Chapter 7
Ella
The smell of blood is strong in a confined space.
The stench coats the inside of my nostrils, so potent that even someone like me, someone who has witnessed at least a dozen deaths, feels the tug on my stomach that could lead to me vomiting.
My feet are soaked in red thickness, the body of my father still at my feet, when the knocking—
I stop typing, pull my headphones off, and listen.
Maybe I imagined the sound. Sometimes I’m so deep into my writing that I’m sure the words lift from the page and into real life, because it sounded like someone knocked on my door.
Sure enough, there’s another knock.
I drape the headphones around my neck and get up, peering through the peephole, and when I see who’s on the other side, I bounce on my feet.
I still have my makeup on, thank God, and my hair still looks great. I’m in sweats and a tank top, eager to be comfy while I write, but I look acceptably cute.
Taking a deep breath, I open the door, smiling brightly. “Hey.”
Asher grins. “Hi. Sorry to bother you.”
His hair is wet from a shower, probably, and his cheeks are pink. He’s in jeans and a T-shirt, and God, he looks yummy.
I bet he looks good in the shower.
“It’s okay,” I say. “What’s up?”
“Coffee?” he asks, holding out an empty cup. “I’ve got none for the morning, and I’ll die without it.”
That’s an adorable excuse. Barnaby stocks up on coffee. I’d taken a delivery for him two months ago, and it was at least a six-month supply. He always bought everything in bulk. I flush and try not to smile too much.
“Sure.” I let him inside, scanning the apartment quickly. There’s a discarded bra on the sofa, so I snatch it up and throw it in my purse.
“Your books must sell well,” he says, glancing around.
“Oh, it’s a friend's place,” I say. “She’s in Europe and lets me stay here.”
“Rent-free?” he asks, following me into the kitchen.
“Yep. I pay the bills and stuff, but I’m super lucky. It’s ideal to have somewhere nice, because I rarely leave.”
Don’t tell him you don’t go outside, Ella, you loser.
I resist tapping my temple. Reaching into the cupboard, I take out the coffee, handing him a pack.
“Just a cup is fine,” he says.
I shake my head. “Consider it a moving-in gift.”
He takes it. “Thanks. Or … I could just take you out for coffee to repay you?”
Good answer!
Tingles run down my spine. This is cute. This is adorable. This is exactly what I need after my argument with—
“Oh,” I say, dragging out the word and narrowing my eyes at him. “Gable told you about the argument downstairs.”
He opens his mouth as if to deny it, then laughs. “Yeah, he did.”
“Swooping in, Mr. …” I tilt my head. “I just realized I don’t know your last name.”
“Flynn,” he says. “What’s yours?”
Mrs. Ella Flynn sounds nice.
“Gibson,” I say.
“Like the guitar?”
“Yes. No relation.”
He laughs again and I love it so damn much I want to kiss him. Asher Flynn might be the most adorable person I’ve ever met in my life, and I never want Barnaby to come back.
Maybe you could kill him.
“I’d like to go for a coffee with you,” I say.
“Great.” He places the coffee on the counter. “I have so much of this downstairs. I don’t need it.”
I laugh, my cheeks warm. “You could have just come over and asked me out, y’know.”
“Yeah, but if I asked for coffee, then I could chicken out. I like to have options to run if necessary.” He glances at the laptop on the couch. “Writing?”
“Always.”
“Can I read some?”
“Absolutely not.” I lean over and slam the laptop closed. “It’s the most private thing in the world. You’re basically asking to see inside my head.”
“I think I’d quite like to see inside your head.” His eyes sparkle. “I imagine it’s like a library.”
“It’s …” I pause, leaning against the back of the couch and wishing he’d move closer. “More like a waiting room.”
He looks intrigued. “A waiting room?”
“Yep,” I say and tap my head. “A world full of people waiting their turn to be put on a page. They get impatient sometimes.”
I haven’t told anybody that in a long time. I told my mom when I was younger about the people eagerly waiting to be allowed into a fictional world of my making, but no one since.
He’s smiling at me so gently that my heart thumps.
“I think you might be one of the most interesting women I’ve ever met,” he says quietly.
This fucking guy. Is he real? Touch him. Make sure he’s real, Ella.
I look at the floor, cheeks burning. “I don’t usually tell people stuff like that.”
“But you told me?”
My blush spreads down my neck. It’s one thing to admit your process and give away a piece of your heart and brain; it’s another to face that it’s happened.
We should just marry him.
I tap my temple.
“I am gonna get to the story behind that.” He points at me. “I swear.”
“Now, that is something you’ll never know. I’d rather let you read my work first.”
“One day, Ella Gibson,” he says. “Or … next best thing. Do you have any copies of your books?”
Yeah, about a thousand.
“Um …” I glance around. “Yeah, but you don’t have to read them; they might not even be your thing—”
“I want to,” he insists. “Give me your goriest one.”
I straighten up off the couch. “Okay, come with me.”
He follows me into the second bedroom, where there are four large boxes filled with books. There are also some stolen Barnaby packages I haven’t gotten around to opening yet.
“These are all yours?”
“No, they’re books from home, too. I don’t have anywhere to put them.” I run my fingertips across the spines. “So, my poor babies have to stay in boxes.” I hunt until I find a copy of my first book, about two women who clean up crime scenes until one of them falls in love with a suspect.
“Cleaners,” he says. “A good one?”
“My best one. So far.”
We walk back to the door, and he pauses for a second, looking down at me.
“So … coffee.”
“Coffee. I’m free whenever.”
Cool, very cool. Hi, I’m Ella Gibson and I have no life.
“Just how pathetic would I be if I wanted to see you tomorrow?” he asks.
Not pathetic at all!
The butterflies are performing synchronized swimming lessons in my stomach. “Tomorrow works for me.”
“Is nine too early?”
I laugh. “A little. I work through the night and sleep most of the day. How about four?”
“Sure, I can work with that.” He steps into the hallway, checking his watch. “Nineteen hours to read this.”
“You don’t have to read it tonight! I won’t quiz you, I promise.”
“I kinda hope you do. I’m great at quizzes,” he says. “But yeah, nineteen hours. I can totally wait nineteen hours to see you again.”
I laugh, my body hot because damn. Is he real? I did touch him when I cleaned up his arm, didn’t I? He’s definitely a real person.
“One problem,” he says.
I tilt my head. “What?”
“I don’t think I can wait nineteen hours to do this.”
The space between us disappears in a single step. His hand finds the side of my neck, the other my hip, and as his lips press to mine, my world lights up.
Colors, and lights, and richness, and warmth. They collide together to create fireworks in an apartment doorway that had, until today, been totally unremarkable.
Now it’s the place where I, Ella Gibson, first kissed Asher Flynn, and it will forever be known as just that.
With slow, patient movements of his lips, Asher Flynn devours my world and everything in it. The seconds become memories far too quickly, and I clutch at his shirt in a desperate attempt to stretch those memories into forever.
His hand slides from my hip to encircle my waist, a possessive move that crushes my body to his.
He tastes like mint; he smells like pine bodywash.
Heat focuses between my legs, radiating through every muscle, and my toes curl, my body a string pulled taut, a wonderful tightness centered on every point of contact with him.
When the kiss breaks, he stays close, and I run my tongue across my bottom lip.
Asher lets out a shaky breath. “That should tide me over until tomorrow.”