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)
Asher: Shame, but no. I don’t.
I shiver again from the innuendo. But does he really want to watch me? I think of Vegas, his hands on me, his mouth latched onto mine, his words in my ear.
Maybe he does.
I swallow roughly, past the wild uncertainty of this situation. I turn around and glance at the framed picture of us I’d placed on his nightstand earlier, then drop the phone on the counter.
As I strip off my clothes, I leave a trail on the bathroom floor, my skin already buzzing from the thought of him. The air feels heavier than usual as I step into the rainfall shower, letting the heat and steam wrap around me. I reach for his body wash, twist the cap open, and the scent of him hits me instantly—clean and fresh with that hint of oak. It floods my senses, and suddenly, it’s like he’s here, standing just behind me. His hands skimming my warm, wet skin. His mouth caressing my neck. His arms roping around me, nice and tight. Most of all, his mouth telling me to sink down to my knees.
My pulse rockets, and I ache everywhere.
I let out a shaky breath, trying to shake away the thought of me on my knees, my hands on his hips, my lips parted, but it clings to me like the steam. It’s getting harder to deny this attraction, especially here in the heat of the shower where I want to give in.
Even though it’s a very bad idea. Because giving in could ruin this beautiful friendship that we both desperately need.
When I’m out, I wrap myself in a big, fluffy towel and twist another over my hair. I text him, though that’s probably a bad idea too.
Maeve: I showered. Because you told me to.
Asher: Good. I like it when you do what I say.
I pause, staring at the heady words. It was one thing to pretend we were married while living apart. It’ll be entirely another thing while we live together, even for a few days.
31
A HOUSEWARMING GIFT
Asher
I’ve lived with a few women over the years. The last one was Lila, a bakery owner I dated for—no surprise—six months, my usual expiration date. I didn’t plan to live together so soon, if at all. But when her lease ran out, she moved in with me for a month. In that short time, I realized we were incompatible. It wasn’t that she was a slob, though she was, or that our schedules clashed, though they did.
It was that she wanted more. I didn’t.
Story of my life. She was outgoing and generous, and still, I couldn’t fall for her. Because I’m broken.
So, living with someone? It’s not exactly new to me. But what is new is this wild anticipation as I head home. It’s been following me since Everly told me about the TV piece. It chased me on the flight home; it nipped at my heels as the team jet landed. And it’s swirling around me as I drive home from the players’ lot. It’s Friday night, and I’m pulling up to my house—full of jitters.
Or maybe excitement? I’m not sure which one is winning the battle inside me, or maybe both are.
I can’t stand how much I want to see her. It’s surreal.
I park in the garage and close it, ready to race up the steps into my home when my phone rings. Her name flashes on the screen.
“Hey, what’s up?” I ask, half-expecting her to tell me to close my eyes as I go inside. I bet she has some surprise waiting for me. That’d be so very her.
“I’m stuck here,” she says, frustration creeping into her voice.
“Where?”
“At the arena. Eleanor wanted to go over a million options—timeline, materials, everything. The crew finished priming the walls earlier this week. I drew the grid for the outline. And she wants to finalize some details since she’s trying to fast-track this so I can start painting it next week. Which means…I’m stuck here late. But guess what?”
“What?”
“I made you something.”
I stop in my tracks at the door that leads from the garage into the house. “Food?”
“My famous mac and cheese.”
My stomach growls. “With the cheddar, Monterey Jack, and cream cheese?”
“Yes, the one and only. There’s some waiting for you in a vintage casserole dish I got at Goodwill. I went full 1950s housewife with it. I’m playing the part.”
Playing the part.
Those words should remind me that this is just for show. But when a vision of her in a tight retro dress and apron, and holding a martini pops into my head, I like it too much to be bothered by the performance of it all. “So, did I miss the martini too?”
She laughs, her smile coming through the phone. “Maybe I’ll make that when the camera crew comes tomorrow. Good idea?”