Chapter 11
Zelda
It was true.
What they said.
About shoes. And feet.
And penises.
It was all true.
For the hundredth time in ten minutes, I stole a glimpse at Ash over the laptop's screen, my cheeks flaming hot enough to sear a scallop.
Seated at the other end of the dining table, he was studying something on his tablet while simultaneously keying numbers into the battered old calculator at his side and then frowning at the readout.
Always frowning. That little TI-whatever from eleventh grade trigonometry was pissing him off.
It was so freaking true.
I hadn't intended to get a faceful of naked. I had not. But I'd heard noises—things falling—and my first instinct was to verify Ash was unharmed. While I knew he was showering when I'd heard those noises, my run-and-check-on-Ash thought process hadn't accounted for him also being naked and wet.
The wet part really pushed matters over the edge. Not the muscular grooves cut into his torso. Not the Coppertone-baby-inspired tan line. Not even the shaft that proved the best of the urban legends.
Not that I'd gotten a good look at it. The tan line. Of course, the tan line. What else would I not look at?
"Hey. Zelda. What's up?"
"What?" I leaned back in my chair and blinked up at him. "Nothing." Grabbed for the pen at my side, pressed it between my palms. "I didn't say anything."
Getting caught noodling over memories of my boss in the shower while extremely wet and naked was much like burning yourself with a curling iron.
You knew the blazing hot fire wand was thiiiiiis close to your face but you were too busy shaping your tousled waves to realize and now you had your very own Harry Potter scar. Ten points to Gryffindor.
"I didn't…" He tipped his head as if seeing me from a different angle would help. He could stop right there because I knew it wouldn't. Then, he chuckled. "How's my calendar looking?"
I glanced down at the screen. It was a rainbow of overcommitment. "If you were hoping this week would be the one you make time for a new hobby, I have bad news for you."
He shook his head, allowing himself another low laugh. "I haven't had time for hobbies since I was fourteen."
I set the pen down, folded my arms on the table. "What happened when you were fourteen?"
"Nothing happened," he drawled. "I just—I don't know, it was high school. I was taking a full course load and I had a job and—"
"And the first thing to go was fun," I said. "Yeah, Ashville. I can see that being one of your moves."
"It wasn't a move," he argued. "It's growing up. People do that all the time, Zelda."
"Sure, they do," I replied. "You're not one of them."
He glared at the ceiling, sighed, and asked, "What the hell are you trying to say?"
"That you were an adult the minute you were born," I replied. "Call it being an old soul or whatever you want but you grew up at birth. I'm sure of it." I gestured toward him. "What was the hobby you gave up at fourteen?"
His brows shot up and any semblance of a smile he might've had fell. He studied his tablet for a moment before asking, "How's the inbox?"
Finding Ash's sore spots was almost as fascinating as finding the sweet spots.
He was sensitive in the most delightful and unexpected—and telling—ways.
He didn't like being wrong and he hated losing control but more than that, he didn't want to be found lacking.
Somewhere along the way, someone told Ash he wasn't good enough and he'd never been able to shake that.
Probably because nosy people like me kept poking that sore spot and driving it deeper into his soft tissue.
I hadn't meant to nudge him where it hurt.
If anything, I wanted to find another one of those sweet spots.
Just as I was certain he was an old soul in a pleasantly young and virile body, I was also certain he'd rest his head in my lap and fall asleep while I ran my fingers through his hair.
He was starved for affection. I was starved to give it.
And I liked him. Oh, hell, did I like him.
He was fucked-up in the best ways. He was an egomaniac and couldn't imagine a world where anyone was smarter or better or more competent than him.
He didn't know how to ask for help and he was liable to burst into flames if he tried.
He was demanding and impatient and occasionally rude, and I liked it because he never hid from me.
Not really, not in any duplicitous way. He was grouchy in a fashion that made me want to smother him in joy and silliness and snuggles.
I wanted to sneak cookies into his briefcase and argue with him about things that didn't matter and force him to play drunk Jenga because it would be profoundly amusing.
He was salty as fuck and secretly adorable and he didn't look at me like I was a shopping cart with a wonky wheel. He looked at me like I was magic.
All the pieces fit, save for him being my boss and me being in the most discombobulated stage of my life imaginable. Just those teeny, tiny, wee issues.
