Chapter Three #2
I crack my knuckles to give me something to do with my hands. “I mean, there will be a happily ever after, of course. I just don’t know how it unfolds for them. The rest of the story came so naturally, and now there’s a big blank space.”
Ashton raises his brows. I’m learning they’re quite expressionistic. “Is this your first experience with writer’s block?”
I spurt a laugh. “I’m barely a writer. How can I be blocked?”
“It happens to everyone.”
Shaking my head, I deny it. “No. I just need to get closer to the ending. I’ve got to tell the story up until the ending to decide how the ending happens.”
Ashton hums in agreement. “That’s a good idea. How long do you think until you have the completed manuscript?”
“At the rate I’m going through edits, I’ll most likely have it finished within two weeks.” If the ending reveals itself, that is.
Patience, sweetheart. Give me time. I start at the sound of Noah’s voice, which sounds eerily like Ashton’s, in my head when the man I envision him looking like is sitting across from me. Ashton doesn’t notice, thank goodness.
Katie approaches wearing that same gossip-spreading smile pasted as she sets down our coffees. “Enjoy. Let me know if y’all need anything else.”
“Thanks, Katie,” I reply, using my friendly teacher voice and leveling her with another stare. She grins wider and walks away. There’s no chance of me getting out of this meeting without the whole town talking. Why, oh why did I pick this location?
“What inspired the story?” Ashton asks, his voice intense. “You’ve shared on social media that you were on vacation when an accident happened, leaving you in a coma and waking up with amnesia. Does that have anything to do with the story you’re writing?”
“I’m not sure if it’s directly connected or not.
I just know when I woke up, I had this image of a man I’d never met before at the forefront of my mind.
” I leave out mentioning once more that he looks just like said man.
“That was it. The rest of the story started coming to me in bits and pieces, and my therapist suggested it could be a memory. However, it doesn’t feel like it belongs to me, you know?
I think it’s the Lord putting a story on my heart to tell. I’ve always wanted to be a writer.”
“How can you be certain it’s not a memory?”
Ashton’s question strikes me. “I guess I can’t be certain it’s not, but I feel like I’d know. It’s all fiction in my head. I still wake up and think I’m in my early twenties instead of my late twenties sometimes. That’s more real to me than this random guy and story taking up space in my brain.”
I’m insulted, my little author, Noah pushes back, but his tone is light, feigning offense. I fight off the smile while he says, I’m not some rando dude in your head. You’ve crafted me with care and precision, and I…
I continue my other thoughts, ignoring Noah droning on about how he’s real enough.
“Besides, nobody can verify the story or the man. I’m sure I would have told my parents about him.
Definitely would have told my best friend, Sam.
There’s no record of him amid the pictures I took on my phone while in Bora Bora. No texts, no number. Noth—.”
I pause in my speech, wondering why I dumped all of that onto this stranger. But before I can succumb to embarrassment, he hums, nodding his head as if he understands.
“You haven’t shared the details about what happened to you to cause the amnesia. Why is that?” Ashton narrows his eyes as if he’s deep in thought before he runs a hand over the dark scruff on his face.
“I—” I trail off, transfixed on the brick wall behind Ashton.
Every time I focus too long on trying to recall what led to the amnesia, a blanket of sadness covers me.
I only know what the doctors told me; I have no idea what led to that fateful moment.
And why is he pressing me about this? We don’t know each other like that.
Though I’m frustrated, I continue with gentleness to not stir trouble.
“I don’t think I’m ready to share about it.
That moment, though I can’t remember why, feels intimate and a bit gutting if I’m being honest. When I try to think about it, it’s like something inside of me is ripping.
Though, I can say it was a Jet Ski accident.
I just don’t know how or why it happened. ”
Snapping my gaze back to Ashton, his expression resembles someone offering condolences at a funeral. He’s opening his mouth to respond when his attention is pulled to someone behind me. I turn around to find a mid-sized, stocky man with slicked-back brown hair hovering over my shoulder.
The forgettable ghost from my past that won’t go away.
