5. You’re in the Friend Zone, Man
Chapter 5
You’re in the Friend Zone, Man
Ori
I need to stop. I’ve checked the food fifteen times in as many minutes. At the rate I’m going, it might be done by Christmas.
I’m so nervous I can’t think straight, which is laughable in and of itself. Why be nervous? I’m cooking for a man who has legions of women at his disposal.
Including one adult film star, who no doubt showed Ash a plethora of positions last night … while I brooded about it alone in my bath.
Oh, and the icing on the cake is that no woman stands a chance at bagging the comely artist. Ash doesn’t believe in the concept of love or romance or any of those silly trappings.
What am I doing? I hardly need to cook for him if I want to get laid. All I have to do is ask, and I’m sure Ash will fit me into his rotation.
I swallow back the bile rising in my throat at that visual.
Doesn’t that sound delightful? Right up there with Lucifer’s Christmas display.
I don’t know what I’m trying to prove. Per everyone who knows Ash, which is everyone in Sparkwood, he’s a wonderful man, so long as you don’t expect him to drop to one knee.
Both knees? That’s a possibility.
Hey, I speak the truth. Anything sexual is on the menu. Intimacy? That’s off limits. It’s not just hearsay, it’s a verifiable fact regarding Sparkwood’s infamous bad boy.
But here I am, the eternal optimistic romantic, ready to serve dinner to a man who has told everyone in our town that love is for idiots.
“Ori, snap out of it. You knew all this. Ash is a good time. You can’t look for anything beyond that.”
The words taste bitter in my mouth, no doubt because I want to choke on every one of them. I don’t believe a word I’m saying.
Correction, I believe Ash is only in it for a good time, but I want more.
Somewhere along the line, I morphed from an optimist to a masochist, apparently.
The proof being that I watched him drive off to spend hours alone with an adult film star—a woman who’s desperate for a slice of Ash’s pie. And she’s not some run-of-the-mill hottie. No, Raven Scarlet is the it girl of the adult entertainment world—and trust me, I watched enough of her videos last night to commiserate. She oozes sex appeal and is apparently double-jointed everywhere to bend into some of the pretzel positions she manages on-screen. She’s bedded a legion of men and women, all beautiful in their own right.
Now Ash is among them.
Oh, he claims it was ‘just work’ but come on. I may have been born at night, but it wasn’t last night.
Plus, she’s the bitch who intimated Ash only slept with me because of the speakeasy. She took great delight in it, too, and even though Ash negated that theory, part of me believes there is truth in her words.
Something else came of that knowledge—a comparison between the woman he spent last night with and the woman staring back at me from the bathroom mirror.
Total opposites. Literally, nothing in common.
I know I’m fun in bed, but I’m not swinging from the chandelier level. Plus, my boobs and ass are of normal proportions, which next to Raven likely appear downright miniscule.
But tonight isn’t about any of that. It’s simply a thank you to Ash for yesterday. He’s earned this dinner because he was a tremendous help with my pet project.
Yes, my fixer-upper mansion has a new nickname, and at least it’s better than ‘what the hell was I thinking,’ which is what I originally called it. Ash assured me the house was structurally sound, and that I made a good investment.
Once I slog past the gazillion items on my to-do list, I’ll have one hell of a mansion—in between running my store and trying not to compare myself to porn royalty.
Ori, what the hell were you thinking?
Seems to be a running theme in my brain these days.
But Ash and I are just friends, which feels safe. Now I just have to convince my body that friends don’t always equal benefits—because benefits, while terribly enjoyable, also tend to muck up my heart.
Best to leave Ash in the friend zone and rely on my vibrator for orgasms.
Good plan.
The doorbell rings and my gaze cuts to the clock. Right on time. No doubt he’s running a tight ship, with at least one other woman lined up after our afternoon soiree.
Lovely thought.
I pause by the foyer mirror and bite back a laugh. I look ridiculous, with my hair perched atop my head in a crooked bun and flour crisscrossing my chin and cheeks.
Don’t even get me started on my outfit.
“Screw it. This will have to do,” I mutter before swinging the door open. “Hi, there.”
As always, the butterflies cut loose the moment I lay eyes on him. Can you blame me? Ash cuts one hell of a figure in his tight-fitting jeans and leather jacket, and he knows it, as evidenced by the smirk on his full lips when my gaze finally travels upward enough to meet his. “Hey, yourself. Am I early?”
If I had spent three hours getting ready, he wouldn’t notice. But when I look like a hot mess? He picks up on it instantly.
“Here I thought this look upped my sex appeal. Come in.”
