Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
But he’s cooked dinner for me as a friend. We’ve had meals together with Beckett and Reina, with his teammates, and with Josie and Wesley. “I mean…well, you have. Obviously. There was the time you made enchiladas using Carlos’s family recipe, and the mushroom risotto…”
He gives me a soft smile. “I like cooking…for you.”
For you.
He’s not talking about cooking for the group. He’s talking about me. And he’s opening up to me. I should do the same. I take another bite of the delicious dish, then try again. “I guess I was saying no one has done this for me…”
“Romantically?” he suggests, his voice gentle, like he knew I needed him to finish the thought.
“Yeah, that,” I say, my chest warm from putting that word between us. It feels like it has a life of its own, a pulse, a heartbeat…romantic. “Gah. Why are words so hard?”
He laughs, the sound free and easy. “Maybe because my dinner is seducing you and stealing all your senses?”
“Clearly. And the warm nuts were more perfect than they were at five miles high. I guess we’ve solved the conspiracy,” I say, but there’s something else on my mind. The same thought from earlier with my friends still lingers. I don’t know how to act around him sometimes. But maybe there’s a way to fix it—by telling the truth. “Sometimes I feel out of place here. In your home,” I admit.
His brow furrows with concern. “What do you mean, Maeve?”
He knows my spotty romance history. He knows how Gideon left me flat on my ass. But I’ve never told him why. I didn’t want to plant that doubt in his mind, didn’t want him to see me that way.
No one likes a clingy woman. It’s the kiss of death in romance. Men want someone a little hard to get. No one would ever accuse me of being that.
I set my fork down, the weight of what I’m about to say pressing on my chest. “Gideon told me I was too clingy. He couldn’t handle all of my needs. He said he didn’t think any man ever could. And sometimes, I wonder…” I stop, my throat tightening as I force myself to take a breath. “I wonder if you’ll get tired of me. Of having me around. Even here, over the next few months.”
The words hang in the air, thin, reedy, full of raw emotion. I hate how vulnerable they make me feel.
Asher sets down his fork too, his eyes never leaving mine. They’re intense. Steady. “Maeve, I’m not that guy. And you’re not that woman. You’re not too much. You’re perfect just the way you are.”
I swallow hard. “You’re only saying that because it’s easier.”
He leans in, his gaze steady, serious. “No, I’m not. Listen to me. Hear me when I say this—I’ve known you for ten years. I’m not kicking you out, and you won’t scare me away.”
His words make my heart swell, but there’s still a part of me that needs help believing it. And maybe…this is the place to ask for it. “Just…tell me—will you let me know if I’m asking for too much? Or if you need space? Will you tell me how much is too much?”
Asher’s lips are a ruler. His eyes lock with mine. He nods solemnly. “I promise,” he says, taking my request as seriously as I mean it.
“Thank you,” I say, and it’s a relief to be understood. To be accepted.
“But you won’t be too much.”
“You can’t know that,” I say.
“I can,” he says, then reaches for my hand. “But I also hear you. So if you want to figure this out for yourself, if you want to know what’s too much, or too little, or just right, I’ll tell you.”
“Good. I want to know what you like.” I pause, hesitating on the words, or really making sure I have the right ones. The one that was hard to say moments ago. It’s not so much now. “In a relationship.”
“I can do that,” he says easily.
“Thank you.” I draw a deep breath, feeling more settled, assured. It’s the Asher effect. I’m so lucky to have someone in my life like him—someone who takes me as I am. My girlfriends do that, of course. But so does this man, and that matters to me. Which means now’s as good a time as any for the gift I made him. “I have something for you,” I say.
“You want to get naked right now?”
“Oh, I got the message loud and clear from your apron what you want. But first, this,” I say, then hustle over to my duffel bag, where I grab a little something I made for him the other night. It’s another mirror—this one with a small rectangular gilded frame with dragon scales painted on it. In the corner is a tiny painting of one of my pop art couples, kissing of course. I pause though, the frame in hand, as a pit forms in my stomach briefly, coated in the worry that he won’t want what I have to give. But I push past that uncomfortable feeling and bring the gift back to the table.