Dodging Temptation (The Retreat) by Avery Flynn Page A

and she liked it. Really liked it. Never-wanted-him-to-stop kind of liked it. And she didn ’ t have time for that. Her timetable was clear. Two weeks to finish authenticating May Loving ’ s library and then she was out of here and back to her real life on the East Coast—as messed up as it might be at the moment. She needed to concentrate on rebuilding her life, not adding more complications to it.
    Holding out the spoonful of cookie dough ice cream topped with a dangerous level of whipped cream she asked, “You didn ’ t poison it, did you?”
    The tangible electricity sizzling between them lost some of its voltage at her snarky question, but it lingered below the surface.
    “Damn, you figured out my plan so easily.” Dodge twisted an imaginary mustache before adding five cherries to the three scoops in his bowl.
    She devoured her bite and pointed her empty spoon at him. “I ’ ve learned the hard way about men like you,” she said with mock seriousness.
    “Yeah.” He nodded. “I saw the video of your ex ’ s press conference.”
    Now that brought the mood right down to shittastic levels, and all the sense of silly fun leaked out of the room like air from a damaged balloon. “You and most of the world.”
    Embarrassment beat against her cheeks as she carried her bowl over to the small, utilitarian table in the corner and sat down. The metal chair didn ’ t offer any comfort or give, not that she needed or wanted any. As her mother had so succinctly told her when Harper had turned to her after the disastrous press conference, everyone loves to see all the ugly in someone else ’ s life, and she ’ d just handed it to the masses on the silver spoon she ’ d been born with in her mouth. Harper had been raised to only show the pretty, and with one impulsive action had invited the world to see all the ugly. Now they’d never stop looking for more.
    Dodge settled down across from her. “You have a hell of a slapping hand.”
    She ’ d felt that smack against her palm for fifteen minutes after she ’ d stormed off the dais while the reporters screamed questions at her back. The wide-eyed look of surprise on her ex ’ s face the split second before her hand made contact had almost been worth it. Almost.
    “He deserved it.” She shouldn ’ t say more, but something about sitting across from Dodge in a deserted kitchen in the middle of the night relaxed the always-keep-your-private-life-private lessons she ’ d learned growing up. The words unraveled from around a rock that had been taking up too much space in her gut since the press conference, weighing her down and making each step toward a new life more difficult than it should be. “I told him the only way I was going to that press conference as my final act as his wife was if I got to stay in the background, didn ’ t have to say a damn thing, and that he ’ d agree to get a quiet divorce a few months later once the media started talking about other scandals. He decided to improvise with that melodramatic proposal.”
    Dodge chuckled. “And paid the price.”
    “Both of us have.” She took a bite of tasteless cookie dough ice cream, and it melted on her tongue. “My family was less than thrilled. The daughter of a former presidential hopeful slapping her senator husband on live TV is frowned upon. Who knew?” Bitterness rose like bile, and she pushed the small bowl of ice cream away.
    “So you became a book…person?”
    She laughed. “A book appraiser. I authenticate rare books and put a value on them.” It was the dream job she almost never got, thanks to the media attention from The Slap. “The book appraisal and authentication world is even more conservative than the political world. It took me months to find anyone who would hire me. When I did, my boss made it very clear that if there was another splashy scandal, I ’ d be fired.”
    “But you have money; it’s not like you need the job.”
    “Actually, I do.” The mental image