Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ASH
R usty grabs my hand as we leave the truck. I'm an affectionate person by nature, and we're fake dating, so him offering and me accepting are both understandable.
And that's precisely why I refuse to think twice about how much I like the feel of his hand in mine.
I like holding hands! It's not a big deal!
Heck, this isn't even the first time we've held hands since we started fake dating. So it definitely doesn't stand out to me differently, or anything. And this hand of mine definitely doesn't tingle with the memory of his abs.
That would be absurd.
Nonsensical.
Totally, completely understandable.
I mean, the definition was out of control. I could feel it in my thumb, for Pete's sake, and it's not like thumbs have the same level of sensation as an index finger. I only felt half of them, too. Half of his abs. I assume it's half, at any rate? The six-pack versus eight-pack debate comes down to genetics, not how ripped a guy is. Some guys have six, and they make those look every bit as delicious as eight.
Unless they also have obliques, you know, those side muscles that cut right around their hips …
I love obliques. Obliques make every torso better.
My friends are convinced Rusty has the abs of every woman's dreams, and until the last few days, I’ve not given them much thought. As much as you'd think otherwise, I like a good mind much more than I care about a good body. A sense of humor is a million times more important than a six pack. Unfortunately, the other reason I've not thought about Rusty's physique is that I've spent the majority of my adolescent and adult life being attracted to guys who suck at life.
Does Patty have a thing for guys who suck at life? Or is she one of the lucky few who's attracted to the kind of guy who would rescue a dog from a ditch? Is she one of the smart ones who's avoided self-absorbed losers all her life in favor of men who would willingly help elderly people clean their gutters? If she has eyes, she's probably had a crush on Rusty for years. Has she held his hand? Has she kissed him?
I adjust my shirt, which is suddenly all kinds of uncomfortable. Stupid humidity.
I've only been aware of this mystery woman for a few days, yet she's important enough that Rusty would take me to her bar.
And why hasn't Rusty talked about her before?
I don't know how I feel about it.
But this shirt is driving me crazy.
I'm learning all sorts of things about Rusty since Philip came into town. I thought I knew him as well as I knew all my closest friends. But if I'm learning this much new stuff after a year, do I really know that much about him?
And why does that possibility fascinate me so darn much? I'm attracted to jerks, not mysteries .
I'm intrigued by mysteries.
Rusty isn't a mystery , I tell myself. He's a multi-faceted human being who has given you a noogie. Stop romanticizing everything.
Although, it's at least a little bit hard not to romanticize a guy who calls me gorgeous? —
Wait.
Does he call Patty gorgeous?
Rusty takes us around the back, much to my surprise, and we enter through a door that says "Staff."
He holds the door for me. "Do you moonlight as a cook?" I ask.
"No, he sunrises as one," a good-looking but scruffy guy in his mid-thirties says. He's wearing a white apron over a white T-shirt and jeans and stands near an industrial oven. A couple of kitchen workers — sous chefs? I don't know the term — busy themselves with chopping and mashing things.
" Sunrises ? What do you mean?"
"He likes to come before we open and help bake the bread for the day."
"Not just the bread," Rusty says.
"That's true. He makes a solid corned beef hash."
I look at my handsome blond friend with the kind, smoldering hazel eyes. "You didn't tell me you had another job," I say.
The unkempt cook snorts. "Like he needs another job."
"Like I'd let you pay me," Rusty says.
I shake my head hard enough that my streak of blue curls sticks to my lip gloss. There's a level of subtext to this conversation I can't follow. "Mind filling me in on what you're talking about, boys?"
The cook wipes his hand on his white apron and holds it out to me. "Sorry, forgot my manners. I'm Patrick."
"Patrick …" I look at Rusty and then grab his shoulders and shake him. “Seriously, Hotcakes? This is Patty?” I laugh, and the tension lodged in my throat escapes like a bubble. "This is amazing!"
Patrick's dark, thick eyebrow quirks up. "Why is that?"
"Because you're not a woman!"
“No.” He gives Rusty a flat look. “And only my closest friends call me Patty."
“Thanks for letting us come when you have a full house," Rusty says.
"If you're willing to help until the dinner rush ends, you're welcome to eat whatever you make. Now get to work."
I have never seen Rusty like this.
When he's doing graphic design for Jane & Co., we're constantly bouncing ideas off each other. He's excellent, but our work is so intertwined that we complement each other. I love working with him like that, but it's nothing new. It's how I work with all my friends.
Rusty is a boss in the kitchen.
I can use a slow cooker. He can use everything . I don't know how long he's been "sunrising" with Patty, but he can slice and dice, flip and fry. He and Patty work together seamlessly. I sit on a counter across from them biting my lip. My meds are wearing off, and this is always the hardest part of the day. I typically either get a huge burst of energy and go ultra productive until I drop, or I become a moody, frustrated zombie.
