Chapter 35
Chapter thirty-five
LIAM
I check my watch again. Seven minutes until Ash is supposed to arrive. The kitchen feels too quiet with just me here. I’ve already arranged the snacks in the basement three different ways and adjusted the thermostat twice.
I spin the package on the counter as I wait for the kettle to boil. Tea might help settle me. I’m fucking drinking tea.
I canceled on Enzo when I got the text from Ash. The Raspberry Pi and RAM modules, a few control boards for the laundromat, finally came in, all sitting snug in bubble wrap now. AI is eating up all the chips, and I’m not dumb enough to buy anything high-end and traceable.
So instead of crawling through the insides of industrial washers, I’m sitting here crawling out of my skin instead.
I flip my new iPad open and stare at it. I gave her my Pro with the Apple Pen and all, and just replaced it the next day.
With only a little guilt, I located the device earlier today. It was at Little Red Hen Diner. I am presuming that’s where she works.
I had left myself logged into everything on that iPad. Safari, Chrome, Apple ID.
I scrub both my hands through my hair and let the rationalizations flow.
We don’t really know who she is. I’ve pretty much ruled gold digger and puck bunny out.
She has secrets. And I’m not going to be a little bitch and hold that against her, considering the shitstorm Pierce and I are sitting on.
I can’t shake the idea that something is seriously wrong with her.
We don’t even know what her last name is.
I’ve already exhausted every google search avenue.
This is no different really. Right? Fuck me. The temptation to spy on her device is too strong.
I tap into Safari and pull up history on that device.
The first few searches are innocent enough.
procreate tutorials beginners
how to blend colors digital art
Nashville bus schedule downtown
Nothing surprising for someone learning a new skill, navigating a new city. But then there’s a dramatic shift.
what is coercion
how to rent an apartment
can you stop a heat cycle naturally
how do I get id
how to tell if you’re being watched
what happens if you call the police
parents heat
I stare at the list and force my fists to unclench.
“What the fuck are you into, Ash?” I whisper to myself.
My phone buzzes and a message alert from Beckett pops up.
Beckett:
Did she break the tablet? Can we buy her a new one? Did she get there yet?
I told him she was coming over to watch the game.
I type “Becks, I think she’s in trouble, we need to talk” but delete it.
Liam:
Her text said she needed help. Not that it was broken. Can’t wait for the game.
I need more. I need more information before freaking Beckett out with this. A search history isn’t evidence of dick.
I need her full name. With that, I can run a proper background check, trace her movements, find out who she really is and what she’s running from. I’m not above searching her wallet.
Wait. She doesn’t drive. Maybe she doesn’t have an ID at all?
I can use Beckett. I can sign her up for a streaming service to watch the Scorpions and Beckett play. Have her put in all her information and get her set up.
The doorbell’s chime startles me so badly that I nearly drop the tablet. I close all the browser tabs and flip the cover closed. When I open the door, and she’s standing there in her rundown coat and nervous gestures, I want to scream at how young and vulnerable she looks.
“Hey,” she says, voice soft against the evening air. “Am I late?”
I step aside to let her in, careful to keep my face neutral despite the storm of concern raging inside me. “Don’t worry about it,” I say. “The game hasn’t started yet.”
As she steps past me into the house, her peach scent immediately fills the room.
I hold out my hand for her coat and she flinches.
All that alpha bullshit of wanting to tear down whatever it is that makes an omega so jumpy settles into my jaw.
Thank god Beckett has great insurance in case I crack a tooth from clenching my jaw so hard.
I lead Ash down the basement stairs, watching how she grips the railing, how her eyes dart around the space like she’s mapping exits and scanning for threats.
Just like Pierce does. I pinch the bridge of my nose at the realization that the two of them probably have more in common than I want to admit.
Her search history makes so much sense if, like Pierce and Reed, she had shit parents who couldn’t find the line between abuse and discipline with two hands and floodlights.
“Make yourself comfortable.” I play the gracious host and gesture to the sofa.
The basement has transformed since this morning.
What was once a sparse entertainment area is now a nest of comfort, pillows arranged strategically along the sectional, thick blankets draped over armrests, bowls of popcorn, nuts, and chocolate within easy reach.
I’ve dimmed the overhead lights and turned on the amber floor lamps instead.