Ash pauses on the threshold, grasping my chin with his hand. “You’re always sexy, Ori. But if you’re worried, lose the clothes and I’ll gladly reassure you.”
See? Anything my sexual little self desires, so long as it never, and I mean never , includes my heart.
Far too dangerous a game for me to consider.
“Get in here.”
I lead him into the kitchen and motion to the stove. “The food will be done in just a minute. Would you like a drink?”
Ash pulls two bottles of wine from a paper bag. “How about one of these?”
“Look at you, bringing options.”
“Always come prepared.”
In more ways than one.
Since we won’t drink more than one bottle, I can only assume the other one is for his dessert date later this evening. Wonder if his favorite porn star is still in town?
Time to pump up the volume on our friendship angle. “Wow. These are nice bottles. Did you pick these or did the hot little number in the liquor store help you?”
Ash chuckles, but a hint of flush crawls up his cheeks. “What hot little number?”
“Asher Hammond, we both know she’s hot. No need to pretend you haven’t noticed.”
Why am I bringing up other women in front of him? Probably my ego’s way of putting up a shield. The classic preemptive strike—let Ash know I’m well aware of his reputation, so he doesn’t have to pretend to be anything different.
Besides, friends don’t stand on ceremony. We can be upfront, brutally honest. That’s what friends do, right?
After all, Asher was brutally honest with me yesterday when he told me of his plans for the evening.
I hate playing this game. I’m no good at being friends with a man I have a mad crush on. You’d think in thirty-nine years I would have figured it out, but no, I’m still as clueless as ever.
“The cashier was about seventy-five … and a guy.” Ash pops the cork, passing the bottle under his nose. “And I chose these wines.”
Interesting. “Didn’t peg you for a wine connoisseur.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
“Well, I’m about to cross one item off my list. Let’s see if you like my cooking.”
I’m a damn good cook, but that wasn’t always the case. For years, I subsisted on granola bars and protein shakes, but after learning how terrible most of those aforementioned foods were for my body, I decided to go organic. Turns out, I have quite the knack in the kitchen.
Who knew?
“It sure smells amazing in here,” Ash comments, settling into a kitchen chair. “Anything I can do to help?”
I push a stubborn stray from my face and shake my head. “It’s all done. The only thing that isn’t ready is me, but you’re going to have to deal with my less than stellar appearance. Give me five minutes to clean up?”
Ash nods, his gaze traveling the length of my form. “Need some help?”
If he’d made that offer yesterday, I would have jumped at the opportunity. But somehow, knowing the identity and notoriety of the woman he bedded last night has tarnished the glow.
That and I know I can’t swing around a shower rod like Raven did in one of her videos. I stand under the spray like a normal person, which is quite boring in retrospect.
Friend zone, Ori. Keep it in the friend zone.
“Sure. How about you light the candles and find us some music? I have a ton of vinyl.” I nod toward the record case, leaning against the far wall.
“Any artist in particular?”
“Surprise me.”
Ten minutes later, I emerge from my bedroom, looking only slightly better than before. At least I managed to wash off the lingering scent of flour and onions from my four-hour cooking spree. I decide to forgo any real makeup in lieu of comfort—leggings, an oversized blouse, and a bun that now sits centered on my head.
I pad into the kitchen and grab the glass of wine Ash left on the counter, smiling when I hear the familiar strains of Frank Sinatra playing over the speakers. “You have good taste. Great wine, great music?—”
“Great company,” Ash interjects, stepping in front of me and plucking the wine glass from my hand. His palms glide up my sides, leaving a trail of sparks in their wake. Framing my face with his hands, he leans in, his mouth brushing mine. “You smell good enough to eat,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing. “Too bad we’ll have to wait until dessert.”
I push my glasses up my nose, trying desperately to tamp down the feelings flooding my core. “You brought dessert, too?”
Ash leans against the counter, his eyes devouring every inch of me. “You are dessert, Ori and I plan on having a few helpings tonight.”
God damn, but he’s so good at that. Each line, carefully crafted to shoot straight to a woman’s pussy, all while completely short-circuiting her ability to think of anything beyond him.
This is why I nicknamed him the Pussy Whisperer.
It’s voodoo of the highest order.
It’s also why it’s imperative for me to maintain some sense of focus. Keep my heart on a shelf far from Ash’s clutches—not that he wants that part of my body, regardless.
Time to regain control of this conversation train and steer it to safer—albeit far less enjoyable—waters. “Let’s see if you like dinner well enough to stay for dessert first. Have a seat.”
Ash’s eyes widen at my abrupt pivot away from sexy time, but he follows my command and settles into a chair.
“Hope you’re hungry. I made garlic focaccia and chicken saltimbocca.”
