Chapter 8
Ashton
I’m torn.
I understand why my father commanded me to—I won’t say woo, because it makes me feel like even more of sleaze—befriend Sophie. I told myself it’s because he’s worried about me.
Maybe he is, if you look at my reputation and the impact it has on the reputation of the company as part of his worry.
I know what I need to do, but the thought of what Fenella will say is tripping me up.
She knows Sophie. I know Sophie; I know how sweet and kind and caring she is.
But still— “How’s your foot?” I ask awkwardly.
I have made small talk with heads of states, heads of countries, and Oscar winners, so why should it be so awkward for me to try and start a conversation with Sophie Laz?
When I smile at a woman, words bubble out of her mouth. Sometimes the words don’t make much sense, but there is talking. There is flirting, because flirting comes naturally when I’m in the presence of a beautiful woman.
Except now.
Two minutes in, and it’s clear I have no game with Sophie Laz. It should be instantaneous. Natural, because that’s what I do.
But I can’t flirt with her to save my life.
I mean, I can flirt. And Sophie is pretty cute, but when I look at her, all I can see is Duncan glaring at me. Or Spencer hauling me off to court to sue my sorry butt because I made the mistake of driving just a little too fast.
Maybe it’s because of the instructions from my father, or the guilt that I am not admitting but am definitely feeling, or because she’s only dressed in a thin hospital gown.
All I can think of is whether it closes at the back.
I danced with Sophie on the final night of my stint on The Suitorette and the memory of holding her in my arms always makes me look twice when I see her.
She’s cute. She’s nice. She’s not for me.
My life would eat her alive, and I wouldn’t want that. I feel bad enough that she’s in the hospital because of me. That her parents are fighting because of me. That she had to call some friend, and apologize for not being able to take her shift at the restaurant.
I heard that conversation earlier as I hovered in the hallway.
I don’t want to be unkind, or untruthful, but honestly, I have no choice.
It’s not the threat of the police that has me smiling at Sophie as she lays in her hospital room, it’s the fact I have one option left if I want to continue with my life as a driver.
No one will give me a car to race because I got mad and sideswiped my teammate, wrecking the car and sending him to the hospital with a fractured pelvis and a broken collarbone.
I do feel bad about that, and maybe I do deserve the cold shoulder of the entirety of NASCAR, but I have nothing else. And I need something so I can prove to my father that I’m not a complete failure.
The FluxFuel gig is that one option, and I need a shot at it. If I get into trouble here, that’s it. I’ve got nothing.
I’m not good with nothing.
Befriending Sophie is my way of crossing the Ts and dotting the Is.
“Broken,” Sophie says, looking at me like I’m missing important brain matter. “At least two of my toes are broken.”
“Poor toes,” I soothe. “Were they attractive toes to begin with?”
She frowns. “That’s an odd question.”
It is an odd question, but like I said, I apparently have no game with Sophie. “You know, some toes are cute and cuddly and some are long and ugly and sprout hair,” I manage, feeling as idiotic as I sound.
Sophie narrows her eyes at me. Brown. Big. Currently, purple-shaded like she needs more sleep. “There is no sprouted hair. Do you have some sort of foot fetish?”
“That’s a very personal question.”
“So is asking about the attractiveness of my feet.”
“Toes,” I correct. “Your feet aren’t broken.”
“I wish someone would tell my foot that. It feels like it’s broken.” And then, for some reason, Sophie whips away the blanket covering her feet, and we both stare.
“That’s… wow.”
Her entire foot is the colours of the rainbow, and it’s not nearly as attractive as the mural I heard she painted in the elementary school.
“Is it going to stay like that?” I ask, doing my best to mask my disgust.
“I hope not, or my career as a foot model is over.”
“You… really?” I stare as she whisks the sheet back over her foot. “No.”
“No,” she confirms. “I am not a model of anything.”
“You could be,” I say, more than a little lamely. “It’s just that I knew a girl who did the foot thing.”
“I’m sure you know a lot of girls.”
I frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re a model. You’re popular.”
“You sound like you’re mad at me.” The thought bothers me more than it should.
Sophie sighs. “I’m not mad at you, Ashton.”
“What’s the matter then?”
“Other than the fact I’m stuck in the hospital for another night and the only thing I’ve had to eat was mushy squash and mashed potatoes.”
“No Jello?”
She shakes her head. “It was yellow. I really can’t do yellow.”
