Chapter 3
Ivy
Ishove through the patio doors. With his hood up and jeans riding low, Asher kills the garage light and suddenly looks twenty-four instead of immortal.
“Enjoy the spin?”
I toss the keys to him. “Sleeping out there tonight?”
He glances back to the garage before the weight of his arm slips around my back. “You wish. That'd let you off way too easy.”
I duck out from under his arm as we cross the threshold, his fingers scorching a trail along my skin. Why is he hellbent on making me uncomfortable?
He blocks the doorway before we head back through the house, his presence alone anchoring me in place. “Stop thinking about it, Ivy. It's a fucking car. I have fifty.”
“You have fifty?” My brow arches. “I'm trying really hard not to judge you right now, but you're making it difficult.”
His laugh vibrates down my spine as I pass.
“Judge all you want. You and I are still going to be great friends.” He says it like a verdict, leaving no room for argument.
“Are you really living here for a year?” I ask, unable to move on. The thought sits wrong in my gut. It really would be an inconvenience.
He buries himself in the fridge, his broad shoulders blocking the light.
“Nah. I've got a place I'll be crashing at.” Glass bottles clink as he shifts things around. “I just have to hang around for Parker. He's getting a little senile in his old age.”
Senile. The word makes my fingers drum against my thigh. I've never questioned Parker's work and never felt the need to, but why would Asher need to hang around?
“Ah, the age jokes,” I tease, swinging onto a bar stool.
The leather creaks under me. I've barely settled into this house, yet Asher has talked to me more than Parker.
Not that I mind my husband's silence; it keeps things clean.
Simple. But Asher doesn't fit into any of my carefully constructed boxes, and with him, this dangerous banter feels… fine.
Too fine.
He tilts his head, holding water in his mouth with puffed cheeks. He looks cute, for someone entirely too large to be called cute. His throat bobs as he swallows, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Age a sensitive subject for you?”
I hold his stare, his teasing words clawing at some buried wound I keep well hidden. “Not when it has nothing to do with anyone under me.”
His brows shoot up in surprise before his head tilts back with a bark of laughter.
A grin spreads across my face, matching his.
“Alright, alright. That's fair. Clearly you like them older, so what does he have on you?” He pauses, using his fingers to count like a toddler. “Five? Ten? Twelve? Years on you?”
I'm twelve-years-old today!
The doorbell rings and excitement ripples through me as I make my way down the stairs. Dad was away on business, but he promised he'd be back in time for my birthday. He always was!
Swinging it open, my world stops, and my smile falls when I see a tall figure dressed in a leather coat and wearing a top hat.
“Hello, Ivanya,” the man says, his voice gravelly. He smells of burned flesh and Gin.
“Um.” I peek around his shoulder, noticing a black car with dark windows. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, you can,” he says, his voice rough. “I am afraid I am here to take you to your father.”
“Dad?” I perk up. Dad doesn’t have friends, but the ones he does have are business partners. They wear suits and ties, not trench coats and top hats. My skin prickles.
“I don’t think so…” The nanny has probably retreated to her bed for the day, after her fifteenth glass of Jack and Coke. I'm alone. All alone.
“He raised you right. Listen, how about you ask me something that only you and your father know? He and I were close. I can answer almost anything.”
I think over his barter. It seems reasonable. “But why isn’t he here himself?”
“He got caught up at an airport. They’re not allowing anyone to fly right now due to the hurricane, and that same hurricane has knocked all their power banks out, so he has no way of contacting you.
” He doesn’t skip a word. No hesitation, eyes pinned on me.
“You can take a look at the news if you like.”
“No.” I will not turn my back on this person, whoever they are. “No need. But today is my birthday, so he’s—”
—glistening gold takes up the space between us, with gems that wrap around each spike. “He thought he might have risked missing it, so he had it at the office just in case. I haven’t heard from him, but I’m sure he would like you to have it.”
Relief. He's telling the truth.
I pluck the tiara off him, squeezing it to my chest. “Where are we going?”
Silence, before answering. “Some place nice. You will be well looked after.”
Pulling myself out of memory lane, I swing off the stool, rounding the island on my way to the cabinet tucked in the corner. I made damn sure to know where all the alcohol is kept. You know, for reasons other than marrying a man I wasn't in love with.
Popping the cork on a bottle of red, I pluck a wide goblet and pour generously. “Twenty. He has twenty years on me.” Smart ass.
His grin stretches so big I can see every damn one of those perfect teeth. “Twenty? Holy shit,” he says, pushing off the counter and moving closer. He props himself against the island, crossing his ankles all casual-like. “So exactly how old are you, then?”
“Not very good at math, huh?” I raise a brow over the rim of my glass, sighing as I take the first sip. “Twenty-eight. Which will make me… what? Ten years older than you?”