“When you said Italian, I figured you meant spaghetti and meatballs.”
I pause, the spatula hovering midway between the pan and the plate. “Would you rather have that?”
“Hell no. I’m just surprised.”
I hand him a plate, a grin splitting my face as he inhales the fragrant goodness. “Why? I told you I could cook.”
Ash gestures to the food. “You did, but this is gourmet level. And it’s a traditional Roman meal.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Did you know my grandmother was born in Rome?”
I rest my chin in my hand, giving him a slight shrug. “I had no clue. Did she make these dishes for you when you were growing up?”
“She did, but it’s been a long time.” Ash leans back in his chair, swirling his wine as a flicker of humor dances in his eyes. “You really didn’t know? Braden didn’t give you a heads-up?”
A bolt of irritation flashes through me at his egocentric remark. “Oh, I see. This is how women woo you, isn’t it? Ply you with a genuine Roman dish hoping to win your heart?”
“It’s happened once or twice,” he murmurs, his gaze steady and intent on me.
“No doubt way more than that.” I hold back a laugh at the surprise flickering across his features and turn my focus to my plate. Taking a bite, I release a low moan of satisfaction. “While I admire their efforts—futile as they may be—mine is pure coincidence. I took cooking classes from a woman who hailed from Roma. She taught me a few tricks, although I suppose you’ll be the judge of that.”
Ash stays silent for a few beats before setting his glass on the table. “Huh. You’re full of surprises, Ori.”
“That’s probably because you know nothing about me, Ash.” I gesture toward his plate with a smirk. “Now, less talking, more eating.”
“Don’t have to tell me twice.” Ash takes a bite, and a low groan escapes him as the flavors hit. “Damn, little one. You’ve outdone yourself. This is spectacular. My grandmother would’ve been proud.”
“That was the goal. You liking it? That’s just a bonus.”
This time, his laugh is genuine. It’s strange because I’ve only really known the man a couple of weeks, but I know his different laughs.
There’s one for the public—affable and polite. Another for his close confidantes, a sharp snicker that borders on mischievous. And then there’s this one, warm and unguarded, like an embrace without the use of his arms.
I’ve only heard that laugh when we’re alone and I like to think it’s something special.
Am I reading too much into it? Likely, but a girl has to get her romance somewhere.
“To amazing food, incredible wine, and exquisite company. Thank you. This may be the best meal I’ve ever had.”
I sputter my wine at his statement. “Don’t say that too loud, or your grandmother might come back to haunt you.”
“She probably would—and then join you in the kitchen to whip up a feast. She would’ve loved you.” He shifts in his seat after saying the words, like he’s just let slip something he hadn’t meant to.
“I’m sure I would’ve loved her, too,” I reply softly, leaning in. “Could’ve picked her brain for all her culinary tips. Tell me about your family. I want to know all their deep, dark secrets.”
“We’re not that interesting,” he says with a faint smile, deflecting.
“Now that’s a lie, isn’t it, Asher Hammond? I’m certain you have scads of stories. Time to sing for your supper.”
But Ash doesn’t want to talk about his family. He has something else on his mind.
Leaning his arms on the table, he fixes me with his piercing green gaze. “I think it’s time you told me about you .”
“What about me? Compared to your life, I’m the definition of staid and boring. Look it up in the dictionary, and you’ll find my picture.”
“Not a chance.” His lips curve into a slight smirk. “Can I cut through the bullshit and be brutally honest?”
I click my tongue against my teeth, unsure I want to traverse this path. “Sure. Wait—let me grab more wine for this conversation.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“Says the man who just announced he’s about to be brutally honest,” I shoot back, raising a brow.
“No, I’m asking you to be brutally honest.”
I wave my hand, dismissing him. “Tomato, tomato. Go ahead, ask me.”
“You said you bought the Dean Estate with money from an inheritance. I’m assuming your parents?”
“Something like that,” I reply, averting my gaze out the window.
Ash nods and helps himself to some more food, but his gaze finds mine again, silently prompting me to continue.
I think I’d rather discuss his night with the porn star.
“You don’t have to tell me. I just want to know you, Ori.”
Damn it. With a line like that—so earnest and real—how can I not empty my skeletons out of the closet?
“My father died. I didn’t even know it happened until a week after he passed.”
“You weren’t speaking?”
“Not for years. My twelfth birthday surprise was that my father had another family and was leaving my mother and me to live with them. His mistress worked with him at the law firm, but it was hardly an overnight affair. They had been in love since high school—at least, that was his claim. Only hiccup was my father was married with a small child. Not that it stopped them. He carried on a secret affair for a decade, with all his extra money going to support her and their son. When I turned twelve, I was apparently old enough to know the truth. Happy birthday to me.”
