Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Asher
What starts as a kiss to appease Kat’s family becomes something else entirely the moment our lips meet.
She’s soft and warm against me, tasting faintly sweet—like cherry lip balm and a hint of that almond scent I caught earlier.
I tell myself this is just for show, just to sell the charade for her family, but then she makes this small, breathy sound against my mouth and rational thought abandons me entirely.
Before I know it, I’m chasing that taste, deepening the kiss more than strictly necessary for our audience. Her hands fist in the front of my coat with surprising strength, and the way she responds—tentative at first, then with confidence—shocks the rhythm of my pulse.
This was supposed to be quick. A simple peck under the mistletoe to maintain appearances. Holiday traditions and family gatherings are firmly outside my comfort zone, things I’ve avoided ever since my parents split up years ago.
I should have given her a perfunctory kiss and stepped back immediately. Instead, I let the kiss linger for several beats longer than I should, unable to tear myself away.
When we finally separate, she blinks up at me with flushed cheeks and slightly dazed eyes, her tongue darting out to wet her lower lip.
“Oh, you two are so sweet!” Her mother’s enthusiastic applause breaks through whatever spell we’ve created, accompanied by an exaggerated gagging noise from the little boy who must be her nephew. “That’s so romantic. Like something straight out of a Christmas movie.”
I clear my throat and step back slightly, although I keep one hand at Kat’s waist. I’m not sure whether I do it to keep selling the idea that I’m her boyfriend or just to steady her—or, hell, maybe it’s to steady myself.
Something about that kiss knocked me off my center of gravity, making me feel a bit unbalanced.
“Come on, let’s get you both inside before you freeze,” her mom says, already herding us toward the front door with maternal efficiency. “I’ll make proper hot chocolate, and you can tell us all about yourself, Asher.”
Kat’s parents’ home is cozy and lived-in, with old furniture that’s slightly mismatched but looks comfortable.
The walls are decorated with family photos, and I spot Kat in several of them—mostly older pictures, I notice.
It makes me think of my condo in Philly, and how I don’t have a single picture of me with my parents in the entire space.
“I’ll get the hot chocolate started,” Josephine announces, heading toward what I assume is the kitchen. “Who wants to help me?”
Both kids immediately volunteer, practically bouncing with excitement.
“You two only want to help so you can put extra marshmallows in your cocoa,” she says with the kind of amused exasperation that suggests this is a regular negotiation in their household.
“No we don’t!” they protest in unison, but the little girl—Megan—is already grinning in a way that makes me think Josephine is right.
“We’re very good helpers,” Oscar adds with the kind of seriousness only four-year-olds can manage when they’re trying to convince adults of something.
“Sure you are. Come on then, helpers. But I’m in charge of marshmallow distribution.”
Kat laughs as she watches them disappear into the kitchen, a fond expression on her face at the antics of her niece and nephew. She clearly has a soft spot for those kids. Something about that makes me like her more, even though I barely know her.
Her dad settles into a well-worn recliner while I end up on the couch next to Kat. Her mom bustles around for a moment, adjusting pillows and turning on a few more lamps.
“So, hockey,” her father says, folding his arms across his chest. “I’ve been following the game for years, although not as closely as football. Can’t say I know much about the Strikers specifically, but your name’s been mentioned in the sports news lately.”
Of course it has.
“Last season was an… interesting one,” I reply with diplomacy, which is code for ‘my career might be circling the drain but I’m not ready to dissect it with strangers.’
Her mom settles onto the couch on Kat’s other side, clearly ready to join the conversation. “Well, we’re just so happy you had the time to join us for the holidays. I want to hear all about how you two got together. When did you meet? How long have you been together?”
“Seven months,” we both say at exactly the same time, which makes her parents smile like we’ve just done something adorable.
Thank god we managed to get our story straight this time. In the car with Daniel, we gave completely different answers and had to scramble to cover it up.
“So you must have met right after Kat moved to Philadelphia,” her mom says, tilting her chin as if she’s doing the math in her head.
“She’s always been the type to move from place to place, ever since she left Maplewood.
I don’t understand it myself—I’ve been in Maplewood most of my life and that’s where I’ll stay. ”
I glance at Kat, intrigued by that little snippet of information.
She’s been in Philly for less than a year?
Where was she before that? She moves around a lot, apparently, which makes me wonder why someone like her would keep relocating.
Work requirements? Restlessness? But of course, I can’t exactly ask follow-up questions since I’m supposed to already know her well.