Bryan.
An unexpected shiver runs down my spine, and I straighten as if my body is on high alert.
“Oh, hi,” I state with a tight smile. “It’s good to see you, Bryan.”
I glance around the coffee shop, and the few townsfolk secretly eyeing me and Ashton have made their gazes non-conspicuous.
“Hi,” he says in a voice that grates my nerves.
I don’t recall everything that happened between us, only what my parents, brother, and Sam could recount; they didn’t like him much, apparently.
I’m sure there are things that only Bryan and I know about, but I don’t care to fill in the gaps with a man who left me standing at an altar on our wedding day just a week and a half after my birthday.
Bryan waves one hand awkwardly, then starts pulling at his mid-sized beard.
Everything about this guy is mid—his voice, his stature, and his personality.
We've spoken here and there over the past year, and with every encounter, I cringe harder at the pre-amnesia version of me who was going to marry this man. What was I thinking?
He continues to stand there silently, his eyes darkening for a split second before they return to their usual glassy look.
I swallow, discomfort blanketing my shoulders as I shift my attention between him and Ashton.
Ashton stands, takes a step around our table, and holds out his hand.
“Hey, man. I’m Ashton. Can we help you with something? ”
“Uh, no. Just saying hi to my fiancée.” He takes Ashton’s hand, and I watch amazed at how Ashton’s hand dwarfs Bryan’s.
“Fiancée?” Ashton asks, arching that thick eyebrow and glancing down at me. His tanned face pales two shades.
I shift in my seat. “Ex. He left me at the altar before I went and got myself a big dose of amnesia. Guess that was for the best.” I attempt a laugh, but it comes out breathy and shaky with nerves over this public encounter.
Bryan winces, yanking his hand away from Ashton’s. “Well, Bryan. I think the woman is uncomfortable around you, so I’d appreciate it if you would allow us to continue our meeting in peace.”
Bryan shrinks back, but there’s no trace of an expression outside of his tight jaw. It’s as if he’s indifferent to the fact that I’m having coffee with this runway-model-looking man.
I, however, care greatly that Ashton is standing as a brick wall between me and Bryan.
It’s male-main-character energy. My heart rate has spiked, and I don’t need a mirror to know a pink blush is blending into my cream, freckled face.
This has got to be the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me.
Men really help women out like this in real life?
It’s not just a thing of romance novels?
“Uh, right. Yeah.” Bryan awkwardly turns around and heads toward the counter. Ashton sits back down and sips his coffee while I stare at him in disbelief.
“You were going to marry that guy?” Ashton’s voice is full of incredulity, that eyebrow of his rising once more. Ashton, unlike Bryan, is animated.
I stifle a laugh at the same time relief seeps into my skin. “Yeah, I guess the old Esme planned to. He did us a favor leaving her at the altar. Even if it did end with amnesia.”
“I agree.” He snickers, pushing back in his seat. “Now. Where were we?” He thinks for a second, fixing his face back to business. “Ah, yes. Fateful moments. Well, Esme. I like you. If your manuscript is as interesting as your personal story, I think we will do great work together.”
“Thank you, Mr. Prewitt.” A genuine smile breaks across my face.
He laughs, his features relaxing. “Ashton, please. I helped you shake your stale cracker of an ex. That’s personal name type of stuff.”
If I would have sipped my coffee, it would be all over Ashton right now.
I’ve gotten to know Bryan a little over the past year, and what I came to terms with in the span of several uncomfortable encounters, Ashton deduced from one.
“You did not just call him that.” I can’t stop the boisterous laugh, and I throw my hand over my mouth to stifle it.
When I gain my composure, I lean across the table and whisper, “My best friend, Sam, refers to him as a bland bag of vanilla wafers.”
He mocks offense, those eyebrows rising high as his dark hazel eyes widen. “Tell her from here on out he must be referred to as stale crackers. Vanilla wafers are delicious.”
“Noted.” At that moment, I realize he has leaned in, too, and his eyes are alight with an air of playfulness.
