Asher
Sometimes expectations can be the most heartbreaking of all.
—My Therapist
A warm body beside me shifts as I drag myself from sleep. Her soft skin brushes over mine. That velvety, alluring fragrance
drifts across my dreamy awareness. It holds just the right amount of bite.
Perfect for Jocelyn.
Jocelyn.
My eyes fly open.
She’s still naked next to me.
Holy shit.
Memories of last night filter through my drowsy thoughts.
Every steamy, feverish moment. Didn’t know sex could be that incredible.
Probably should have guessed, though, given the simple thrill of the elusive Jocelyn Mattox pulling me in for a kiss by the pond last night was enough to nearly undo me.
I told her I wanted more, and she . . . agreed. That’s what that was, right? It took a minute, but she finally lowered her
barriers and let me in. She made the first move. Felt pretty spectacular, all things considered. Good enough that I didn’t
stop to wonder what changed her mind.
Probably should have wondered.
The sheets are tangled low on her waist, and my arm rests across her. Her chest rises and falls with each slow breath.
Briefly consider sliding my hand up to her exposed breast, but . . . that’s rude. I kept her up late. I’ll let her sleep.
Beautiful, sleepy woman.
I’d give her a medal for last night if I could. Hell, I’d probably give her a diamond ring if I thought she’d wear it, but
I’m leaping miles ahead. I know where my head is—fully ensnared by a heart that belongs to her now—but hers? Hers could be
any-fucking-where.
She’s too easily spooked. Must tread carefully now that she’s within my grasp. One wrong move, and she might run.
I slip out of bed to shower and dress, but it doesn’t wake her, so I head downstairs to grab coffee and breakfast. Our flight
home isn’t until this afternoon. Plenty of time to linger. Lattes and egg sandwiches in hand—with a side of orange, of course—I
reenter the suite to find her rubbing her face, still naked in bed. My shoulder braces my weight against the door frame as
I enjoy the view.
And what a view.
When her gaze lands on me, she flushes a pretty shade of pink and pulls the blanket to cover her chest. The constellation
on her collarbone stands out, stark on her fair skin.
“Morning, honey.” I wink at her.
She laughs, still raspy from sleep. “Good morning.”
I set her coffee and sandwich on her bedside table and toss her the fruit before pecking a kiss on her cheek.
She smiles and runs her nails over the orange rind. “You’ve been busy this morning.”
“Thought I’d let you sleep in.”
“Much appreciated.” She scoots to the edge of the bed, still holding the sheet to her body, and places the orange beside her
breakfast sandwich. “I’m pretty sore.”
So much for careful. Unable to help myself, I pull her up for a hug. The sheet does nothing to hide the warm outline of her
figure as it presses against me.
This is right.
She is right.
But . . . why isn’t she smiling when she looks into my eyes?
“Asher . . . About last night . . .”
That’s hesitation. In her tone. Why is she hesitating?
I release her like she burned me. Everything about her is guarded this morning—opaque brown eyes, tense shoulders. Oh, my
god. This isn’t hesitation, is it? She’s bracing herself to deliver bad news.
Hurts like hell, this smile I throw on, but I do manage it. Kicks on the gnawing acid pump in my chest. Might throw up.
She’s wearing the uneasy face. The it’s-not-you-it’s-me face. I’ve seen it before, on too many other women, but this can’t
be happening right now. Not with her. Not after last night. Not after she told me she was sure.
But it is. I can see it in her eyes, what she’s about to say.
I ask anyway. “What— What about last night?”
She scratches her nose and looks away. “Do you think . . . maybe we . . . acted a little rashly?”
I back up and zero in on the tight angles of her jaw, the tiny, telling twitches of her mouth. “Honestly? No. We’ve been heading this way all summer.”
Expressionless, she cocks her head. “But we talked about this. We agreed that we want different things.”
“No. You declared that you don’t do relationships, so you didn’t want me.”
She lets out a short sigh. “It’s not that I didn’t want you, Asher. I just . . . I don’t do this.”
Glad I didn’t drink that coffee. It’d be turning to lead in my gut right now. I stare at her, trying to find any hints of
emotion, but she’s a blank wall. She’s raised her guard so high that even now, having been inside her body and watched her
fall apart, I can’t tell if last night meant anything to her. She’s a fucking mystery in a shiny, tempting package. A Pandora’s
box set on tormenting me.
How can this be happening with her?
Please not with her.
Literally anyone but her.
“Then what was this?” I point at the bed.
“A mistake. You’re my best friend. That’s so much more important than just . . . casual sex.”
Casual?
