11. Isla
Chapter 11
Isla
CONNER
Hey, little sis. I’m in town. Surprise?
ISLA
Surprise? What did Frosthaven ever do to deserve this?
CONNER
Heard what Kyle pulled. Say the word. I’ll make him regret it.
ISLA
No, please stay out of trouble.
CONNER
Heard you’re matching Asher?
Thought you liked him.
Should we talk about this?
ISLA
Yes, no, and NO.
“T hought you might try sneaking past me again, Is.”
Asher’s standing by the front desk of Collymore Fitness, one arm resting casually on the counter, his black T-shirt fitting close over his chest and shoulders as if it was tailored for him. His hair is slightly messy, soft brown strands falling across his forehead, a little unruly and somehow even better for it.
“I wasn’t sneaking,” I mumble. “Just . . . surveying the perimeter.”
I give Asher a sheepish smile and walk past the front desk into the gym. Sunlight streams through the windows, catching on the equipment while upbeat music pulses in the background. The gym hasn’t changed dramatically since Asher officially took over. His father built something special already, but I notice all the little touches that make it unmistakably Asher’s now.
The water stations with fresh lemon slices are thoughtfully placed. The perfect temperature that’s never too cold or too hot. The industrial-strength power racks he installed himself. The expanded free weight section with dumbbells heavy enough to challenge the serious lifters.
These aren’t changes most people would notice, but they’re exactly the kind of thoughtful improvements only someone as dedicated and perceptive as Asher would implement.
I remember how hard he worked to honor his father’s legacy while adding these quiet improvements. He shouldered everything during his dad’s recovery without a single complaint, somehow making the place even more welcoming without erasing what made it special to begin with.
“Oh, honey!” Connie exclaims, patting my arm. She’s decked out in her signature matching tracksuit. Today it’s hot pink with rhinestones spelling out “FIERCE” across the back. “Are you here for a training session with Asher? Bless your heart.”
Fred nods sagely, adjusting his ever-present baseball cap that’s probably older than me. “Don’t let him push you too hard. My glutes are still sore from last week!” He winks at Connie. “Though the missus here isn’t complaining.”
“Fred Albright!” Connie swats his arm, but she’s beaming. These two have been married for forty-eight years and still flirt like teenagers. They’re basically Frosthaven’s resident romance novel lovers come to life.
“And speaking of pushing too hard,” Connie adds, “thank you for spending your lunch break teaching this old man about video calls yesterday.”
“It was nothing! We trade tech support for baked goods, right?” I wave off her thanks.
“Two hours she sat with me,” Fred announces to anyone within earshot. “Walking me through it step by step. Real patient. I kept calling the camera the picture box, and she didn’t even laugh. Missed her whole lunch and everything just to make sure I could talk to my grandson properly.”
Gavin grins. “Someone out there’s gonna be very lucky to end up with Isla.” He throws a quick glance at Asher. “Just saying.”
Asher’s posted up against the wall, long legs crossed at the ankle, every inch of him looking relaxed and ridiculously good at existing. A dimple dents his left cheek the second he smiles.
Do not poke it. Do not stare at it.
“Wow, okay.” I clear my throat, trying not to spontaneously combust. “Thanks, Fred, Connie, and Gavin.”
“That girl would skip lunch, sleep, and probably oxygen if it meant helping someone else.” Connie clucks her tongue fondly.
“Well, that’s about to change.” Asher pushes off the wall and strolls toward me. “I’ll take good care of our resident matchmaker.”
Connie winks at me. “I bet you will, dear.”
He stops way too close. Close enough that his cologne, warm and clean and attractive, wraps around my brain like a blanket.
“Connie’s watching us like we’re about to elope.” He leans in. “Think we should give her something to talk about?”
My heart lurches, unsure if it’s supposed to panic or melt. Did Asher have some kind of overnight personality switch? Ever since the shirtless bathtub incident yesterday, he hasn’t gone back to normal. Note to self : Google how to tell if your best friend is flirting with you or if your brain is just wildly desperate.
After a quick warm-up on the treadmill and some shoulder stretches that make me feel like a rusty tin man, Asher guides me toward the back corner of his gym.