So far, I’ve seen the business side of Nikhil Ashton Prewitt, and now this side.
I don’t think he intended to show me this side, but who knows?
Maybe he’s one of those people who doesn’t chameleon themselves.
Maybe he is who he is regardless of whether he’s working, on a date, or talking to his friends and family.
I can respect that greatly. I value honesty.
He must notice our closeness because he audibly swallows once before looking over my shoulder. “He’s gone.”
I haven’t moved an inch, trapped in his eyes. “Good.”
His eyes flick down to my chest. I have the urge to cover myself, and I briefly wonder if I’ve made a mistake coming here. But his wide eyes rise to mine as he asks, “Where did you get that necklace?”
“Oh, uh—” I bring my hand to the cross emblem, leaning back under his intense stare. “A nurse gave it to me after my accident back in Bora Bora.”
Ashton tilts his head ever so slightly before pulling at a chain around his neck. “I have one, too.”
The uneasiness prickling at my senses vanishes, and I audibly exhale at the sight of the silver cross necklace that is identical to mine. What are the odds? “Well, would you look at that. It’s like fate.”
Ashton hums, a small smile twitching at the corner of his lips, before abruptly standing.
“I’m going to read through what you have, and I will reach out about another meeting when the manuscript is complete.
I live in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, and it’s a three-hour drive to get here, so I should be on my way back home.
” Ashton pulls a card from his wallet. “Here. Just in case you accidentally lose my number.”
I drop the card into the front pocket of my satchel, a little taken aback. I don’t know why I thought he lived closer even though his company was based in Tuscaloosa. “Thank you.” Then I add, “You drove all this way just to meet me?”
He nods, a small smile tugging on his full, pale pink lips. “I like to show my future authors that I’m committed to them and their craft. Plus,” he shrugs, “I can go to Bass Pro Shop over in Pearl before I leave.”
Chuckling, I say, “There’s the real reason.”
“What can I say? I’m only a man.”
Yes. You are all man. Hot, bookish man, I think while sweeping my gaze across his broad shoulders before chastising myself and remembering he was talking about calling a woman named Branda back earlier. But I am intrigued by the ease between us. I don’t talk to hot men so openly. Ever.
Clearing my throat, I rise from my seat. “Regardless if it was me or Bass Pro Shop, I’m glad we could meet and you could rescue me from my ex. I’m not good at getting myself out of conversations with him because I feel a tad guilty that I forgot the time we were together.”
“Never feel guilty for that,” Ashton says gently, a softness overcoming his chiseled features. “He left you at the altar. You owe him nothing.”
Tears push against my eyes, but I hold them back and nod, cursing my mom’s gift of cry-over-anything genetics.
Ashton offers his hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Esme. I look forward to reading this story.”
I shake his hand, enjoying the warmth and firmness of his grip.
“I hope you like it.” Anxiety settles in my chest, and a million questions race through my mind.
I hear the Enemy’s voice stirring doubt, and I counter with a quick, silent prayer for the Lord to battle it for me.
Aloud and through a forced smile, I say, “And if you want, we can set up a Zoom meeting or something next time so you don’t have to drive all this way. ”
Ashton shrugs. “We’ll see. I like traveling.”
And with that, he leads us out of the coffee shop and disappears around the corner of the parking lot while I slip into my old, beat-up Toyota.
I white-knuckle the steering wheel as my brain shuffles and repeats the encounter with Ashton, analyzing every detail against my book character, Noah Ashton . His looks, the tattoo, the silver cross necklace…
There’s no way…
My phone buzzes, and I check the incoming message from Isla Grimsley, the owner of our one dance studio, Whimsical Whitney Dance Studio. We don’t talk often as her work keeps her busy and she’s about ten years older than I am, but on occasion we rendezvous back together for coffee and catch ups.
Isla : Jay said that his little sister said that she saw you in Main Street Coffee with a man and that y’all were cozy. Care to spill? ;)
I groan, dropping my forehead to my steering wheel. “Stupid small towns.”