Ash runs a hand through his hair, leaning back in his chair as he exhales a slow breath. “Holy shit, Ori. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to open that can of worms.”
“It’s fine.”
But Ash doesn’t buy my blasé response. “No, it’s pretty fucking far from fine.”
I fiddle with my napkin, folding and unfolding it along the crease. “You’re right. Betrayal like that never goes away—it hardens you, turns you against what, or who, you used to love. You never fully recover.”
Ash stiffens, a strange look passing over his features. “That’s the damn truth. You’re never the same.”
He’s speaking about his first love, the one who destroyed him years ago—the one he can’t move on from, and the reason he hates love today.
But I won’t press him for details about her. The last time I asked, that first night in the basement, I saw the scars on his psyche—and they’re deep.
They might be deeper than mine.
“How could your father abandon you? How could any father abandon their kid?”
I take a swallow of wine, grateful for the warm flush it provides against this cold conversation. “He tried to reconcile with me several times, but I didn’t want to hear it. I was too angry to realize that forgiveness was the only way to release the hurt. Open that safety valve, you know? His last letter told me how sorry he was for what he did, how proud he was of me, and how he wanted to do right by me. It arrived with a notice that I was the beneficiary of his life insurance policy. Two million dollars.”
“I see now why you wanted to burn it.”
“I’m glad I didn’t, although it was mighty tempting at the time.” Grabbing the wine, I top off my glass. “Can we switch to a lighter topic of conversation?”
Ash nods, refusing my offer of more wine. “What’s that big, sealed box by your record player? The one with the stickers all over it.”
A rush of color climbs my cheeks, and I shake my head, biting back a smile. “Next question.”
“Is it that embarrassing?”
“Yes.”
“Now you have to tell me.” He leans over, squeezing my knee. “Is it a box of sex toys or something?”
I burst out laughing, covering my mouth with my hand. “Absolutely not. If it were, if sure as hell wouldn’t still be sealed.”
A smirk dances across his face. Clearly, he doesn’t believe me.
“What? It’s not sex toys,” I insist.
“Damn. That’s disappointing, because those are mighty fun to play with.”
“You would know,” I volley back.
Ash stands and drops a kiss on my forehead before carrying his plate to the sink. “Apparently so would you, considering you have a box of the damn things.”
“It’s a wish box.”
Ash narrows his gaze at me. “What the hell is that?”
“Items I’ve gathered over the years for my wedding, my first baby, my first home. That sort of thing.”
Ash nods, marinating on my words. “Kind of like a scrapbook.”
“Sort of, but for memories that haven’t happened yet.”
“So, no vibrators in there?” Ash asks with a wink.
I chuckle. “With the right man, I won’t need a damn vibrator.”
“I’ll volunteer as tribute,” Ash says, realizing in the same moment I do the weight of his words. “Just saying, I’ve been told by a certain someone that I’m the Pussy Whisperer.”
“You love that nickname, don’t you?”
“Wouldn’t you?”
Just like that, his humor softens the edges of our earlier conversation.
Although, he does seem eager to move this dinner along.
He’s cleared half the table and glanced at his phone three times in the last ten minutes.
A girl can take a hint.
I point toward the door. “You can head out. No need to wait for me to finish. I like to take my time with my wine.”
Ash rests his forearm on the table, shooting me a stern look. “Where do you think I have to go?”
“A date, I presume.”
“That’s what you think?” he scoffs, running a hand through his hair. “That I’m rushing out of here to see another woman?”
“It makes sense. You wanted an early dinner. You brought two bottles of wine. You’re watching the clock.”
Ash takes my free hand, his lips brushing softly across my knuckles. “You are way off. I brought two bottles because I wasn’t sure what you were cooking, and I’m watching the clock because I have somewhere to take us—and the sun sets so damn early this time of year.”
I frown, glancing down at my leggings. “I’m really not dressed to go out.”
“Put on pants, then.”
“See, that was code for I don’t want to leave the warmth of my apartment and go sit in some bar. No offense.”
Ash grabs the back of my chair, pulling it gently from the table. “Lucky for you, I’m not taking us to a bar. Now go throw on some jeans. In fact, I’ll help you. Wait, on second thought, I better not—if I strip those off you, we’re definitely not leaving.”
“Sounds like you’re still hungry, Asher.”
He bends down, his breath warm against the back of my neck as he nuzzles the skin there. “For you, I’m always hungry.”
Universe, hold up a damn minute.
I stop dead in my tracks when I meet Ash outside and see him waiting on his motorcycle.
