Cannon (Carolina Reapers 5)

“I don’t hate you.”

The memory sent a warm chill over my skin.

The breath in my lungs halted as two strong thuds sounded against my front door. I swore even the grandfather clock paused as my fingers reached for the knob. This moment would either make or break me, and it was all in Cannon’s hands.

After a deep breath, I straightened my spine and slowly opened the door.

Cannon wore a black pair of Reaper athletic pants, and a tight black T-shirt covered his incredibly muscled chest and torso. Those damn arms were on display, though, enough to make heat sizzle in my blood. The whorls of ink created patterns and pictures—a story I desperately wanted to understand.

“You live with your parents?” Cannon tucked his hands into his pockets, leaning against the doorframe like he’d be content to speak to me about our future on the porch.

I shook my head, pointing behind him and to the east. “No,” I said. “They live on the eastward portion of the estate.”

Cannon arched a brow, his jet-black hair falling slightly over his forehead as he waited. Silent, yet with the churning ferocity of a storm building over the ocean. Damn this man, why did he make me feel so small? I’d never had that problem my entire life, despite being short.

“Would you please come in?” I motioned behind me. “I have a pitcher of ice tea in the study.”

He snorted, likely at my southern manners, but elected to come all the way into my home. The heat from his body seemed charged as he passed me, like running my fingers over staticky fabric.

He checked out my clock for a heartbeat before saying, “Lead the way, Princess.”

I ignored the pet name and nodded, heading toward the study and not daring to look back. I needed Cannon, whether I wanted to admit it or not. I’d quell the instinct that only manifested in this man’s presence—the one that told me to push him back and pull him in all at the same time.

Cannon ignored the leather chairs situated near the bay windows and instead went straight to my study’s farthest wall. His eyes danced over the ancient spines of my personal collection of books, those hands still secured in his pockets—as if he were afraid of what he’d touch if he let them out.

A grunt was all he deemed to voice after his perusal.

“Thank you for coming,” I said, hating that my voice quivered. There had been countless times I’d needed something from others—charity donations, business mergers, event spaces—but never once had I been so afraid as I was now. Perhaps that was due to the circumstances—our untimely marriage—made the situation a shade different than a donation request.

“Tea?” I asked, my fingers gripping the ice-cold pitcher resting on my desk in the far-right corner.

“No,” he said, finally facing me. “Thank you,” he added, likely for my benefit.

A small smile ticked at the corner of my lips at that thank you. I poured myself a glass and took a sip, the cold liquid hushing some of that heat that sizzled in my veins.

“Must be nice,” he said, motioning his head behind him toward the shelves.

I flashed him a confused look.

“To have first editions handed to you like candy canes on Christmas Eve.”

I set my tea down and plopped my hands on my hips. “Handed to me?” The bite in my tone practically had Cannon’s name on it since it only surfaced when he was in the room.

A smirk and a nod.

I sucked my teeth, my tongue sharp and ready to sting.

The image of my mother—the hope in her eyes and the fatigue—quashed the retort. Instead, I shifted out of my fighting stance, allowing my hands to hang loose at my sides. “I appreciate you coming,” I said, completely ignoring the game we usually played—the one where he taunted me until I ignited. I gripped the back of the leather chair for support. “Have you considered my offer?” I tried not to let the nerves—the desperation—show on my face.

He pursed his lips, those dark eyes trailing me up and down, questioning. Perhaps the jab had been an effort to bring us back to common ground—that space where we danced so viciously with each other yet never touched. I hadn’t taken the bait, not because I didn’t enjoy our little spats, but because this was important to me. More important than the thrill arguing with Cannon Price offered.

“I have,” he said, his deep tenor skating across my skin as fast as he moved on the ice. “And I have rules.”

The breath rushed out of my lungs, my shoulders curling inward slightly at his mention of rules. Rules meant he would agree. And I’d agree to anything that allowed my mother a few months joy before she—

“One,” he said, finally taking his hands out of his pockets and ticking the items off on his fingers. “You have to move in with me, because I sure as hell won’t live with your parents.”