Burn My Hart (The Notorious Harts 2)

‘Just work stuff. Launching a new line, you know.’

‘Sounds like kind of a big deal?’

‘Kind of.’ She reaches for my hand and weaves her fingers through mine then pulls me towards the kitchen. I pass the cookbooks I noticed last time I was here. ‘I made pasta.’ She nods towards something that smells impossibly good. ‘You hungry?’

‘I wasn’t.’ I grin.

Her pleasure at my compliment is unmistakable and it warms me.

‘Grab a bowl. Behind you, beside the fridge.’

I pull two out and hand them to her and, despite the fact dinner is cooking, I can’t resist pulling her closer, pressing a kiss to her lips. She tastes like vanilla and butter, all sweet and creamy. I ache to strip that dress from her body and taste her all over.

‘So your brother obviously doesn’t share your disdain for the institution of marriage?’ She pulls away from me, scooping pasta into two bowls then sprinkling some freshly grated Parmesan on top. There’s a bottle of white wine on the counter; she fills two glasses then hands one to me. I look around at the bench, but she shakes her head.

‘Through there. It’s nice out; let’s sit on the terrace.’

I didn’t even realise she had one—shows how much attention I’ve paid to the place. Through the living room, a pair of sliding glass doors open onto a deck that has a couple of sun loungers and an outdoor setting.

‘It’s no infinity pool,’ she teases, sitting in one of the chairs, curling a leg beneath her.

I take the seat opposite, the view of Manhattan at dusk setting off Asha’s unconventional beauty.

She spears a piece of pasta, her eyes holding mine. She’s waiting for me to say something. That’s right, she asked about Jagger and marriage.

‘I think Jagger’s a reformed man,’ I posit thoughtfully. ‘He’s had his time as a marriage hater, like the rest of us.’

‘But then he met—what did you say her name is?’

‘Grace.’ I smile, thinking of the Australian woman who didn’t just steal Jagger’s heart; she stitched it right back together again. I ease back in the chair, pretty sure this moment is as perfect as any could ever be—a warm summer evening, a beautiful woman, delicious food and wine, and the certainty that sex is on the horizon...easy, uncomplicated sex. ‘Yeah, he met Grace, did his best to fuck it up and then went out of his way to fix it.’

She sips her wine. ‘Sounds complicated.’

‘Not really.’ I shrug. ‘She’s perfect for him, just took Jagger a while to realise it—bonehead that he is.’

‘Where are they having the wedding?’

‘On the yacht.’

‘Your brother’s?’

‘Yeah. It’s not a huge ceremony. Sixty or so people—just how they wanted it.’

She places her fork on the table, her eyes spearing me with a warning. ‘Theo, I can’t possibly come if it’s so intimate...’

My eyes narrow, her words the last thing I want to hear. As far as I’ve considered it, it’s a done deal. ‘I’ve already told them you’re my guest. They’ll be disappointed if you back out.’

‘Disappointed?’ She quirks a brow in that sexy, cynical little way of hers. ‘They don’t even know me.’

‘But they know you’re my date and, given I have a long-established hatred for the institution of dating, let’s just say they’re all a little curious about you.’

‘But we’re not dating.’ She looks shocked.

I can’t help but be amused by this. About six months ago, Forbes ran a piece about my brothers and me—‘Hartbreakers’. Clever, right?

The gist of it was that Jagger was the sensible one whereas Holden and I were wild and untameable, cast in the image of our father—that went down well, obviously. You can imagine the words used to describe us—bad-boy bachelors, determinedly single, rakes—as though we were some kind of construct of a Dickens novel. Apparently women are ‘tripping over themselves’ to land a Hart.

But Asha isn’t.