“That sucks. What would you eat if you had a choice?”
“Of hospital food? Not much.”
“No, the outside world.” I wave at the window. “Your choice of the culinary selections of Battle Harbour.” I do my best to keep the sarcasm out of my voice, and it’s surprisingly easier than it usually is.
“A burger,” she says quickly. “Cheese and bacon with extra pickles on the side. From the Fish and Chip shop.”
“You want a burger from the place that has fish and chips in the name?”
“It’s the best in town. Everyone says Kalle’s bar has the best burger, but Crono’s got it beat. It’s the best.”
“Made by someone named Crono?”
“A nickname. I have no idea what his real name is.”
“That’s good then, that his parents loved him enough not to name him Crono. What do you like on this burger? Ketchup? Mustard?”
She nods. “Mayo.”
“And fries?” I stand up.
“Where are you going?”
“To get you a burger. Don’t fall asleep before I get back.”
“But it’s late… visiting hours will be over by the time you get back.”
“Do you think I care?”
“But…”
“You’re hungry. Someone should have brought you something to eat. And don’t worry—I’ll be quiet.”
And then I leave to bring her a burger.
“What did dad say?” Fenella asks when I get to Hela, the bar my sister opened in town.
I dropped off the burger for Sophie, and then I felt weird, like I’m not used to doing nice things for people.
Which I’m not. So I left her to eat alone, with a sleeping roommate.
I knew Fenella was serious about Battle Harbour when she opened a business here.
More than even Silas, the pink-hued nightclub is keeping her here on the east coast. Fenella likes to party, likes to shop, and likes to tell the world about it via social media.
She’s never really focused on anything, so for her, opening a business is huge.
Life-changing. For both of us.
Fenella made the decision to stay and play house with her barista, joining the Battle Harbour Better Business Bureau in her bid to take it over like she’s trying to take over the entire town.
But Fen is my twin, and while we are no longer cocooned in the womb, we do spend a considerable amount of time together.
I didn’t notice how much until she wasn’t there.
Basher was right—I do have thoughts about Fenella marrying Silas, and none of them are good. And then I feel like I’m a selfish baby.
I may blame Basher for my frequent visits to the land of Laandia, but I’d find a way to come on my own if I didn’t use his somewhat unhealthy fascination for Mabel Crow.
“Was he angry?” Fenella continues.
I don’t know the last time my father was angry with me.
Disappointed, yes—as seen by the crash heard around Carrington Toys the day after the accident when the video of my temper and subsequent tantrum hit the internet.
Most of the time, his reactions to both me and Fenella’s antics are apathetic at best.
My father doesn’t care. Fen always says he just doesn’t have time to, which is probably right.
Eton Carrington is a busy man, what with running his toy empire, trading where are you texts with my mother, and worshipping the sunshine and rainbows shining out of the arse of my older brother, the heir apparent.
“The police talked to me,” she continues without giving me much time to respond. “I don’t think anything is going to come of it.”
I wave at the ceiling of the bar. It’s dark purpley-blue, the colour of the night sky dotted with glowing stars. Hundreds of them. Maybe even a thousand painted onto the ceiling. And painted, not just stuck there with the glow-in-the-dark stickers. “You said Sophie painted all this?”
I’ve been in here countless times but I’ve never really looked at the ceiling. And never thought of the person who was behind the paints.
“She did, but we’re not talking about Sophie right now,” Fenella snaps, her tone impatient. I don’t know what she has to get upset about. Everyone in this town loves her.
They do not love me.
I’m tolerated because Prince Gunnar is my friend, and I know this. I also knew what was said when I showed up after Abigail sent me home from The Suitorette reality show. Comments like:
“It’s about time she got rid of him.”
“I can’t believe she kept him around so long.”
“He’s always in such a foul mood. The billions wouldn’t even be worth marrying him.”
Whoever said the last one was an idiot because billions can make anything worthwhile.
I should know. I deal with my parents.
So my fear of being hauled off to the Battle Harbour Police Station—wherever that is, probably in the bowels of the castle—is a real one. There’s not many in this town who would take my side over Sophie.
Make that, no one.
“We are talking about Sophie because we’re discussing your chat with the police, and that’s the only reason they’re talking to you,” I point out, still focused on the mural. The details are quite extraordinary. “Because I’m the reason she’s in the hospital. Where did she learn to paint like this?”
“I’ve no idea. Bob Ross videos?”
“Who?”