17. Asher
Chapter 17
Asher
T he evening hasn’t exactly gone as planned.
I didn’t count on the flambé disaster, but I did get a little help from Conner, as well as Elaine and Roxanne. So we can have the date at the same time, same place.
The volunteer fire department is checking the scene while Eric and Samantha haven’t stopped talking about corporate liability. They’re huddled together, completely oblivious to the chaos around them, their heads bent over Samantha’s phone as they exchange phone numbers.
“Wait, you live in the Oakwood complex downtown?” Samantha asks Eric, her voice rising in pitch.
Eric’s eyes widen. “No way! I’m in 3B!”
“I’m in 4A!” Samantha squeals. “We’re neighbors!”
I exchange a bemused glance with Isla. She flashes me a smile, and this time, she actually holds it for a beat before looking away. Maybe the dessert chaos knocked something loose in that weird tension between us.
“Oh, dearie!” Betty appears out of nowhere, grabbing my arm with surprising strength for someone who claims she needs help opening pickle jars. Our beloved neighbor and my gym member beams up at me, her flowered hat tilting precariously.
She’s been our building’s most enthusiastic matchmaker since the day I convinced her to offer Isla that “first-time renter special.” A discount that Isla still doesn’t realize I had a hand in.
“Such quick reflexes! And the way you caught our Isla—” She clutches her chest, vibrating with excitement.
Before I can get a word in, she’s already turning to announce to the nearest table. “Did you see those flames? It looked like someone lit the oven with a firework. And then our Asher,” she winks at me, “swooping in to save his girl like it was the finale of a romance movie.”
Isla’s cheeks turn that soft shade of pink I know better than the squeak in my gym’s front door. She gets that look when she’s trying to play it cool. My body goes on high alert, remembering exactly how she felt pressed against me, her fingers wrapped around my arm. The way she fits against me is impossible to forget—soft, warm, and way too easy to get addicted to.
“I always said you two—”
“Betty!” Isla yelps.
I move closer to help Isla with an overturned serving tray. Her eyes flick to my forearms, then dart away. She probably thinks I don’t notice. But after everything tonight, the looks, the blushes, the way she held onto me, I’m almost certain I’m not the only one who’s attracted to their best friend.
Eric and Samantha finally seem to notice the cleanup happening around them. They approach us, their faces glowing with that unmistakable just-found-my-soulmate look. You’d think they just discovered a tax loophole together instead of surviving a dessert disaster.
“Oh, thank you both,” Samantha says absently, barely glancing at the mop in my hand. “This is the best date I’ve ever had.”
She seems to forget who’s supposed to be her date. Not that I’m complaining.
Eric nods. “Indeed. I haven’t connected with someone like this since my dissertation defense on corporate risk assessment methodologies.”
We walk them to their car, watching as Eric and Samantha continue their discussion.
“Oh no,” Isla mutters, watching her ride disappear. “I forgot Eric drove me here.”
“Come on, Peachie. Your chariot awaits,” I grin, dangling my keys. I make a mental note to send Eric a fruit basket or maybe even a full spreadsheet listing my eternal gratitude.
“That’ll be—” she pauses, like something just clicked in her brain. Her gaze shifts, landing anywhere but on me. “You don’t have to. I need to pick up Mochi from Mom’s.”
“What kind of friend would I be if I abandoned you after surviving the Great Flambé Disaster of 2025? Besides, pretty sure Betty’s already writing the Frosthaven Buzz headline: Local Gym Owner Leaves Damsel in Dessert Distress. Scandal rocks small town.”
That gets her. Her laugh bubbles out, bright and crisp, cutting through the awkward fog between us.
“I am not a damsel in distress.” She slides into the passenger seat.
Her cheeks are still flushed from the chaos, and there’s a smudge of chocolate on her jaw that she keeps missing. Without thinking, I reach over and wipe it away with my thumb.
She goes still, blinking up at me. Her fingers drift to the spot I touched, like she’s trying to feel if it was real.
“Well,” I say quickly, starting the engine before I do something stupid like lick the chocolate off my thumb or trace the rest of her face, “that was certainly a memorable evening.”
Isla sinks so low in her seat that she’s practically horizontal. “Can we pretend the last hour never happened? And why’d you change your plans with Samantha?”
