Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
ASH
A s much as I insist to my friends that my promise to the chamber of commerce to market the town was my idea, my problem, they insist on helping.
"We all have too much work as it is," I say.
"We all have spare time," Jane says.
"No need," Rusty says. "I'm taking two weeks off."
"Rus — "
"Don't fight me," he says, his jaw flexing. When did he start flexing his jaw? "I already talked to Tripp and hired people to cover for me."
"How?" I ask. "When? You've been with me literally every second since we saw Philip."
He shrugs, and the truth hits me: he cleared his schedule before we saw Philip. When he found me on the riverwalk and left for all of eight minutes.
Affection swells in my heart. I jump out of my chair and throw my arms around him .
"Thank you." I squeeze him hard.
"That's it?" he laughs in my ear. Well, in my hair. It's too big for him to get actual ear access. "You're ready to fight the Janes off for wanting to help, but I get a hug?"
"What can I say?" I back up and look at him. "I'm a walking contradiction."
"You're not a contradiction," Lou says. She opens the door and the Janes start leaving the office. "It makes total sense."
"In what way?" Parker asks.
"He is her fake boyfriend." Lou grins.
Parker snorts and starts following Lou out of my office, glancing at my hanging shelf as she passes.
Then she puts her head back in, staring at the contents of my shelf.
"Is that my trophy?"
"You mean the Ultimate Luciano trophy?" I correct. A few months ago, Sugar Maple Farms hosted a family reunion for Parker's NFL star ex-boyfriend and his family. Jane asked for Parker’s help throwing it without telling her who it was for. Because she's a meddling meddler who meddles. Spoiler alert: her meddling worked and Parker and Sonny got back together. I helped a bit at the reunion and met Sonny's incredible family, including his spitfire eighty-year-old Nonna. We hit it off instantly. "Yep, that's the trophy. Nonna said I'm an honorary Luciano, so I thought I'd borrow it for a minute."
Parker's eyes narrow to pinpoints. She marches over to the shelf and grabs the trophy. "I earned that fair and square. Also, you communicate with my future grandmother-in-law?"
"Yeah, we’ve texted since her wedding," I say. "She was super curious about the Tummy Waffles page, so I sent her over some of the archived? — ""
"You sent Nonna eight-year-old pictures of dudes' abs from our University of Chicago days?"
"Hey, abs are timeless. "
Parker closes her eyes. "I need to go do Tae Bo."
"Don't you mean yoga?" Millie asks.
"I gave up on yoga. Nonna convinced me I should try kickboxing, and she was spot on. It's much more my speed."
"Shocker," Millie says.
"Okay, CrossFit ," Parker says as the two of them leave the office.
Parker comes back into the office and grabs a handful of gummy bears from a jar on my desk. "Oh, and Ash? We're helping. Deal with it." She pops a candy into her mouth as she walks out.
"You're fired!" I call after her.
She just waves at me.
Soon, all my friends are back to work, leaving Rusty and me in my office.
Alone.
And suddenly when I look at him, all I can think of is that moment when he clenched his fists and yelled "What?" when Millie hinted at the way Philip treated me.
It was …
Intense.
Intensely attractive.
I've never had a guy be protective of me.
Not like that. Not at all, really.
My stepdad is awesome, but he's an IT nerd who likes jazz and comics and watches Star Trek. Greg isn't the kind of guy to go alpha on his stepdaughter's crappy ex, even if he had known about it. Which he didn't. Philip didn’t isolate me from my family in Colorado, he isolated me from my friends. My parents thought I went through a phase where I straightened my hair a lot and wore contacts. They don't know that I did those things because Philip made me feel like I was more acceptable that way.
Just like my dad used to.
My friends noticed, though. They'd make comments about how they missed my hair or would send me pictures of glasses they thought I'd love, and I'd ignore them. They'd set up girls' nights, and I'd skip them. Philip made sure we always hung out at his fancy condo and insisted on driving me to and from work. I thought at first that it was because he wanted to take care of me. I thought he was being considerate, gentlemanly.
But it was always about control.
If Rusty knew just how badly Philip treated me, would he be even more protective? Or would it sound exaggerated? Philip was so careful. He chipped away at my self-esteem with the patience of an arthroscopic surgeon. He got under my skin, messed me up at a structural level, but left with barely a scar anyone could see.
It was such a meticulous process that it took everyone months to suspect anything at all. And it took just as many months to help me want to limp away.
My friends may be worried, but I'm in no danger of falling back into Philip's trap.
All I want is to grind my joy into his face.
But if it's fake, will it even matter?
Rusty folds his arms, pulling my attention to the same forearms that strained so hard when he yelled "What?" that I thought he was about to Hulk out of his shirt.
Yes. Even if it's fake, it'll matter.
