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)
“Asshole,” I mutter to him.
He flashes me a grin, holding his arms out wide. “Like you’d expect anything less?”
“Did he say I was the mean one? Because he is, I swear,” Maeve asks, playfully.
Miles just waves goodbye, then trots down the steps.
Maeve comes inside, but the easy zing-zing-zing I felt with Miles is erased the second the door shuts. Her expression is serious, her brow furrowed. Something must have come up with Angelina, and the weight of whatever she’s thinking seems to hang between us. Maybe this isn’t the moment to ask.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“A lot,” she says, her voice shaky. No idea if that’s good or bad.
“Talk to me,” I say, nodding to the couch in the living room.
Once we sit, she breathes out like she’s girding herself to say something hard. I tense, preparing myself for bad news, when she says, “Angelina has a bunch of opportunities for me. For a few months.”
I don’t even think twice. I take the chance. “Stay here with me. Through the end of the season. Just stay.” Then, so she doesn’t think it’s for show, for the Greers, for appearances, or for any other reason than pure want, I add, “I want you to.”
Her smile is radiant, so damn beautiful. “Really?”
“I mean it. Stay.” It’s both a command and a plea, and I hope she doesn’t hear the desperation in my voice.
“Asher,” she whispers, her eyes wide, like she’s afraid speaking any louder would break the moment. “Confession: I was going to ask if I could stay.”
Damn, this feels like some kind of luck. And I can’t help myself. I rap my knuckles subtly against the back of the couch. It’s not wood, but it’ll do for knocking. “So, we’re married through the end of the season,” I say, though it’s more of a statement than a question. I lift a hand, tucking a stray curl behind her ear as I set the timeframe for the rest of this union. At Mr. Vincenzo’s party three weeks ago, we said we’d do this for a month or so, till Total Teamwork officially launched and the mural was done. But now? Now I have even more time with her. I’ve got a few months, and I want to make the most of them.
“We are,” she says, and she sounds…relaxed. Excited too. I like both of those sounds—a lot. “And I still have my sub-lease on my place. So don’t worry. I won’t crowd you too much. I’ll be able to return to it when this is over.”
When this is over…The thought curls my stomach. I don’t even want to acknowledge the statement. So I sidestep. “You could sub-lease your place for a while. Pocket the rent.”
“Oh. Do you want me to pay rent here?”
I scoff. “No.”
“Asher,” she presses.
“No. Just no. You are not paying rent, even if you lease your space. In fact, you’ll never pay rent here, and you’ll always be welcome,” I say, meaning it. Hell, this home feels like it was meant for her.
“If you say so.”
“I do.” I exhale, relieved, settled even. “Now that that’s settled, be a good wife and tell me what’s going on. What are these opportunities?”
She laughs, then begins. “There’s California Style.”
As she shares more of her conversation with her agent, I smile confidently. Knew it. Called it. “I told you big things would happen for you.”
Her mouth is soft, grateful as she says, “I don’t say it enough, but I really appreciate how much you’ve believed in me.”
Please. That’s easy. I hook my thumb toward the hallway. “That mirror of yours? I hung it for you. Not for the crew. Not for show. But because I legit love it. Because I’m proud of you. And because it’s great.”
She dips her face, smiling. “Stop making me feel so good.”
“That won’t happen,” I say, and this is the perfect chance to deal with something else. Something I didn’t deal with last night. Or before I left for my road trip. Something, frankly, I didn’t deal with well in Vegas the night it happened. The night we happened, when I said it shouldn’t happen again.
Fuck that.
I meet her eyes and ask the tough question without agenda, without preempting her, with only the hope for her yes. “What do you want to do about what happened last night?”
And I don’t have to wait long.
Her hazel eyes glimmer with that look she gets when I kiss her, when I touch her, when I edge her. “I can’t stop thinking about it,” she admits. “But I don’t want to lose our friendship.”
“I don’t either,” I say, my voice thick with desire and something more. But something I won’t let on now. Not yet. Not this soon. I can’t risk scaring her away with the depths of my feelings. But the depths of my desire? That’s a whole other story, and I am ready to tell it.