Josephine returns from the kitchen just in time to pick up the tail end of what her mother said, carrying a tray loaded with mugs topped with whipped cream and marshmallows. The kids trail behind her, already working on their own drinks and sporting matching whipped cream mustaches.
“I’m the same way,” Josephine says, picking up the thread of the conversation as she hands out mugs. “I can’t imagine wanting to live anywhere else. Maplewood is just… home, you know?”
I consider what she just said while taking a sip of the piping hot drink.
I’ve never been to Maplewood before today, and it definitely doesn’t feel like home to me.
My dad moved here years after he and my mom split up, when some job opportunity took him away from Wisconsin, where I grew up.
But I’ve never visited him here, not once in all the years he’s lived in this little town.
Not even after my mom died three years ago and he became my only living parent.
“I hope I didn’t miss anything important,” Josephine adds, settling into an armchair next to their father with her own mug clutched in her hand. “Please tell me I didn’t miss the story of how you two met. I love hearing how couples got together!”
Before I can launch into the half-formed story about how she spilled tea on me at whatever that café was in Philly, Kat suddenly puts her mug down on the coffee table and practically launches herself off the couch.
“I should grab my car keys from the garage before I forget,” she announces. “And maybe show Asher around the backyard while we’re out there.”
It’s obviously an excuse, since I can’t imagine there’s much to see in a backyard in December in Virginia, but her parents don’t protest as Kat glances my way.
“Want to come with me?” she asks pointedly.
I take one more sip of the hot chocolate, which is actually really fucking good, then stand up to follow her, curious about what she’s going to say when she finally gets me alone.
“There’s no mistletoe out there, you know,” her dad says with a chuckle that makes Kat’s face go bright red.
The flush looks damn good on her, and I try to hold back my amused smile as she practically tugs me toward the garage door, clearly eager to escape before anyone can ask more questions.
The moment we’re in the garage and safely out of earshot, her cheerful girlfriend persona evaporates completely. That frenetic energy that I got just a tiny glimpse of a moment ago bubbles to the surface, and she starts talking in a rush.
“Okay,” she says, words tumbling out like she can’t hold them back any more. “I know this is completely insane, and you probably think I’m the most deranged person you’ve ever met, but I can explain everything.”
I lean against the closed door and cross my arms as she continues, the torrent not showing any sign of stopping.
“I lied about having a boyfriend because Daniel, my ex, completely blindsided me when he broke up with me. One day we were talking about moving in together, the next day he told me I’m not what he considers ‘wife material,’ and that he needed something I could never give him.”
She reaches up to drag both hands down her face, starting to pace a little as she talks, as if she has too much pent up energy to stay still.
“So when he showed up at the airport with his perfect new fiancée, I panicked. I couldn’t stand the thought of him looking at me with that condescending pity, you know?
Like I’m some pathetic single person who never got over him and can’t move on with her life.
So—” She looks over at me for the first time since she started talking, grimacing slightly.
“So I blurted out the first name that came to mind. I never in a million years expected you to actually materialize in person. I mean, what are the odds of running into a professional hockey player at the Maplewood Regional Airport?”
Pretty astronomical, honestly. But here we are anyway.
“I know I’ve put you in an impossible position,” she adds, shaking her head. “And I’m so sorry. I’ll figure out some way to explain it to my family. Maybe I’ll say we had a huge fight on the way here, or we broke up, or you had to leave for some emergency—”
“Why me?” I ask, pressing away from the door and taking a step toward her.
She stops pacing and stares at me in confusion. “What?”
“Why my name specifically? You could have invented anyone. Some random guy named Mike or Dave. Why say Asher Vaughn?”
Her cheeks flush with obvious embarrassment, and she runs a hand through her dark hair, twisting the ends around her fingers.
“I… I’m a nervous flyer. I was watching TV to try to distract myself before we landed, and there was an ESPN story about your contract situation and injury recovery or something. ”
Right. My very public career uncertainties being broadcast for the whole world.
She blows out a breath, her internal tempo seeming to slow a bit now that she’s gotten it all out. “I truly never thought you’d actually show up. If I’d known you’d be in town for Christmas, I would’ve said any other name, I promise.”
She pauses, her brows pulling together as if some new thought has just occurred to her.
“Actually… why are you here? In Maplewood, I mean.” She rests her hands on her hips, studying me curiously.
“You’re obviously not from here, or it would have been front-page news in our local paper for weeks.
And you’re definitely not here to see me, since we only met today.
So what’s a hockey player from Philadelphia doing spending his holidays in nowhere Virginia? ”