2. Ash #2
Instead of opening the door, the driver stayed in his seat, so I got out to greet her, roses in hand.
The night we sort of met, I watched the clips of her reading while I waited outside the box office, not expecting her to be the one to show up with a winning ticket.
So many expressions flickered across her face in such a short time, I wondered what she’d been reading.
Maybe I’d ask her, see if I could bring back those flushed pink cheeks from the videos.
The woman’s gaze found me, a divot forming between her brows as her pale blue eyes zeroed in on the roses in my hand. I debated pulling on my signature cocky grin but opted for a realer, half-smile instead.
“You live here?” I glanced toward the nail salon and shoe store. Really nice, Ash, piss her off right out the door.
“Yeah, the scent of acrylates and lavender foot oil really gets me going.”
Damn, the sarcasm on this one. “It’s the old fried chicken oil for me.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I didn’t want you to know where I lived. I don’t know you, and I’d rather be safe than sorry.”
“Huh. Smart.” A cold wind blew around us, but it had nothing on her.
“I was hoping you’d bail so I could eat your entree too.” Acid dripped off her words.
“Not a chance, sweetheart.” I held out the bouquet I pilfered. Maybe I should’ve reminded her I had no choice.
Her lip curled. I was pushing her buttons. Good .
“I am not your sweetheart.” Wrinkling her nose, she snatched the flowers. For a moment, it looked as though she considered tossing them on the ground. Then she glanced between me and the flowers like she wanted to throw them at me instead. Neither thing happened, but I was still prepared to duck.
“No, but since you have yet to introduce yourself, I have no choice but to call you sweetheart. Or princess, if you’d prefer.” I got the sense she’d be the type to hate nicknames from the other night, so I resolved not to call her by name.
“Olivia,” she bit out. And then in afterthought, “Barnes. But everyone calls me Liv.”
“Lovely to meet you, Olivia. I’m Asher?—”
“‘The Basher’ Wilder. I know. I googled you.” A flash of white reflected the car’s headlights off the darkened window as she sank her top teeth into her bottom lip, like she didn’t mean to speak.
Torn between hatred of the nickname and amusement that she looked me up, I said, “Call me Ash, please. Or Asher, if you’d prefer.” I tried to keep the frustration out of my voice, but Olivia tilted her head, her gaze shifting from icy to oceanic in the near evening light.
Expecting her to question my request or make a joke, it caught me off guard when she retreated. “And I’m just Liv. Not Olivia.”
“What’s wrong with Olivia ?” I drew her name out, letting all of my inner seductive asshole out in three syllables.
“Never mind,” she said, with a dramatic exhale. “Let’s get this over with. There’s a mountain of French butter with my name on it.”
Hmm . She was completely unaffected by my seductive wiles. How… nice . “Right. After you, then.” With a sweeping gesture to hide how startled I was, I opened the door like a Bridgerton footman and allowed her to enter the car ahead of me.
It certainly wasn’t to check out her ass.
And I didn’t. Much.
Inside, Olivia scowled at the decor.
“Was all of this necessary?” She flicked one of the heart-shaped balloons, and it bobbed away only to bounce back to gently smack her in the face. She sighed again as if the balloon was the straw that broke her back.
“I love this. Don’t you?” I pulled a bottle of sparkling wine from a bucket of ice bolted to the top of the bar.
Melted water and ice chips dripped on my jeans as I unwound the gold cage from the cork.
Except the cork wasn’t budging, so I gripped the neck of the bottle in one hand, twisting the cork up in the other.
For a moment, nothing happened, and I was desperate enough to smash the bottle open when?—
— Pop —
Olivia shrieked, and I reared back. Our eyes met, and she laughed at how we both startled.
Her laugh was the first step on a pristine frozen puddle; a sharp crack of ice and the welling of clear water. Quick, sharp, and so, so satisfying. It was a punch to my gut, harder than I’d ever experienced and I’ve been punched a lot. Kind of an occupational hazard.
Instead of continuing to focus on whatever complicated… things … her unexpected laughter provoked, I poured the champagne and downed mine in a single gulp.
Olivia drank hers slower, seeming to savor it, until she glanced at me. Then, she drained her glass, too.
When we arrived at Le Rêve, I expected a horde of photographers, and I was grateful not to find any as we exited the limo. I approached the host’s stand. “Hello. We have a reservation for Wilder.”
Our host tapped at a tablet, then gathered menus and stepped around the stand. “Of course. This way, please, Mr. And Mrs. Wilder.”
A strangled, choking sound came from behind me, and I couldn’t help poking the bear.
“Thank you so much—” I glanced at their name tag— “Jordan. Mrs . Wilder and I have been really looking forward to this romantic evening.” If superfans heard this, they’d be frothing at the mouth, but not Olivia.
I was sure she saw right through me when she spoke.
“Have we, Mr . Wilder ? ” Her voice carried a strange combination of ire and humor.
Jordan politely ignored us as we ambled toward the back of the restaurant.
“Through here, please.” Waving magnanimously to the darkened, more private dining room as we entered the space and followed them to our table.
Of course, it was right in the center of the room, where we’d be visible to everyone else, rather than skulking in a corner the way I’d prefer.
Several minutes passed quietly as we perused the menus.
I wanted to ask her opinion, to see if she wanted to share or what her thoughts on mushrooms were, or if she knew how to pronounce “Bourguignon.” But the air lingered heavy over us until our server broke it, offering bread, wine, and a needed reprieve.
When they walked away, I couldn’t stand another second of this far from comfortable quiet. “If we’re going to have to endure this dinner, can we at least not do it in silence?” Olivia’s huffiness returned at my request. Hoping to disarm her, I asked, “What do you talk about with your friends?”
A delicate snort escaped her, though she tried to hide it. “Friends? We’re not friends.”
“Okay, but don’t you have friends to hang out with?”
Another scoff as she studied her hands. Her glass. Anything but me. “Not here.”
“What about the people you work with?”
“Hell, no.”
Interesting. Wasn’t she dating the dude who followed her to the box office and gave her a shitty nickname? But she cut off my rumination before it went further.
“I’m not great at making friends, not since college…”
There was clearly more to the story, but when she didn’t explain, I didn’t push.
“Besides I work weird hours, and—” Assessing, light eyes met mine before she blazed on. “And I’m not good at being a friend anyway.”
“Is anyone?”
Olivia shrugged. “I’m not what most people consider friendly, and I’m not ‘nice’,” she drew air quotes around the word.
“I’m usually too blunt, and it comes out rude, even if I don’t mean it that way.
Sometimes I need a lot of space, and I’ll just disappear.
I might forget to text on your birthday, but I’ll send you twenty memes that made me think of you at three a.m. on a Tuesday.
I don’t like people touching me when I don’t expect it; hugs are hard.
I am difficult to be around and harder to…
befriend, I guess. So, it’s best not to waste either of our time. ”
Those all sounded like things someone told her about herself. She recited them like ticking off a list.
“I’m not sure what I’d say about tonight, but it’s not a waste of time. I can handle anything you throw at me.” Suddenly, I wanted to crack through that ice.
She sized me up, sparkling blue eyes flicking over my shoulder and going unfocused for a split second. I watched her make the silent decision before a slow smile spread over her face. And it… captivated me. I was a butterfly pinned to a board, helpless in a way that was unfamiliar.
“When I’m too much for you, remember, you asked for it.”