CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Asher
“It looks nice.”
“What does?” I ask Nita as I plop down on the couch across from where she’s seated.
“The house. You’re slowly making it yours.”
“You mean I’ve taken down all of the embarrassing photos that Gran and Pop had hanging of me everywhere?”
“Well, there’s that.” She laughs. “But it feels more like you than like them now.”
“I know. It’s been a gradual process and a hard decision to make to start doing it, but I had to come to terms with the fact that Gran isn’t coming home and Pop is gone. I figured if I’m updating the barn, I might as well incorporate more of me in here as well.”
“And how does that make you feel?”
“Proud. Sad. Resolved. Pop and I never specifically talked about what I’d do when they were gone, but he always told me he loved my ‘Ash style.’ And so, now it’s both them and me. What they built with a little bit of me thrown in.”
“Well, it looks great. Bright and clean with pops of color. I like it, and I think he would have too.” She shimmies her shoulders to add some levity. “It’s like I’m looking at an all-new Asher in so many different ways these days.”
“Well, this all-new Asher is getting antsy waiting for Ledger to do whatever it is he’s going to do.”
“Hey. I didn’t expect to hear from you until later. What’s up?”
“So . . . I know you’re going to be pissed, but just go with it,” Ledger says.
“Just go with what?” Why am I going to be pissed?
“With the surprise I have for you. It’s not meant to tell you I don’t like you just how you are—but rather meant to spoil you.”
“Um . . . okay.” I walk to the window of the farmhouse and look out to where George is messing with something, my curiosity more than piqued. “Should I be worried?” I tease.
“No. Not in the least. I just wanted to do something special for you.”
Cue my heart skipping a beat. “Okay.” I draw the word out. “When should I expect said surprise?”
“You’ll know soon.”
“What does he mean, you’ll know soon?” Nita asks.
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“But it has to do with the secret date he’s taking you on tonight?”
“Yes. I asked him last night if he could give me some suggestions about what I should wear. That phone call was his answer.”
“Sexy, rich, and mysterious. Are you sure I can’t make a play for one of his brothers?” She laughs.
“Whatever.” I roll my eyes and then hold my hands out to my sides to showcase a pair of old running shorts and a plain black tank top. “Well, if whatever he has in store doesn’t show up soon, this is what he’s going to get for my date attire.”
Nita laughs but then sinks back into my couch and looks at me wistfully. “It’s exciting though, isn’t it? To have a secret date and a handsome man planning it.”
I look at her and twist my lips. “I think this is the most romantic thing someone has ever done for me. That’s not saying much considering a close second is Brad Wheelan sneaking Valentine’s hearts in my lunch box every day for a month in sixth grade.”
“Seriously? Brad? As in Brad, Brad?” she asks, her eyes widening.
“Yes. That Brad,” I say. The same Brad who is now married to his husband and living happily with two adorable sons.
“Well, I think—”
A knock on the door interrupts her and makes me jump. The windows are closed and the air conditioning is on, so the fact that someone drove down the driveway and I didn’t notice, startles me.
“Are you expecting company?” Nita asks as I pull open the front door.
“Hello?” I ask the woman standing on the front porch. Her hair is pulled back into a sleek bun, her entire outfit is black, and her makeup is flawless. She looks completely out of place on my doorstep.
“Asher Wells?”
“Can I help you?”
Her smile widens, and it’s only then I see a rolling clothes rack to the right of the door, another two women standing beside it, and some very large portable cases.
She holds her hand out, and I shake it. “I’m Millie Paulsen and these are my assistants, Jayne and Fran. We are your glam squad.” She gives a sassy wink. “Ledger has sent us to get you dressed and made up for your evening out tonight.”
I glance back to Nita who is mouthing the words, Oh my God, in response.
Personal stylists? Seriously? I’ve never experienced anything like this in my entire life.
“I—I can’t aff—”
“Honey, do you actually think a man is going to send us to your doorstep and expect you to pay for it? If that’s the case, it’s a requirement to dump his ass.
But that isn’t the case with this.” She gives a nod and a quick smile.
I have a feeling the woman is a force that no one disagrees with.
“Shall we get started?” She may ask the question but is already moving past me and into the house before I respond.
Jayne and Fran are right behind her, doing the heavy lifting by pushing the wardrobe cart and travel cases into the house.
It’s only then that I see the gowns hanging from the rack.
In the quick glimpse I get, their style covers the gamut and tells me whatever our destination is must be pretty fancy.
I hold a hand to my stomach as nerves and excitement bloom.
Holy shit.
All this for me?
Definitely the most romantic thing someone has done for me.
* * *
The last few hours have felt like a blur. I’ve been primped and styled and glamorized in a way I never have been before. After a small fashion show where I tried on every dress, the blue beaded one with the sexy neckline and mid-thigh slit was voted as the favorite.
And I was secretly happy about that as it was the one I felt the best in.
Nita just sat back and observed the entire time, shaking her head and with a grin on her face.
She looked like how I felt. Stunned. In disbelief. Adored.
It’s a feeling every woman should feel at some point in their life . . . and a feeling I can’t remember having since . . . since that last night with Ledger fifteen years ago.
The thought has me smiling softly and closing my eyes to prevent the tears that are welling from falling. The last thing I want to do is ruin my makeup. But how crazy is it that it’s been the same man, both times?
When I’m certain the sentimental tears are gone, I open my eyes to find the driver of the car Ledger sent for me turning into the gates of the airport.
I glance around, expecting him to stop me at the small terminal of the local airport, but he keeps driving.
Through the gates.
Across the tarmac.
Up to a black jet with the words, Sharpe International Network, emblazoned on its tail end.
“We’re here, miss,” my driver states as he pulls to a stop.