The polished metal of the cable machine catches the soft glow of the overhead track lights. The adjustable pulleys look complicated enough to pilot a spaceship.
“Like this,” Asher steps behind me. His chest lightly brushes my back as he lifts my hands to the grips, setting them at shoulder height. The contact is barely there, but it still sends every nerve in my body scrambling for oxygen. The warmth of him seeps through my workout tank. Solid. Warm. Distractingly present.
I turn my head a little, just enough to sneak a peek. His brow is furrowed, mouth set in that quiet, serious line he gets when he’s in full trainer mode. His eyes track every movement, calm and focused, like nothing else exists but the moment and the person in front of him.
The same side that made me realize I was in trouble.
It happened when we were sixteen. He was showing someone how to adjust their grip on a barbell, completely in the zone, calm and steady. I watched from across the gym, dropped my chemistry book, then tripped over it when trying to pick it up.
That was the moment I knew. I had a full-on, hopeless crush on Asher Collymore.
“Eyes forward, Is.” His voice has that low, assured tone.
Right. Yes. Forward. Good idea.
“Keep your elbows close to your body when you pull, and think about squeezing your shoulder blades together.”
My shoulders burn as I follow Asher’s instructions for what feels like the hundredth rep. A familiar ache shoots through my shoulder, the same one that’s been bothering me.
“Hold that position,” Asher says, moving behind me. “But drop your shoulders down. You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“This.” His fingers press gently into the spot where my shoulder meets my neck, right where the pain always flares up. “You’re compensating for the old injury. Creating more tension here.”
Ignoring the strange warmth his touch leaves behind, I force a shrug. “It’s not really an injury. Just an old habit.”
“Acts up for three years, you mean?” His voice drops lower now. Firmer. Taking on that serious tone that brooks no argument. “You think I don’t see how you flinch when reaching up? How your shoulders tense the second you try to lift something heavy, even though you pretend it doesn’t hurt?”
“You notice all that?” Heat creeps up my neck. There’s something almost embarrassing about how much he sees.
Asher’s hands go still against my shoulders.
“I notice a lot of things, Peachie.”
He exhales slowly, fingers still resting on me. “Like how you pop ibuprofen when you think no one’s watching. Or how you never asked for help. It kills me watching you take care of everyone else while acting like your own pain doesn’t count.”
My stomach twists. I don’t know how to process Asher sounding this serious. I know Asher cares. He’s mentioned it before with little comments and light teasing, but never like this.
But he’s right. I don’t think it counts.
I swallow hard, staring at the floor. Maybe part of me wishes it did. But caring about my own pain feels like a luxury I haven’t earned. I only matter after I’ve proven I’m worth it.
“Daddy’s just busy, Izzy-bean. Be good, be patient, be quiet while I work. Maybe tomorrow.”
I still remember standing in my pajamas, clutching the teddy bear Dad gave me, asking when he’d be home. He used to be home every night. Every single one. But after that night, when he and Mom talked in the kitchen, and I saw her quietly wipe her eyes, he started coming back late, sometimes only a couple of nights a week.
Mom said nothing was wrong. But Conner and I knew better. So we asked Dad ourselves.
We cleaned our room until it sparkled. I drew him a picture. Conner folded the napkins into triangles and said Dad would like it.
Dad came home the next night. Read us two bedtime stories, not just one.
I’d been so proud.
It wasn’t only my dad. Every romantic relationship I’ve had proved it, too.
That’s how it works, isn’t it? Care and love are something you get after you’ve earned your place. And sometimes, even then, it’s not enough to make people stay.
“These exercises are meant to help strengthen the area,” he continues, adjusting my form with careful precision, “but they need to be done properly. One wrong move, and you could aggravate that old injury.” His hands guide my shoulders into the correct position. “I could’ve just sent you YouTube videos, but . . .”
“But what?”
“You’d probably watch them once and forget about them. Or try it wrong and hurt yourself more. Or, most likely, you wouldn’t do it at all. Just like you never got it checked out when I asked you to.”