I freeze at that word. Must tamp down the frigid, zero-degree-Kelvin pain that word instills. Running a hand over the back
of my neck doesn’t help, but I try to collect myself. To speak calmly. “This . . . This wasn’t casual for me. I’m confused
why you thought it was.”
She says nothing. Her gaze strays to the bathroom door like she’s searching for an escape.
I lean that way, try to put myself in her sight line, but it’s useless. She won’t look at me.
“Just to be clear,” I say, “I, um, I didn’t think this was casual for you, either. Was I wrong?”
“Sorry.” She shakes her head. “I just meant . . . You’re more important to me than sex. And I think curiosity got the better of us last night. We weren’t thinking.”
I was thinking.
A lot.
About us. About love. About how good we could be if she’d let us.
Maybe she wasn’t thinking, but I’ve never thought about something so much in my life. Stupid of me to assume she’d actually
considered it and decided on me. No, she was curious. Something beneath the ice starts up a steady, aching throb. An axe splitting my insides into tiny pieces.
“So—” I slip my hands into my pockets “—you were just scratching an itch? Nothing more?”
She smiles, all Yes! Puzzle solved! “Exactly! It’s like test-driving cars, you know? You try the Lambo because you’re curious, even though you know it’s only
for fun. You’re my Lamborghini.”
Ha.
Oh, my god. Did she just say that? Out loud?
Should I be flattered? Because the extreme level of insult stings like a thousand fire ants poured over my flesh.
Only for fun?
I drag my teeth over my lip in an effort to say nothing. Can’t stop the words from forming, though. “Just— Just so we’re clear.
You are not only for fun for me. You’re more than that—”
“I know.” The relief on her face makes no sense. “We are so much better than this. We can go back to how it was. This? It’s
nothing. A silly mistake. It’s not serious.”
My entire being cringes, though my face remains still. Calm.
Not serious.
There’s that other word. She’s two for two today. Must have downloaded a lingo app designed specifically to cut me. But like . . . Why am I surprised? She’s only saying what every woman has said before her. I’m not serious. We all know it. Even Jocelyn thinks so.
Won’t let this pain show. Hurts like a motherfucker, though. Not sure if I’ll come back from it, but . . . problem for another
day.
I paste on a smile. “Right. Of course. Yeah.”
“Really?” The tension in her shoulders eases.
“Nothing that happens in Florida counts, baby doll. Didn’t you know?” My voice is leaden, but her small, relieved laugh says
she either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.
How could I have misread her so completely? I asked her if she was sure, and she said yes. I thought she wanted me, wanted us, but really, she wanted to know what I’m like in bed. Is this barbed wire scraping through my insides or something? The pain
is sharp enough that I should be bleeding.
I’m not, though.
I’m intact, and I can give her what she wants. I can move on. Pretend it doesn’t matter. Ignore the resultant heartbreak.
At least one of us will walk out of this pain-free. We can stay friends, like she wants. Casual.
“It doesn’t have to change a thing,” she says.
But what if I want things to change? What if, for once, I want to be someone’s endgame? Her endgame?
The words hover at the tip of my tongue—I want to be more than friends—but saying them might drive a wedge between us that will never disappear. I’d rather have her as a friend than nothing.
. . . Right?
Can I be in love with someone, see her every day and pretend I don’t love her?
Is maintaining our friendship worth the knife that will sink deeper into my heart with each smile, each hug, each grain of hope she hands me until she eventually finds someone else?
Someone she’s capable of letting inside?
She’ll run to his arms. Sleep in his bed. Marry him.
And I’ll be here again, in a hotel room at her wedding. Listening to a different woman tell me I’m not good enough.
Joss ducks into my line of sight. “Asher?”
I stare at the backlit white curtains, refusing to meet her gaze.
I’ve been in love before, but not like this. Jocelyn Mattox is my person. My always. It’s a mere unfortunate—but predictable—set
of circumstances that I’m not hers.
That’s when it hits me.
I can’t do this.
I won’t do this.
My hands slowly clench. Blood drains from my head. Woozy, I take a breath and I— I decide to destroy it all. Fuck it. Fuck
this.
“I’m in love with you.”
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Her brown eyes widen.
“I’m sorry to be so blunt,” I say. “I just—I’m pretty sure you must not feel the same, but I think I need to hear you say
it.”
Her lips part. Nothing comes out. Not a great sign.
I rub my face and sigh. “Last night was— It meant a lot to me is all I’m saying, so . . . Can you see a future for us? Romantically?”
An interminable silence follows in which she remains frozen. Has she taken a single breath since I started talking? Maybe