“Because I want to—”
A low, male voice suddenly purrs through the car speakers, “The way you look at me like you want to devour me whole. It drives a man wild . . .”
We both pause. Isla scrambles upright and frowns. “What’s that?”
A female voice trembles, “My skin prickles under his gaze, heart racing as he draws closer. Those midnight eyes burn right through me, promising things that make my knees weak . . .”
I nearly swerve the car into a mailbox. Wait a minute.
I know these lines.
My hands tighten on the steering wheel as I recognize the exact scene from Chapter 12 of “Burning For You.” The one I studied very carefully after Roxanne mentioned it was Isla’s favorite. The same one I may or may not have used as inspiration for how many buttons I left undone and exactly when to show off my forearms at dinner.
A breathy female voice continues, “He prowls closer, each step making my pulse jump. The way his muscles flex beneath his shirt with every movement, the dangerous gleam in his eyes as they rake over me.”
Isla’s head whips toward me. “Why are you listening to this?”
“I’m not.” I raise my hands in surrender. “This isn’t—”
The male voice returns, dropping an octave lower, “You’ve been driving me crazy all day, Naomi.”
Isla freezes, her eyes widening in horror as she realizes it is from her phone, which automatically connected to my Apple CarPlay, resuming her audiobook exactly where she left off. Usually, it’s her endless playlist of piano music filling my car.
“His forearms flex as he cages me against the wall.”
This is exactly what I’ve been fantasizing about doing to Isla all evening. The memory of her fingers gripping my forearm during the dessert chaos sends heat racing through my veins.
“No, no, no!” She dives for her purse with all the grace of a panicked penguin, somehow managing to launch half its contents across the car. Lipstick rolls under the seat, receipts flutter like confetti, and her phone is lost somewhere in the mess.
The female voice continues breathlessly, “Those perfectly sculpted forearms that have been teasing me all evening, making escape impossible . . .”
Just as Isla finally locates her phone, we hit a speed bump. The phone goes airborne, bouncing off the dashboard and landing somewhere. The audiobook’s volume mysteriously increases.
The low male voice now booms at full blast through the car speakers, “Just admit it . . . you like me.” The volume is loud enough to make the elderly couple walking their dog stop and stare through the window. The narrator’s voice fills the car, painting pictures of romantic moments that definitely aren’t meant for Mrs. Peterson and her poodle’s innocent ears.
It’s getting harder to remember why I shouldn’t just pull over and give Isla a live demonstration of how those moves should really be done.
I’m being a gentleman.
A very, very frustrated gentleman who’s seriously reconsidering his life choices right about now.
I grip the steering wheel harder, while Isla’s smacking random buttons on her phone. This is not the time to think about caging her against walls or lifting her chin with one finger.
“MAKE IT STOP! MAKE IT STOP! OH MY GOODNESS, SOMEONE, MAKE IT STOOOOOP!” Isla wails at top volume, as if trying to drown out the narrator’s sultry voice with sheer panic. Her face goes through every shade of red known to mankind, looking adorably mortified as she jabs randomly at her phone screen with the precision of someone swatting at a bee in a ballgown.
I reach over and turn down the speaker volume, ending the passionate declaration mid-growl as we stop at a red light. The biker, James, next to us, does a double-take, his helmet whipping back and forth between me and Isla.
“Nice choice, man!” the biker yells through his helmet.
Isla slumps lower in her seat. I’m sure she’s trying to determine whether the airbag would hide her if she headbutts the dashboard hard enough.
The light turns green. The biker roars away, still grinning.
An awkward silence fills the car. Isla has buried her face in her hands, peeking through her fingers like she’s watching a horror movie.
“So . . .” I clear my throat, fighting back laughter. “Enjoying the audiobook version too, huh? Though I have to say, that scene was pretty familiar. Didn’t realize you were such a fan of, what was it?”
She lets out a noise that sounds like a dying whale. “I hate you so much right now.”
“No, you don’t. But I have to ask, how do Jake’s forearms compare to mine?” I flex just enough to make the muscles ripple beneath the surface.
Her eyes track the movement like she’s hypnotized. She licks her lips and her gaze darts from my forearm to my face and back again. The sight makes my blood run hot.
Another point for the scoreboard. No way she looks at me like that and still calls it just friendship.
