The Ashtons - Cole, Abigail & Megan

look down her dress. She frowned and shifted away slightly. “All of them have issues about Spencer, and with reason.”
    He nodded solemnly. “Learning that he had yet another family that he abandoned was bound to upset them.”
    “It wasn’t Grant’s fault, of course, but it’s hard not to associate the messenger with the message.”
    “I’m fortunate,” he said. “My father and I get along great. Are you planning to stay in California, Dixie? I hope so.”
    Uh-oh. “Probably. Is your family from around here?”
    “They’re in Frisco. But enough about families. I’ve been wanting to tell you how much I like your work.” His voice turned caressing. “Being an unimaginative business grunt, I admire artists. They’re so…unconventional. I’d like to get to know you better.”
    Hints weren’t going to work. “Don’t you think it’s tacky to come on to me with Mercedes in the room?”
    He just smiled and reached up to toy with her hair. “Mercedes and I have an understanding. She likes you. I like you. Where’s the harm?”
    Dixie sighed. “Coming at you from three o’-clock.”
    He blinked, confused. “What?”
    Cole plucked Craig’s wineglass from his hand. “Sorry you have to leave so early, Bradford.” The glitter in his eyes did not resemble regret.
    “I don’t have to—”
    “Yes, you do.” Cole gripped Craig’s elbow with one hand and passed the glass to Dixie. “I’ll walk you to the door.”
    March him to the door was more like it. Craig might not have been the brightest bulb on the tree, but he wasn’t stupid enough to protest or try to shrug off the hand propelling him to the front door.
    Dixie caught Mercedes’ eye across the room. Merry shrugged apologetically, which annoyed Dixie no end. Her friend shouldn’t be apologizing for the jerk. She should be dumping him.
    Definitely they needed to talk.
    Cole came back alone. He didn’t look satisfied—more like a volcano ready to erupt. His eyes were hot when he snapped at her, “You ought to know better than to flirt with that idiot.”
    “Hold on,” Eli said. “Dixie didn’t do anything.”
    Cole swung around. “You stay out of this.”
    “Okay,” Dixie said, taking Cole’s arm. “That’s enough. You tried. You made a valiant effort, but it isn’t working.” She sent a smile around the room. “Sorry to eat and run, but Cole and I need to go jog or chop wood or something.”
    “It’s pouring down rain!” Lucas protested.
    “So we’ll swim laps. Come on,” she said, pulling on Cole’s arm. “Your mother does not want you punching your brother in her living room. Either of your brothers. Or anyone else, for that matter.”
    Cole stared at her a moment, eyes narrowed. Then he nodded curtly, shook off her hand and headed for the door.
    He opened it and looked over his shoulder. “Are you coming or not?”
    “Coats,” she said, delving into the closet. Shedidn’t have one with her, so she borrowed a raincoat of Merry’s. She tossed Cole his windbreaker.
    He shrugged into it impatiently. Then they stepped out into the rain.

Chapter Eight
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    S omewhere to the west, unseen in the murk, the sun was setting. There was no wind; the rain fell straight and cold. Dixie buttoned her borrowed raincoat and resigned herself to wet hair and ruined shoes. Cole was headed for the vineyards.
    They tramped along the strip of barley planted between the vines, not touching. Halfway to the grove of olive trees he spoke abruptly. “I’m sorry. You weren’t flirting.”
    “No, I wasn’t. It isn’t me you’re mad at.”
    “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” He stopped, jammed his hands in his pockets and tilted his face up, letting the rain wash it. Then he shook his head like a dog, scattering more drops, andstarted walking again. “I’ve been flying off the handle all day, and for no good reason.”
    “You hate your father, and his existence has been shoved in your face today.”
    “He’s old news.”
    “He abandoned you.”
    “I put all that out of my mind years ago. Lucas has been a father to me, and a good one.”
    “The problem with stuffing everything into a compartment labeled ‘the past’ is that the lid can get jarred off.”
    He gave a single harsh bark of a laugh. “True. Then the ugly spills out. And there’s a lot of ugly.”
    “Whose ugliness are you talking about? Yours? Or your father’s?”
    “There’s plenty to go around, but we’ll stick with his for now.” The