dollop, like a stigmata in paradise.

One big, warm palm lands on her back. Ash tenses. Hisses a breath at the contact. “Should you be doing this?” she goads. “Touching me?”

“Ah,” he says, tone dry, “I forgot the part where you spontaneously combust at human contact.”

“You never know,” she murmurs. Then, horrified to feel her lips parting in something like a smile, she flattens them.

Almost delicately, his hands skim up the backs of her arms to her shoulders. Jesus. The grip in his hands. Long fingers, broad palms.

He begins to rub.

Oh. Oh.

The sun, the rum heat her face. There’s a lovely little pulse down below she hasn’t felt in such a long time.

Nathaniel flexes his hand, moving his fingers just so to tuck an errant lock of hair behind her ear. Warmth coils and curls. She glances over her shoulder at him.

“Careful,” she warns breathlessly. “You get to my throat, you give it a quick throttle, and it could all be over.”

It’s all her brain can do. Tease. To chase away their strange yet welcome closeness. Her defenses are down, and she can’t even help it.

“Don’t tempt me,” he says, sounding strained .

Ash leans into the slow rhythm of his touch. Leans back. Closes her eyes, soaks in the feeling of being braced by his large palm.

Nathaniel makes a noise deep in his throat as his thumbs smooth up, tracing the arc of her shoulder. It’s a delicious sensation. The gentle search of his hands, tracing over her bare skin, inking pulse points. Breaking boundaries.

She wants more. Wants it harder. Him against her. Like paperweights.

“Ash,” he says, voice catching, fingertips on the curve of her throat.

“What?” she whispers. A lick of heat curls up her spine, and she shivers. “What is—”

“Nathaniel!”

The sharp bleat of his name sends her heart jumping and breaks the spell between them.

Nathaniel jerks back from her, his hands slipping over her shoulders, his touch disappearing. She twists, taking in the sight of him. He looks like a man come out of a trance. Face flushed, hair damp, rumpled and caught off guard.

He scans the pool, then goes stiff.

Ash follows his line of sight.

Realization hits her with sinking-gut shock.

Slowly, she looks back at Nathaniel, who’s gaping as well.

Standing on the poolside deck, nearly naked in a long shimmery cover-up, with vibrant pink hair, is the Bratz doll. And she’s headed straight for Nathaniel.