Because no matter how fake anything between Rusty and me will be, Rusty's steady, reliable, quiet confidence is a threat to Philip's very existence. I will never get back together with him. Rusty and his friends are living, breathing reminders that jerks like Philip aren't the rule.
They're just the albatross around my neck.
If only I could learn how to be attracted to guys like Rusty instead of jerks like Philip.
"Ash?"
I look at my hunky best friend. There really is no other word for him. He is the blond boy next door, the high school football star who looks too wholesome for words, with his dark blond hair, his piercing hazel eyes, his cheekbones …
"Uh, yes? Yes. I’m here.” I shake my head and avert my gaze, because in addition to his flexed forearms, he's narrowed his eyes in a way I haven't seen before, and it is thoroughly distracting. When did Rusty become so distracting? "Okay, let’s brainstorm!"
Rusty walks over to my desk and grasps my shoulder, forcing my gaze to meet his. “Ash, I’m sorry for what he did to you. We all care about you, and we’re all gonna help with the project, but I don’t think you need any help handling Philip. You can take him.”
My lips tug down and tears strain at my eyes. “Thanks, Rusty."
He nods and sits across from me at the desk. With a small smile, he says, "Let's get to work, boss."
Work we do.
Rusty stays with me for hours and hours of intense brainstorming.
My friends pop in and out with ideas, but everything we discuss is part of a long game, not the flash in the pan we need.
By dinner time, I'm so fixated on figuring out the plan that I've tuned everything out. I'm vaguely aware of people talking, but their words pass by me like a breeze.
"We should take a break for dinner," Rusty says.
I don't listen.
"Food's here. I'll put your wrap in the mini-fridge."
"Let me refill that for you."
"We're heading out."
"See you at home. "
"Watch over her, will you?"
"Always."
"I'll just get your garbage and clean the rest tomorrow."
My garbage?
I look up to see Deb from the cleaning crew.
Deb usually doesn't come till? —
"What time is it?"
"Ten," Deb says with a smile. "Same as when you usually see me, hon."
I blink and rub my eyes. They feel like they're full of sand. Have I really been working for almost ten straight hours?
Rusty's asleep on the desk across from me.
Rusty's still here? He can't be here! He has to get up at 4:30!
I push back from my desk and sigh. I'm so selfish. I got so far down this rabbit hole — eighty-two rabbit holes, according to the new tabs I've opened since lunch — that I didn't even consider the impact it would have on my friend.
And it's not like he was idle. Rather than asking me to slow down or explain what I was trying to do, Rusty was doing his own research.
While I was looking up every viral video for every company ever, he was looking up travel blogs and tourism websites and taking notes of what stood out to people. He was looking up things like "can I see everything in Charleston in one day?" and "what should I do in Savannah if I only have four hours?"
And suddenly everything I was thinking — every single thing — is obsolete, because Rusty's ideas have given me a new idea altogether. It's so good, I want to shake him awake and tell him all about it. The guy listens to my dreams, for Pete's sake. This actually has a point!
I'm about to wake him when I notice how peaceful he looks and I stop myself.
He stayed.
Even after pulling an all-nighter with me last night, he stayed to help me even more. He works harder than anyone I've ever seen and never complains about exhaustion.
I won't tell him anything tonight , I promise myself. I'll let him go home and sleep, and then tomorrow, I'll tell him all about it.
I'm almost buzzing with excitement, but I bottle it up as I gently shake his shoulder.
He doesn't stir.
"Rusty. Rusty," I sing, shaking him a bit harder.
He still doesn't move.
His eyes move beneath his lids, and his brows knit together in his sleep. His face is resting on his arm, and with his forehead screwing up tighter and tighter, he looks … troubled.
Pained.
His breathing hitches, and his fist balls up, all while his expression twists. Then he flinches, and I rock back, afraid I've done something to disturb him.
But no, it's his dream.
Or is it a nightmare?
Without thinking, I put my thumb between his eyebrows and press softly, smoothing the deep furrow until it softens and his nightmare seems to pass. I whisper a "shhh" and run my hand in his hair, letting my fingertips graze his scalp.
His hair is unreal . It's soft and silky and even better than petting a therapy llama. He has to use conditioner, right? But it's not like I can ask him that. Like, oh, hey, I was petting your hair earlier and couldn't help noticing how smooth it is.
I lean in closer to smell his hair.
Because that's not weird.
Okay, it's super weird. But I genuinely need to know what is making his hair like this. I'm a hair girl! The Curly Girl method is part of my identity, and if there's a conditioner out there that can add this kind of softness, I need to know. I'm not just running my fingers in his hair over and over because the sensation of each strand brushing against the sides of my fingers is sending waves of tingles up my arm, or anything.
I close my eyes to heighten my sense of smell — is that a real thing? — and I breathe in deeply.
Eucalyptus. And something minty.
I love mint.
I take another whiff.
And of course, that's when Rusty stirs.
"Am I dreaming, or are you smelling my hair?"