Chapter 10
Ashton
The way Sophie says that, such a simple statement makes me feel like she’s peeling me open. Like I’m one of those sweet little oranges and she wants to take a bite of the juiciness inside.
I don’t think Sophie would actually bite me, but it makes me nervous all the same.
It’s day three of Sophie being at the castle, but the first time I’ve visited her.
Basher may be afraid of Mabel, but the bar manager has nothing on Sophie’s sister. Stella basically chased me out of Sophie’s room, and then the castle. I only came back because Gunnar gave me the all clear and told me Stella was at her animal shelter today.
Chances are she won’t make it back here any time soon, because it’s a miserable day in Laandia. But inside the castle, here with Sophie, the fireplace is warm, and this couch is comfortable.
I’m working on the flirting thing with her.
I might do better if Sophie took me seriously. It’s like she’s convinced herself I’m harmless and we’re simply talking, with nothing flirtatious between us. It’s as if she’s put me firmly in the friend zone.
If she does that to all the guys, it’s no wonder she doesn’t have a boyfriend.
We have that in common. Not that I want a boyfriend, but a significant other. I haven’t dated a woman seriously since Mera.
There’s been dates; I am Ashton Carrington, and multitudes of women clearly find me irresistible. But there’s never been anyone I gave my heart to like Mera Michelle. And it’s not because I was afraid I’d lose it again—my heart, not my temper in some jealous snit—I can’t be bothered.
I’m not saying Sophie makes me think it might be worth it.
She’s best described as cute. Shiny brown hair caught up in a ponytail, warm brown eyes, a smile that keeps smiling even when I can tell she doesn’t want to. She’s nice. Friendly. Caring and considerate—all of those words that you’d want in a girlfriend, but I’d never thought to look for.
I’m not looking at Sophie as girlfriend material.
That’s not what I want at all.
But when I’m with her, I’m just not sure exactly what I do want.
“There must be someone you’ve got your eye on,” I press. I’m rewarded with pink in her cheeks. “Aha. Spill the tea.”
She looks down at the cup in her hands. “Maybe.”
Sophie is open about so many things, but she’s not giving a lot with this. But I sense I’m getting somewhere. I’m pulling it out like hair in a drain.
I don’t normally pull things out like that because you never know what you’re going to find at the end of it, but with Sophie it’s natural. Almost easy.
I don’t understand it.
I motion come on with my hand. “I help out at the high school sometimes in the art program,” she admits reluctantly. “There’s a teacher…”
“Like an old teacher?”
“He’s not that old.
“How old is not that old? What are we talking about? Fifty or sixty, or are you really into the daddies?”
“I’m not into daddies.”
“Fifty sure seems like a teacher daddy.”
“He’s not fifty,” Sophie protests, the pink flaming across the apples of her cheeks. I’ve never been much into teasing, but this is fun. “He’s a new teacher. Our age.”
This isn’t fun.
“I knew there was somebody. Doesn’t he like you back?” My slight teasing tone has vanished like the tea in her cup.
“I don’t know,” she says in a soft voice, and I immediately hate the guy. This teacher, who is our age and doesn’t like Sophie.
How could anyone not like Sophie? “Have you asked him?”
“What am I supposed to ask him? Do you like me?”
“What’s his name?”
“Martin McLeod. I probably shouldn’t had told you that.”
“You definitely shouldn’t have. But now I have that information, and I will use it as I see fit.”
“Please don’t use it at all,” Sophie begs. She begs like she actually thinks I’m going to go to this Martin idiot and tell him all her secrets.
I have no desire to go to this Martin person and tell him that Sophie likes him because I know right now this guy must be pretty amazing if Sophie is interested.
Although why he doesn’t like her back is a mystery. There’s nothing about her not to like.
Where did that come from?
Sophie is too—too nice, too sweet, too cute with her flannel pants with the martini glass graphics.
I can’t see her with a martini. Not even an espresso one.
Maybe a Cosmopolitan. I can see sweet Sophie drinking pink and sugary cocktails that my sister serves by the gallon at her new bar.
“I was thinking of asking him to the Sea Queen Ball,” Sophie continues in her soft voice, and something in my heart does not feel right.
Inviting this Martin person to a dance, where she would be in a dress that would hug and contour and show parts of her body that I’ve never seen before, and I kind of want to.
Where did that come from?
“Why wouldn’t he ask you to the Sea Ball?” I manage to hide my disbelief because there has to be something wrong with Martin if he hasn’t asked Sophie to the dance, or dinner, or to be his lifelong companion.
Something seriously wrong.
“The Queen came up with the idea to have the women do the asking,” Sophie explains. But it doesn’t begin to explain what’s wrong with this Martin guy. “That was before she…”
My thoughts about debasing the poor teacher dude comes to a screeching halt. “Before she died,” I finish for Sophie.
I knew of Gunnar when he lost his mother, but we weren’t the friends we are now. And I’ve never brought up the subject because, basically, I’m too emotionally immature to discuss such serious matters.
According to Fenella.
I happen to think she’s right about that. Because I am emotionally immature.
“Do you want to be the Sea Queen?” I ask Sophie rather than leaving the moment poised on the Queen. “Whatever that entails. Something about water, I’d imagine.”
“No. No, no, not at all. My sister though—Daphne. She was the Sea Queen last year.”
“I didn’t know you had another sister.”
“Step-sister. But she’s still my sister. She went away to school, so she’s not around much these days.”
“She didn’t come to visit you after you got plowed down by a driver,” I point out.
Sophie sighs. “I don’t think you actually plowed me down, but things are a little fuzzy about the moment before…”
“I hit you?”
“Again—debatable.”
“There you go, back to making me feel better.”
Sophie laughs like I made a joke.
It wasn’t a joke. But if her laugh sounds like that, I’m fine saying funny/not funny things. Sophie’s laugh is sweet, like the tinkling of a bell. There are a lot of sweet things about this woman.
I don’t understand why I find that so appealing.
Sophie falls asleep soon after that. She gets quiet and asks if I can get a blanket for her. She never asks me to leave, just drifts off to sleep as I’m staring into the fire, kicking myself for getting into this mess.
I hope it’s the pain meds because if I’m boring enough to put her asleep that quickly, I’m not going to have much luck wooing her.
And that’s all this is.
I sit beside and watch her sleep. Her head falls against the back of the couch. I should wake her up because she’s going to get a crick in her neck.
The cat is curled up against her hip like he’s guarding.
He might be. I’ve never seen an animal look at me with such disgust.
It might be just me thinking of myself like that.
I’m fixated on Sophie’s lips. Full, with the top just a little fuller than the bottom. Asymmetrical. Her eyelashes that rest on her cheeks are thick and dark. Even the way she snores—regular deep breathing until there’s a quick intake and then a little honking sound.
Sophie honks, and it’s adorable.
She is adorable.
I get up to leave.