Ash pauses at the bottom of the stairs, her eyes widening slightly at the setup. “Wow. You went all out.”
Fuck. I spent all day building her a nest without even realizing it.
“Beckett’s game days are sacred around here,” I say with a practiced casualness, though this display has nothing to do with hockey and everything to do with the alpha instinct screaming inside me.
She settles into the corner of the sectional that’s set up to perfectly cradle her criss-cross-applesauce. The posture makes her look smaller, more vulnerable. I want to wrap her in a billion blankets. Bubble wrap. Bullet proof armor.
“Want something to drink? I’ve got beer, wine, soda…” I hover nearby, reluctant to move too far from her now that she’s here.
“Water’s fine,” she says, reaching into her bag. She pulls out the iPad, setting it on her lap with a small frown. “I feel stupid even asking for help with this. It’s probably something obvious that I’m missing.”
I grab two waters from the mini-fridge tucked beneath the bar and return to the couch, sitting closer to her than strictly necessary. Not touching, but close enough that a slight shift from either of us would change that.
“No worries. Tech can be frustrating even when you know what you’re doing.”
Her hair falls forward as she bends over the tablet, and I catch another waft of that peach scent.
My body responds instantly, heart rate increasing.
I wipe my palms on my jeans just in case they’re all sweaty.
The reaction is visceral and unwelcome. I shouldn’t be attracted to her, not now, not knowing what I know.
“So, what’s giving you trouble?” I ask, keeping my voice steady.
Ash shifts the tablet toward me, Procreate already open.
“Something’s wrong with it,” she says, leaning closer. Her thigh is touching mine. “It won’t let me add any more layers. The button just… stopped working.”
I take the iPad from her and glance at the canvas info panel. The dimensions make me pause for half a second.
“You made this thing enormous.”
Her shoulders lift in a small shrug. “I saw something that said the more resolution, the better it will print.”
“Sure, that’s totally true.” I have to get her a printer.
I have to have a room wallpapered in what she creates.
I clear my throat. “But Procreate limits the number of layers based on canvas size. The bigger the canvas, the fewer layers it allows.” I tilt the screen so she can see, pulling up the canvas information.
“Right now, you’re working at something like poster resolution.
The iPad can handle it, but Procreate’s protecting the memory budget.
That’s why the layer button’s grayed out. ”
“Oh.” She leans closer, her arm brushing mine as she studies the numbers. It would be weird if I pulled her right into my lap. Right?
I duplicate the canvas, then scale it down slightly. The moment the resized version loads, the layer menu lights back up with room to spare.
“There,” I say, handing the tablet back. “Still huge resolution, but now you’ve got breathing room for layers.”
Ash taps the screen experimentally, then glances up at me with a quick smile.
“Okay, that actually makes sense.”
On the TV, the pre-game coverage for the Scorpions plays at low volume.
Beckett’s face flashes on screen during a segment about injured players.
Could be my imagination, but her scent seems to flare just at the sight of Beckett.
All my attention is fixed on the small point of contact where our arms touch, on the way her fingers tremble slightly as she hands me the tablet.
“Can I see what you’ve been working on?”
“It’s all shit,” she says instantly.
“Please.” I should be embarrassed by how close to begging that is.
Ash licks her lips and tucks hair behind her ear, then scrolls through the gallery.
“You’ve got a good eye for composition.”
“Just doodles.” A flush creeps up her neck at the praise.
“No, they’re good. Really good.” I swipe through her recent work, mostly abstract landscapes that somehow capture emotion through color and form. There’s a darkness to them, a yearning quality that makes my chest ache.
Just like her searches, her art tells a story she won’t put into words.
The game starts, and we shift our attention to the TV.
The Scorpions are playing poorly without Beckett, already down by two goals in the first period.
We settle into a comfortable rhythm of commenting on plays, sharing the popcorn, and questions about the game.
Ash is totally not a puck bunny. She knows as much about hockey as I know about ballet.
This is fucking fantastic and torture at the same time. I’ve already tucked her in with fuzzy blankets, given her snacks, and answered all her questions. It’s perfectly innocent. And yet, my dick is hard and it’s taking every bit of sanity not to lay her out on all the pillows and—
Ash shouts and claps her hands. The Scorpions scored. I laugh and casually pull a pillow into my lap, praying she never notices what having her this close, with her scent going crazy, is doing to me.