He rolls his head back, dragging his tongue across his bottom lip. “She's got jokes. I can't say I've ever had to tell someone my age, but no, I'm not eighteen.”
I find the pantry, grabbing everything I need for a cheeseboard. “Oh, why?” I call out from inside. “Because everyone knows who you are already, Mr. Professional Snowboarder God, the epitome of every girl's wet dream?”
His chest brushes against my spine. Every muscle in me locks. What the hell is he doing? The hairs on the back of my neck stand as a chill sweeps over me. Cedar slices through the air, mixed with burned sugar—sickly sweet, toxic, irresistible.
My pulse quickens.
He snatches the cracker box off the shelf and places it into my hand.
I pivot, meeting his gaze over my shoulder. “Thank you.”
But back the fuck up.
I slip under his arm for the second time today and get to work slicing cheese and pulling grapes off the stems. Asher keeps going on about some sports thing he's getting dragged into next year.
I just nod, throwing in a few “mhmms” and “yeah, okays” like I have any fucking clue what all these terms he's tossing around actually mean.
Mommy issues. That could be why he's so open with me. Not that I'm complaining, since he’d prove a perfect distraction from my life for the next couple of years.
Juice bursts in my mouth when I pop a grape, and I chew slowly while arranging the platter.
He glances at the board and me. “You got people coming over?”
“Mhmm, I do,” I say, dragging the dish towel over my palms. The fabric rasps against skin still damp. “Why?” My eyes lock onto his, the question hanging like bait. I let it. “Do you want to meet them?”
He smiles again, but the light doesn’t reach his eyes. So damn blue it’s almost blinding. “Sure, since you offered. But I'm heading out later.”
Fifteen minutes later, the doorbell echoes through the hall as I’m juggling bottles of wine.
“I'll get it!” Asher calls out from the stairs before I can answer. I blow a stray strand of hair from my face as Lucinda and Jord appear around the corner.
Jord is a few years younger than Lucinda and me, probably Asher’s age, so his idea of a ‘night in’ always means ‘night out.’
“Help.” The word snaps out, sharp. I shove bottles at both of them and snatch the platter just as Asher turns into the hallway.
Shirtless. Again. My stare locks onto his chest. “Really?” I jab a finger toward his bare skin. “You couldn’t put on a fucking shirt?”
“His shirtlessness is fine, Ivy! Stop being a buzzkill!” Jord’s shout carries from the patio doors.
My jaw drops open. Little prick.
Asher hooks a thumb in his sweatpants, tongue darting over his teeth. “Ah, I mean, they don’t seem to mind.”
He crowds into my space. Soap and cologne suffocate me, and seems like a pretty good way to be dead.
I could stop breathing.
“The question is,” he taps his temple, “why do you care so much?” He smirks, swiping the platter from me “Or is it that you'll be too distracted?”
I flip him off.
We settle around the mahogany table as wine flows between us. Jord sprawls in his chair like it's a throne, while Luce perches elegantly beside him, her green eyes dancing with mischief.
Asher sits beside me, his arm brushing mine.
“So you're really hanging around for a year?” Luce swirls her glass, studying Asher over its rim.
“Give or take.” His foot brushes mine under the table and I pause mid-drink. “Parker needs someone to keep an eye on things while he's traveling.”
“And what exactly needs watching?” I arch a brow, taking a deliberate, slow sip of wine.
His gaze follows the movement of my throat. “Just the valuable shit.”
Jord snorts into his glass. “Smooth.”
Asher's hand vanishes under the table, his knuckles scraping my thigh. I freeze, but he’s unaffected, because of course he is. It was an accident. So why the fuck can’t you chill out.
“You know,” Luce leans forward, “Ivy here used to say she wanted to snowboard.”
I glare at her. Traitor.
“Did she now?” Asher's hand brushes my leg again on its way back up. My jaw twitches. Are you really annoyed, though? “Maybe I should give her some private lessons.”
“I'm sure Parker would love that,” I say sweetly. It’s all lies, since Parker wouldn’t give a shit.
“Don’t you worry about Parker,” Asher chuckles, but the weight of his words aren’t lost on any of us.
Jord raises his glass. “To new friendships then.”
Asher’s eyes lock with mine. “To new friendships.”
What is with this man and his need to make everything feel intense?
Luce and Jord exchange loaded glances.
“Ivy loves discovering new territory,” Luce says innocently. “Don't you, honey?”
My foot connects with hers beneath the table, only deepening her smug grin. The conversation drifts, but the current between Asher and me grows stronger. Every glance, every accidental touch, builds something I can't afford to want. Won't allow myself to want.
But when he reaches for the wine and his fingers brush my wrist, a spark ignites something volatile. Something that threatens to rattle the foundations of the walls I’ve built around myself.
Something I would burn for.
I need to remember why I'm here. Who I am. What I have to do.
His knee presses against mine, and I don't move away.
Fuck.
This is going to be harder than I thought.