I don't want either.
"You okay?" Rusty asks as he shreds corned beef for a recipe.
"Yeah, my meds are wearing off, so I'm just having a little crash. Nothing to worry about."
"What usually helps when you crash?"
"Well, Millie told me that exercising over the crash will give me a dopamine hit to counteract it, but I think exercise is boring … "
"What do you want to do?"
This conversation is reason seven thousand why I wish I could fall in love with Rusty. Philip thought my ADHD was a joke. He made me feel like I was difficult, like he was so noble for dating someone neurodivergent. Rusty makes me feel accepted with it. It's a part of me, so he accepts it right along with my curly hair and blue eyes. It just is .
It's strange that I keep comparing them, isn't it? It is. It's strange. Rusty and I are fake dating, not real dating.
It's all for show, Ashley Jane. You don't need to keep reminding yourself why you're so lucky to have a boyfriend who loves you for who you are while simultaneously inspiring you to become better.
It's fake.
Is that why I'm so in my head? I don't know how to act or what to think. I don't know what's him being him or him being my faux boyfriend.
I don't know what I want that answer to be.
"Ash?" Rusty asks softly.
His voice pulls my gaze toward him. "I don't know what to do."
"Well, you can't sit there looking that gorgeous," he says. "It's distracting."
I smile. "What a deliciously flirty thing to say."
He smiles back, and his hair flops in front of his face. I hop down from the counter, find his hat, and put it on his head backwards. His smooth, sleek hair tickles my fingers.
"Is that better?"
He meets my eye and then returns his attention to the food. "It is. Thanks."
"Can I help?"
"I think Patty will kick us out if you don't. Want to grate cheese for the Reuben quesadillas? "
"Would that help?"
He gives me a quizzical look. "Yeah, of course. Why?"
I can't explain my question. I can't put my finger on why I feel self-conscious for the first time ever with Rusty.
But I do.
"I don't want to get in the way."
Rusty stops what he's doing and looks me in the eye. "You could never be in the way."
"I don't want to mess you guys up."
"If you make a mistake, we'll fix it or throw it out. It doesn't matter."
"It kind of matters," Patty says, but I’m pretty sure he’s kidding.
"Ash, you don't have to do anything, but I promise the food tastes better after you've worked up an appetite."
"It's the same with flirting and kissing," Patty says. "All that flirting works up the appetite for more."
Patty's words spike the temperature in the kitchen a hundred degrees. He may as well have thrown me in the fryer along with the cheese curds. Which is dumb, because Rusty and I have already kissed. And besides, we're not dating and it wasn't a real kiss, and we're not even actually flirting.
It just feels that way.
He gives you noogies.
Yeah, and he also said he regrets it.
This is all because we have an audience. Nothing else. And Patty only said what he said because he's part of that audience. He thinks we're dating.
And that means I need to react accordingly.
"Yup, it sure is," I say lamely. It's been too long for me to even respond to his comment. "Just like kissing, huh Hotcakes?"
"Hmm?" Rusty says, his eyes flitting to mine only briefly, because he's very much in the middle of frying very hot things and because my response is so late and so unnecessary .
But I'm committed to the bit now. I have to be. "Oh, I was just thinking about how Patrick said that flirting works up the appetite for kissing. Doesn't it, babe?"
And then, in the most awkward move possible, I grab his face and plant a kiss on his lips. Or at least that's what I try to do. My nose ends up crashing into his, and his face smushes my glasses. They push painfully into the bridge of my nose.
"Ow," I hiss.
"Oof," Rusty mutters.
"Ouch," Patty says. "That was painful to watch . Maybe you two should stick with flirting."
Rusty laughs and adjusts my glasses. "Better?" he asks.
"Want to revisit that whole 'you could never be in the way' comment?"
"Yeah, I take it all back. You're a liability." He kisses the tip of my nose. "But I like it."
He took the most awkward, forced kiss in the world and turned it into something sweet. Something endearing. Something …
Sexy.
HOW IS HE SO GOOD AT THIS?
Rusty's friend Sean comes in from the bar, and it hits me how much he and Patty look alike. "We've hit a lull,” Sean says. “Probably a good time for a break."
Patrick nods. "Y'all are off the clock," he tells Rusty. "Enjoy your dinner."
"Thanks, man," Rusty says. Patty nods and Rusty fixes us a couple of plates.
"It was great to meet you, Patty," I say, plate in hand.
"It's Patrick."
"Is it, though?" I ask.
"Good to meet you, too, Ash."
I grin. "Thanks, Patty!"
"Get out of here before I regret letting you two come. "
"You playin' tonight?" Rusty asks before we leave.
"Rus, don't make me throw you out." Patty points to the door, and we exit through it a moment later.