“I don’t know.” Her voice shatters a bit.
“Want to feel again and decide?”
“No.” She shrinks back against her seat, but her head turns my way every few seconds. I thought bench-pressing 300 pounds was hard, but trying to focus on driving while she keeps sneaking glances at me is the real test of strength.
“Why did you read that book?” Her voice comes out small, fingers twisting the hem of her dress like she always does when she’s nervous.
“Because you seem to like it.” My voice comes out husky.
“Most guys would think it’s a waste of time.”
“I’m interested in what you’re interested in.”
Her lips part slightly, and I reach over to rescue the dress hem away from her nervous fingers. I grip the steering wheel harder with my other hand to keep from interlacing our fingers properly. Twenty years of friendship, and I’ve never been more aware of how small the space between us is, or how much I want to close it.
“Okay, well, that’s . . . very thoughtful.”
I drag my hand back to the wheel like it weighs a ton, muscles tensed like I’m fighting a heavyweight. The engine hums beneath us, but it can’t drown out the electricity crackling in the inches between us.
“Ash.” Her voice comes out soft, uncertain.
“Yeah?”
“I’m happy for Samantha and Eric. I really am. But . . . a part of me feels embarrassed.” She shakes her head. “Actually, never mind. It’s stupid. I just—I feel a little bitter, I guess.”
“So what is it?”
“I didn’t have feelings for Eric, but it still kind of stings. Like I’m the kind of person no one picks.” She lets out a small laugh. “And the worst part? I still can’t even find the right person for you. You’re my best friend—if anyone should know, it’s me.”
The way she tries to keep her voice light makes my chest ache. She’s the kind of person who hands out sunshine like candy but tucks her own storms out of sight so no one has to feel the rain.
I pull the car over, killing the engine. The sudden silence wraps around us like a physical thing, broken only by the soft patter of rain starting to fall.
“No, it’s fine.” She waves her hand dismissively. “I mean, clearly, I’m not good at this whole love thing. Can’t even figure out my own relationships, let alone help anyone else’s.”
I unbuckle my seatbelt and turn fully toward her. My hand finds hers in the darkness, and she startles at the contact but doesn’t pull away.
“Look at me.”
She doesn’t. Which means she’s hurting more than she wants me to see.
“Peachie.” I squeeze her hand gently. When she still won’t look up, I reach over with my free hand, cupping her face and tilting it toward mine. Her pulse jumps beneath my palm. “Please.”
My thumb brushes along her cheekbone. She finally looks up.
“I don’t think it’s because of you . And it’s definitely not because you aren’t good enough. Your previous methods work because you see people. Really see them.”
I slide my hand from her face to the nape of her neck, fingers tangling in the soft curls there. A shaky breath escapes her as I massage the tension from her muscles.
“You see them beyond the surface. Beyond their achievements, beyond their looks. You know who orders extra whipped cream on their coffee but pretends they don’t. Who volunteers at the animal shelter on weekends.” I keep my voice soft. “You understand that connection isn’t about perfection. It’s about seeing someone. Really seeing them.”
I rest my forehead against hers, close enough to feel her uneven breaths.
“Look at Eric and Samantha tonight. Sure, Samantha’s beautiful. Polished. But I didn’t feel anything. And I don’t care how smart she is.”
“But Diane’s algorithm—”
“Diane is Diane, and you are you. You’ve got something special she doesn’t. You really see people. That’s why your method works. Sure, you can tweak things, we all can, but don’t change who you are.”
I pull my hand back slowly, dragging my fingers down her palm before letting go. For a second, she holds on before she lets go.
Okay. That’s official. She feels this. Same as I do.
“Tell me something. Did Eric ever make you blush? Make you laugh so hard you snorted coffee through your nose?”
That gets a smile. She scrunches her nose like she wants to be annoyed but can’t quite manage it.
“You’re the worst.”
“And still your favorite.”
“Thanks, Collybear.” Her voice softens. “What would I do without my . . . best friend?” Her voice dips on the last word. And her smile falters for a second.
Just a little. But I see it.
I remember the way she pulled back at the gym. The look on her face that day by the lake. How she thought I’d rejected her.
What I said. What I didn’t say.
Time to take a risk. Make sure she knows exactly what I meant.