I want to throttle her. To tell her it is not, in fact, the way I want it to be, but she made it that way. She moved on, and I got stuck. Now I’m angry, and vengeful, and definitely in the mood to inflict some damage myself.

“When do I start?” She parks her hands on her waist.

“Sometime after Christmas, before New Year’s. Richards is throwing a party at my house, and Ryner mentioned something about it.” I scratch the beginning of my stubble. “Work out the details with him.”

“Do you have any plans for Christmas?” She blinks at me.

Poor lass is still trying. Is she bipolar? She was quite clear about where I stood with her after we parted ways, so this doesn’t make a lot of sense.

“You’re doing it again,” I point out.

“Doing what?”

“Trying to make pleasant conversation. Being pleasant to you is not on my agenda, Aurora.”

She turns around and walks to the door. I decide I’m not done hurting her.

“Kathleen’s,” I say to her back. “I’m spending Christmas at Kathleen’s.”

She stops, but she doesn’t say anything. I get a good view of her little, round bum.

“And you?” I can’t help myself. “Christmas with the future in-laws in England?”

She turns and gives me a serene smile.

“I, too, have no interest in being pleasant with you, Malachy Doherty. The difference between us? Unlike you, I stay true to my word.”

I lean back on the bannister and smile, watching her go.

All is fair in love and war, and I’m certainly prepared for battle.

A NOTE FROM JEFF RYNER

History and hysteria have more than a few letters in common.

These two? They definitely share a history, and what I saw on the balcony was nothing short of hysterical.

I’ve watched it happen time after time in this industry.

Exes working together, thinking they are mature, and moved on, and capable of being friends.

B.U.L.L.S.H.I.T.

I could’ve told them it would only get uglier from here on out. Warn them not to bother. That the money isn’t worth it, and babysitting an asshole like Ashton Richards is only going to put them under more pressure, break more rules, and push them over the edge.

I could…

But let’s be real. I’m a forty-something cokehead with a sex addiction, and I have absolutely zero doubt that’s how they view me and what they think of me. Seeing other people screwing up their lives is not painful at this point. It is even—dare I say it?—therapeutic. Like knitting.

Knitting a disaster.