“You are not allowed to come inside.”
Ceron simply nods, a slow, infuriatingly agreeable smile spreading across his face. It makes him look like a mischievous toddler who’s just been told he can’t have a cookie but knows exactly how to get one later.
“As you say, Miss Ashford,” he quips, settling back into the passenger seat of my car as if he’s the one who owns the damn thing.
I curse under my breath, a low, heartfelt “asshole,” and slam the door shut. I don’t believe him for a second. Even if he said he’ll do as I say, trust is a currency I ran out of years ago. He knows Ethan. He’s in business with him. For all I know, his next move is to stroll right in and have a friendly chat with his new partner about the crazy ex-wife who’s stalking him.
The memory of our confrontation in the