Yes, I’m aware he owns one, but I assumed we were taking something with windows and a roof, especially since it’s a brisk forty-five degrees and falling fast. Never mind that I’m a motorcycle virgin.
“I don’t have a helmet.”
Ash pulls one from his saddlebag and places it on my head. “I’ve got you covered.”
“But I’ve never ridden before,” I stutter, worrying my lower lip with my teeth.
“If you’re my girl, little one, you’ve got to ride. Trust me—I won’t let anything happen to you.”
I don’t know if it’s the way he uses my pet name or the quiet promise in his eyes that melts my hesitation, but I nod in agreement. With a deep breath, I push aside the fear and take his outstretched hand.
Time to trust the man.
Fifteen minutes later, Ash steers down a narrow road, stopping at a rocky outcropping. The winter sun kisses the horizon, spilling a breathtaking blend of pinks and purples across the sky.
“It’s incredible,” I murmur, offering Ash a grateful smile as he helps me off the bike. I step closer to the edge, letting the view steal my breath. “The most beautiful sight ever.”
“Yes, it is.”
But Ash isn’t looking at the overlook. His green-hued gaze is locked on me, hunger blazing in its depths, undeniable and all-consuming.
I could cave to his intimations, which is exactly what my body is begging me to do, but my heart isn’t on board with being just a helping to his several-course dinner.
Best to keep our conversation on the straight and narrow. “Do you come here often?”
“Yes, but I never bring anyone with me.”
An odd response. “How come?”
He sighs, his gaze fixed on the valley below. “I’m afraid they’ll ruin it for me.”
I wander back to the bike, my fingers brushing over the smooth lines of the handlebars. “Why did you bring me?”
He catches my hand, his fingers wrapping gently around mine. “Because somehow, I know you never will.”
His sweet words resonate with my heart. No matter his long-term intentions, Ash trusts me, and that feels special coming from a man who walled off his heart years ago.
I straddle the bike seat and press a soft kiss against his cheek. “I never will. Thank you for entrusting me with this place.”
His hands settle on my thighs, giving them a light squeeze. “I wanted to come by your apartment last night.”
“Really? I assumed you and Raven …” I trail off, unwilling to dredge up any more mental images of them together.
Ash shakes his head. “I finished her tattoo and went home.”
Well, this is an interesting turn of events, because I know Raven would love a piece of him. “Guess all that demo work caught up with you.”
Am I sorry about this hiccup in his plans? Not in the slightest.
Ash huffs out a breath, his focus shifting back to the mountain view. “I wasn’t too tired. I just … didn’t want to hang out with her.”
He doesn’t say more, but somehow, it’s enough.
Reading between the lines, I know I’m the reason—and I hate how warm and fuzzy it makes me feel.
“So, why didn’t you come by?”
Ash chuckles, his hands gliding along my legs before slipping beneath my ass. “Because I felt like an asshole. I knew what you thought was going to happen with me and her, and I felt stupid for not doing a better job reassuring you it wasn’t. That nothing was going to happen with her—because I had someone far more important to see today. But I really wanted to see you last night. The idea of you, wine, and a bubble bath sounded spectacular.”
Looping my fingers around his neck, I shift closer, draping my legs over his. “How about you make it up to me and show me how spectacular I am?”
His brows shoot up at my bold statement. “Right here? Okay.”
I’m glad he’s on board for a little public display, even if the chill is biting harder by the second. “Fabulous idea, but I might freeze my tits off if we do it right here. How about taking me home and giving me that dessert you promised earlier?”
Ash narrows his gaze at me, his fingers squeezing me tighter. “See, that’s not the deal, remember? I have to take you out to dinner first.”
In my mind, it’s semantics.
I dust my mouth against his, teasing his lower lip with my tongue. “Fuck the deal. How about you fuck me instead?”
Ash pulls back just a fraction and slides his hands along my jaw, cupping my face. He presses a tiny kiss to my nose, then each cheek, before settling on my lips. “I don’t like that term.”
“What term?”
“Fucking. It’s too caustic. Too raw.”
My heart flips at the tenderness in his eyes as he speaks the words.
Even if he can’t say it outright, I am different. I see that now.
With a soft smile, I steal another kiss. “It is a bit crude, isn’t it? How about this—forget the dinner deal and spend the rest of tonight making me feel so damn good I forget my name? Does that work for you?”
A smile cuts across his face as he claims my mouth in a slow, drugging kiss. “That I can do. But first, turn around.”
I oblige, shifting closer when he wraps his arms around me, his chin settling on my shoulder.
“Let’s hang out just a minute more,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. “I want this memory.”