The warmth of his hands lingers as he steps back. “That’s why I’ve wanted you here, with me. Because I know you’re hurting, and I’ll make sure you don’t ignore what you need.”
Oh.
My whole body goes still, every nerve tightening at once. Like a wire pulled too taut, ready to snap.
This is why?
Asher turns to adjust the weight setting. His focus shifts to the machine, words spilling out about form and muscle balance, but I can’t hear them. The sound blurs. The gym around us blurs.
All I can see is him.
The crease between his brows when he concentrates. The way he knows exactly what he’s doing. The care in everything he says, the way he notices what no one else does.
And something inside me tilts. Cracks open. I feel it rush back, quiet at first, like the flutter of wings, then louder, heavier, impossible to ignore.
This thing I buried. The thing I told myself I’d outgrown. The childhood crush I buried deep under logic and time.
It’s back.
And it doesn’t feel like a crush anymore. Back then, it was all innocent daydreams about holding hands and maybe sneaking a kiss behind the bleachers. Now it’s his smile making my knees go rogue, and my brain suggests things like waking up to his sleepy grin every morning, sharing keys, growing old together on a porch swing while we watch our grandkids play.
What if I didn’t bury the crush this time?
What if I let myself want him?
What if I just forget all the reasons why I shouldn’t want it?
“Isla?” His voice cuts through my spiral. “You okay? You went somewhere else for a minute there.”
I blink. My hands slip, forgetting I’m mid-exercise. The cable slips from my grip with a loud clang, and I stumble backward. Asher tries to catch me, but my momentum sends us both tumbling. He’d managed to cradle my head, shielding me from the fall.
My body lands against his. Chest. Hips. Thighs. All of it.
Every inch of him, solid and warm beneath me. My hand is somehow trapped between us, and— oh my goodness —it’s splayed across his abs. His shirt is rucked up just enough that I’m touching bare skin.
Warm. Bare. Definitely not part of the training plan.
I don’t move. He doesn’t either.
Our eyes lock, and something unreadable in his holds me still. My pulse stumbles. Is he looking at me the same way I’m looking at him?
Does he feel it too?
Something tightens under my palm. Wow. His abs. Those workout routines are definitely paying off. Firm and sculpted. I shift my hand the tiniest bit.
Pull your hand back, Isla. Now would be good. Actually, five seconds ago would’ve been better.
Stay. Just for a second longer.
Asher shifts, thumb brushing softly across my chin. A warm jolt shoots straight through my chest, all the way to my knees. My eyes go wide, breath catching. But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t pull back. The room tilts slightly, or maybe that’s just me, because everything inside feels buzzy and soft and off-script.
“You okay, Peachie?” His voice is low. I feel it vibrate through his chest, right beneath me.
“I’m fine.”
His stomach flinches under my hand. “You know,” he says, voice rougher than usual, “if you wanted to feel my abs, you could’ve just asked. No need for the dramatic fall.”
He doesn’t look mad. Not even close. In fact, he looks . . . amused.
I clear my throat. “Just, um, checking your form. Very professionally. Making sure those ab workouts are paying off.”
His chuckle rumbles through me. “And the verdict?”
“Adequate,” I manage, my fingers twitching with the effort not to trace those ridiculously defined muscles again. “Though we might need to up your core routine.”
“Really?” There’s a dangerous edge in his voice. “Because your hand seems pretty impressed.”
Heat floods my face. “That was—”
“An occupational hazard?” His eyes lock onto mine. “Do you professionally assess all your clients’ abs this way?”
“Only the ones who don’t know how to spot their workout partner properly.”
I look up to fire off another quip, but the words die in my throat. His face is inches from mine, and I can see every little fleck of color in his eyes. There’s a half smile pulling at his mouth, but his eyes deepen to a darker shade of turquoise. His hand shifts from my chin to cradle the back of my head, thumb brushing gently through my hair.
My pulse thuds, loud and fast.
“Peachie?” Asher’s voice is tight. My childhood nickname somehow sounds forbidden now, like something I wasn’t supposed to hear.
“Hmm?”
“You might want to get off me. Now .”