The bar is hopping, but Rusty winds us past the crowded tables and leads us toward a set of double doors where a bouncer is stationed.
Rusty nods at the guy, who nods back and lets Rusty through.
“I recognize that bouncer.”
“That’s Walt. You’ve probably seen him on patrol. He's a cop who works security here for extra cash when he’s off duty. His wife is expecting their first baby.”
“And let me guess: you helped him set up his nursery.”
He laughs. “No, Walt built the crib all by himself.”
The lounge is empty except for a couple of musicians setting up on a stage. I'm not much of a bar kind of girl — my meds and alcohol do not mix well — so I've never been here before. But I've heard they get good live shows.
We sit down at a table in the back and we're both hungry enough that we dig into our food. I take a huge bite of my Reuben quesadilla and moan.
"Okay, you're right," I say, leaning over my plate, where extra food from my quesadilla plops. "This tastes even better after working up an appetite."
"Don't I know it?"
Rusty tucks into his food, unaware of the fact that I'm watching his every move. He takes a decent-sized bite, not too big and not too small, and he eats it politely but unselfconsciously. He also has weirdly good posture. He's bent over his plate a little, like any sane person eating messy bar food, but he's not hunched like Gollum eating potatoes and petting his Precious the way I am. My curls fall in front of my face, and I have to use my arm — the one not covered in quesadilla drippings — to push them out of the way .
Rusty smiles at me and tucks my curls behind my ears.
"Thanks, Farm Boy."
He smiles and takes another bite. The way his jaw flexes with each movement entrances me.
"You're an attractive eater."
He chokes. "Wha — ?" He coughs and takes a drink of his ice water. "Sorry, what?"
"I mean it! You're an attractive eater. You eat like a man, but without being piggish."
Rusty laughs, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. "I don't know what that means."
"I make everything look like one of those old school burger commercials we watched in marketing classes. Did you watch those? The ones where the girl takes a bite and the burger is so juicy, it's falling apart all over her? You look like a cologne commercial and I'm all disgusting."
Rusty laughs behind his hand again. "A cologne commercial? Am I playing a guitar solo to a wolf in the middle of a desert?" It's my turn to laugh. He swallows and drops his hand so I can see just how big the smile he's trying to hide is. "You know, those burger commercials worked because guys liked seeing hot girls attack a burger like that."
"I'm not hot."
"You're hot."
I roll my eyes and take a bite of my quesadilla. Russian dressing squishes onto my chin. With my mouth full, I say, "Not hot."
Rusty looks like he's trying not to laugh as he reaches across the table and wipes my chin with his napkin. "Hot."
I snort and then choke a little and cough and then snort again and try to swallow, but I start laughing, and bits of food fly out of my mouth and then a little bit of food goes up my nose, and I start laughing even harder. Rusty comes around the table and pats my back. I want to make a joke about him doing the Heimlich, but I have to grab my water and try to drink through the coughing and laughing.
Tears stream down my face from laughing as Rusty pats my back again.
I look up at him, sure I've leaked and dribbled through my waterproof mascara and lip stain. Rusty raises his eyebrows like he's so wildly attracted to me, he can barely stand it. "Hot."
I laugh, and he takes the seat next to me. I lean back in my chair, kick off my sandals, and put my feet on his lap.
He rests one hand on my ankles and the other starts playing "This little piggy went to market" with my toes.
I smile and watch him.
His hand stops on my pinky toe. My nails are painted the same electric blue as my glasses and my stripe. It's a thing. Maybe it's a stupid thing, but I like it. I like the coordinating. It's like a colorful pop of order in the wildness that is Ash.
"I like the blue a lot," he says, almost as if sensing my thoughts. "I like all the colors you choose, but this one's my favorite."
"Why?" I had olive green a couple of months ago, and it was much more subtle than I usually go for. I figured any man with eyes would prefer something more muted. Females think my style is "bold." They tell me how "jealous" they are that I can "get away with" dyeing my hair such a "fun" shade. They tell me how their boyfriend or husband "would never let" them wear anything like that.
I think they're all full of it, but the sentiment is a constant reminder that men don't like this kind of thing. Philip hated it. At first, it was just hints that he'd love to see my hair all match and that he thought my natural hair color was so much prettier than anything a hairdresser could give me. Then it moved on to how immature and unprofessional I looked.
Yet Rusty's here telling me he likes it?
"It makes the blue of your eyes even more intense. "
How could this man be any more perfect? "You want me to be more intense?" I laugh. "Me? Rusty, come on."
"More of you is always a good thing," he says. And then, because he really is the most perfect man ever to be created, he starts massaging my feet. He presses his thumbs into my arch, and my eyes flutter closed as I hold back a groan of delight.
"Your future wife is going to be the luckiest woman in the world."
"I'm not worried about making anyone happy but you," he says.
Why my heart stutters at that, I have no idea.