“Yeah, you asshole,” I say, smiling as I slap his chest playfully.
“Asshole? I get you the best present ever, and you call me an asshole? It was the terrible drawing of the chicken, wasn’t it?”
“You know I hate that nickname.” I groan and step into the house, trailing behind him as he walks downstairs. “Where’s the food? I’m starving.”
“It should be here soon. Let me go change,” he says. “I have to go back to work soon.”
“You’re going back?”
“The case I’m working on is a fucking mess. The guy’s wife is trying to take everything he has in the divorce. I don’t know when these athletes will learn that they need a goddamn pre-nup.”
“Oh,” I cringe slightly. It’s something Wyatt and I discussed when we got engaged—and had huge disagreements over—every time it was brought up. You would never think an artist would care about that, but Wyatt was successful and wealthy. By the time he turned thirty-three, he’d been selling to a very wealthy group of people for years. That same group of people talked him into thinking that marriage without a pre-nup was grounds for a messy separation.
A knock on the door has me pivoting on my heel. I’m in a daze as I walk over to answer it, thinking, in hindsight, about how stupid the disagreement had been. We weren’t even married when Wyatt died, and his parents insist on me keeping everything. They’re older—much older than my parents will be when I reach Wyatt’s age of death—and they’re wealthy in their own right. The way they see it, they’re not going to do anything with that money, and it rightfully belongs to me since I was half-owner of Paint it Back when he died. But alas, that’s in the past. I don’t want to think about it more than I already have—this is my fresh start.
The thought brings a smile to my face, which stays put as I swing the door open, quickly transforming into a full gape at the man standing there in a pair of green scrubs and a white doctor’s coat. He’s looking down, trying to wipe scum off his sneakers, his sandy brown hair covering most of his face. I can only make out his strong jaw and the bottom half of his full lips, but I recognize him immediately. When he finally looks up, his green eyes soak me in as they travel up my body until they reach my own. He smiles that slow, uneven grin that always made my breath fall short.
“Bean,” I whisper, making his lips twist even higher, revealing twin dimples.
“Hey, Elle,” he says. I clutch the doorknob a little tighter. I haven’t seen him for so long, I’d forgotten the sound of his voice. “Food’s here.”
My eyes drop to the bags in his hands, and I step backward, opening the door a little wider. “Oh! Yeah. I wasn’t expecting you.”
“It’s been a while,” he says, stopping in front of me as he comes in. I back up to the door and stop breathing completely when he dips his face into mine and lets his lips brush lightly against my cheek. I do everything in my power not to breathe in the familiar scent of him that used to make my head swim. “It’s good to see you again,” he says as he pulls away. The way he says it and the twinkle in his eyes make my heart drop to my stomach. How is it possible that he still manages to do that to me? Even after Wyatt. I hate him for it.
“It’s good to see you too,” I whisper and follow behind him after closing the door.
It is so not good to see him, though. Over the years, I’ve learned a lot about Oliver Hart, but the only one worth remembering, is that he’s bad for my health.