"Hmmmm. About your inbox." I dragged my lower lip between my teeth.
Ash's email was a never-ending avalanche.
Each time I removed a chunk of pointless "thank you" and "got it!
" messages, another horde appeared to take their place.
"I've weeded out the nonsense and prioritized the ones that looked important but there's more to work through. "
"It will never be done," he said, punching a string of numbers into his calculator. "Inbox zero isn't something I'll live to see."
He glanced at his wrist, scowled, and tapped the tablet twice. Since today was the day when I noticed every last thing about this man, I knew this wasn't the first time he'd eyeballed that bare wrist. "Why are you doing that?"
"Doing what?" he asked, not meeting my gaze.
"You've looked at your hand every few minutes since you sat down," I replied. "Considering we've been sitting here for about three hours, you've done it at least fifteen times."
With a sigh, he dragged his hand down his face, saying, "Fuck, Zelda. Just…fuck." He laughed in a way that made me want to join in. "How do you do that?"
"Did I stumble upon a vast conspiracy?" I asked. "I've always wanted to uncover a conspiracy, so I hope it's that. Or is it the pain meds giving you some weird creepy-crawly feelings? When I had my wisdom teeth out, they loaded me up on the good stuff but it felt like there were bugs all over me."
"No conspiracy, no hallucinations," he said. "Billable hours are divided into six-minute segments. I mark the file I'm working on to keep track."
"Okay, part of that makes sense." I gestured to the tan line at the base of his forearm. "I'm still wondering why you look at your wrist."
"Because it's where my watch used to be," he replied. "Before you knocked me on my ass in the terminal and it broke. Back in Denver."
"I was not responsible for that," I said. "You tripped over your own feet, sir. It's not my fault they're enormous."
"For your information, I tripped over a child," he argued, a laugh ringing in his voice. "One I didn't even notice before catapulting over. I don't know how I blew out my shoulder and busted my watch while that kid walked away unscathed."
"Right. Resent the child for being uninjured. That's great. You know, it's a good thing I found you, Ashville." I closed the laptop, leaned forward. "You need full-time supervision."
He tipped his chin at the computer. "Finished?" When I nodded, he continued, "I'm hungry. Let's go out. There's a place I like. I want to bring you there."
My life was an aerial shot of a town destroyed by a tornado right now.
Nothing left standing, just shards of existence strewn over miles of flat, unforgiving land.
Rebuilding was the only course of action for me.
I couldn't spend time lingering on the belly butterflies that took flight each time he demanded my attention.
I couldn't bask in the warmth of his embraces.
I couldn't devote sun and water to growing this thing between us when the rest of me was an uprooted, wilting mess.
I couldn't—but I did.
"If you like it, I'll like it," I replied. "We both know you're the hardest to please."
"That is a gross misrepresentation of the facts," he said, pushing to his feet. "I'm highly adaptable."
"I'm sure you are, sweetie," I cooed. I slung my bag across my chest. "If you're not going to die of the hungry horrors, let's get you a new watch first. You're highly adaptable but you're going to keep on looking at your wrist and it's still half past the freckle until we put a timepiece there."
Ash swung his arm around my shoulder and steered me toward the door. "I have no doubt in my mind you'll uncover a conspiracy one of these days."
Once again, I found myself tucked beside Ash in the back seat of a car.
Once again, I didn't hate it.
There was something special about sitting beside him, close enough to observe his mannerisms without getting caught staring.
The way he manspread like a champ. The way he drummed his fingers on his knee when stopped in traffic.
The way he glanced at his wrist every few minutes, only to shake his head or arch an eyebrow as he looked away.
The way he leaned into me, his shoulder nudging mine.
The last thing I should've done was respond by brushing my elbow against his forearm. I was in no place for shoulder nudging and elbow brushing. No place for back seat moments of any sort.
"Where are we going?" I asked, our bodies still pressed together in strange, bony ways. It was a noncommittal form of hand-holding. We weren't prepared for the implications of such a gesture and weren't sure we wanted that much of each other but needed a little something.
"Back Bay," he replied, shooting me a quick glance. "I figure we can eat and then walk over to the Apple store. It will be cooler by then. Won't be so horrible walking around."