Hard Evidence (Blackstone House #7)

JUSTIN

“This is over. We’re over,” Melanie yelled. “If you won’t support my dreams, how can we get married?”

He’d tried to be supportive. He had. But her dreams kept changing, and he couldn’t keep up.

He’d assisted with her car loan, paid the rent on a New York apartment to help her modelling career take off, and built her a yoga studio in the backyard.

But the current dream involved a destination wedding and a three-month honeymoon in the Caribbean. On a yacht.

“I can’t just take three months off. I have a company to run.”

“Everyone knows a CEO is basically a figurehead, and you keep saying you have a great team. Why can’t you work remotely for a while?”

“Because it’s a construction company, and our worksites are all here in Virginia. Then there’s the seasickness—I’ve never been on a boat without puking over the side.”

Melanie waved a dismissive hand. “There are pills for that. And once you’ve been on the yacht for a few days, your body will adjust anyway. I don’t understand why you’re not jumping at the chance of a once-in-a-lifetime experience.”

Justin took a calming breath. The day Melanie said “yes,” he’d felt relief rather than happiness, and he’d hoped it would be third time lucky. But once the ring was on her finger, their relationship had only gone downhill from there.

“I can’t take three months off. Period. I’m happy to go to the Caribbean for a couple of weeks, but I’d prefer to stay on land instead of on water.”

“Fine, two months. And then when we come back, we can get a house together.”

“We already have a house.”

Okay, so it was slightly charred and suffering from smoke damage, but the insurance claim was halfway to being resolved, and then he could work on getting the place fixed up.

Or he might even stay in this one. At first, it had felt too big, too sterile, a temporary solution to a crisis, but it was growing on him.

Melanie snorted. “It’s way too small. If we have kids, we’ll all be tripping over each other.”

“This house has four bedrooms.”

Her nose crinkled in disgust. “We need six at least.”

“Six bedrooms? But you said you didn’t want kids.”

Which had been a disappointment, but Justin respected her choice, and deep down, he feared he wasn’t cut out for fatherhood anyway. He hadn’t exactly been blessed with a great role model.

“I said I don’t want kids at the moment. They’ll ruin my figure.”

“Stretch marks are normal,” he tried to reassure her. “Nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Oh, you think? I’m a freaking model, Justin. Do you want me to throw away my career?”

“That wasn’t what I—”

“Motherhood will have to wait, or I guess we could use a surrogate.” She strode over to the vent. “How long will it take you to get the ring out? Don’t forget I have a flight first thing tomorrow.”

Her words pinballed around in his head like a ball bearing. The wedding was off; no, she wanted the ring back. Pregnancy was a hard “no,” but maybe she wanted a kid, or five, as long as they didn’t interfere with her career. And most of her modelling gigs were in New York, so how would that work?

“Who would look after these hypothetical kids?” he asked.

“Huh?”

“If you’re working, and I’m working, then who would look after the kids?”

“Well, obviously we’d need a nanny, and you’re self-employed, so you can take time off whenever you want.” She tapped her foot. “The ring?”

Once upon a time, Greyson Meyer, serial womaniser and one of his former housemates, had told Justin that beautiful redheads were his kryptonite.

Justin had laughed and brushed it off, but now he was beginning to suspect Grey might have been right.

A painful admission. Eliza had dumped him after police questioned him as a murder suspect, Rebecca cheated on him with a colleague of hers, and now Melanie had cast him in the role of accessory.

Or was he overreacting? Equality was important, and of course he’d share any childcare duties, but the honeymoon thing and the threats to call off the wedding if she didn’t get her own way felt less like a negotiation and more like a hostage situation.

This wasn’t the first time she’d thrown the ring at him either.

Did he want to spend a lifetime placating her? He loved his job, and he didn’t want to rattle around in an oversized mansion, alone apart from his cat. She didn’t even like the cat.

Fuck, he hated this part.

Hated the breakup.

Hated playing the villain, hated the thought of sweeping up broken glass at eleven p.m., hated the whispers that would follow after yet another failed engagement.

“I think that maybe the ring should stay where it is.”

“No, I need it back, otherwise people will ask awkward questions.”

“Melanie, you just broke things off.”

“What? Yes, but I didn’t mean it.”

“Then why did you say it?”

Her mouth opened and closed in a passable imitation of a fish out of water.

Usually, he didn’t push back. He was too nice, according to Braxton Vale, another old friend, one who spent his days surrounded by beautiful women and his nights catering to other people’s kinks.

Brax framed amiability as a shortcoming, called him a pushover, but Justin had only ever aspired to be the opposite of his father.

Jeb Norquist had died as he lived—in a bar fight while being an asshole.

But now, as Melanie squared up with her hands on her hips, Justin wished he’d told her “no” sooner. He ducked as she picked up a vase and hurled it in his direction. Turquoise shards exploded across the floor in a halo of colour.

“If you don’t want to marry me, just say so!”

His first instinct was to backpedal, to compromise on two months in a beachfront villa for the honeymoon, but if he simply mollified her, he’d regret it later.

Brax had spent years trying to extricate himself from his first wife’s clutches, and at the time, Justin had wondered why the hell the fool ever married Carissa.

But now he knew the answer—it had seemed like the easiest option at the time.

Justin prepared to duck again. “I don’t want to marry you.”

“You asshole!”