20. Ashton
ASHTON
S oft light filters through the window. My eyes slowly open, and I take in my surroundings—grey walls, empty with the exception of an ocean painting and a mirror on the side wall.
Teddy softly breathes against my stomach, and my body is encased in a navy blanket.
My sluggish brain remembers I’m in Griffin’s house. This must be the guest room.
How did I get in here? I shift to lie on my back. A weight moves across my stomach. A distinctly masculine hand is resting on top of the blanket. I follow the trail up the arm to Griffin’s dozing form beside me.
I’m in bed with Griffin Ford.
Griffin Ford is snuggled next to me.
My brain scrambles to latch on to facts. We watched a movie last night. I must have fallen asleep. Griffin must have carried me here. I let out a slow, deliberate breath, trying to regulate my breathing and rising panic.
I’m the other woman!
That’s not me. That’s not who I am.
What am I supposed to do? It’s not like I can bolt from the room. The ache in my ankle still pulsates. Can I slink out? Is that any better?
Griffin shifts beside me.
I stiffen.
Do I pretend to be asleep?
He groans and his hand flexes across my stomach. His nose nuzzles into my hair, and he inhales.
Good gracious.
This cannot get any more awkward.
But then why, oh why, does this feel so nice? To be held, to be cherished.
Did I ask him to stay? I must have. Griffin doesn’t seem like the type of man to join a woman in bed unless he’s invited. And I’m sure he’s received plenty of such invitations.
My cheeks heat as the memory resurfaces.
I did ask Griffin Ford into my bed. What an idiot!
Teddy lies on my opposite side. I’m sandwiched in.
My breathing quickens, panic gripping me. What does he think of me now? Did I say anything else in my sleep?
“Morning.” Griffin’s low voice rumbles in my ear, sending vibrations down my entire body.
I don’t have to turn toward him to see the smile I hear in his voice.
I pray he isn’t smiling to mock me for summoning him into bed. I want to smother my face in this blanket and hide for all eternity.
But then my stomach clenches, recalling one key element about last night’s conversation.
He asked me to stay. As in, stay here for multiple days. For as long as I needed.
There’s no way I can. Especially not if my sleep-hazed self continues to invite him into my bed!
How am I supposed to continue even seeing him—let alone talk to him—as if this hadn’t happened? So much for professional client relationship boundaries.
I try to keep my voice calm and even—totally casual. I am the picture of cool. It is absolutely no big deal that I have a man in bed with me.
“Morning,” my voice squeaks.
Nailed it.
“Sleep okay?” His voice is extra gravelly, adding additional sexiness to his voice—if that’s even possible.
As far as I know, I slept like a rock. Come to think of it, I can’t remember the last time I slept so well. “Good. You?” As if it’s completely normal to ask him how well he slept… in bed…with me.
He turns his head toward me. “Great, actually.”
His hair is adorably mussed. His heavy-lidded smile loosens something coiled within me.
He looks down and slowly removes his hand from my stomach. “Sorry about that.”
I’m both relieved and sad at its absence. I clear my throat. “It’s fine.”
He stretches his arms overhead and groans.
I pull myself into a sitting position. “I’m sorry about last night. I didn’t mean to…well, fall asleep.”
He laughs. “You did warn me.”
I smile, a small measure of tension easing from my shoulders. “True, but I’m sorry you had to carry me in here.”
“It’s no big deal. I didn’t want you getting a crick in your neck. You already have one injury; you don’t need another.”
I move the blanket off my legs and rotate my ankle. It aches, but the swelling’s lessened. A bruise has formed. I’ll have to wear an ACE bandage, but I’m fairly confident I can manage without crutches.
He rolls off the bed and stands.
“It won’t happen again, but I appreciate you taking care of me.” The words feel foreign on my tongue.
I’ve been on my own for the last five years—and even before that, my mom certainly never played nursemaid. I’m afraid that this will only make me feel more attached to Griffin. Which is a mistake. Aside from the fact that he doesn’t want me, he has a girlfriend. A very perfect and nice girlfriend.
Griffin comes around my side of the bed. “How’s your ankle today?”
“It’s good. I think it’ll be fine. I’ll get an ACE bandage wrap and be good as new. No more carrying necessary.” I make the mistake of looking at him.
His lopsided smile, along with his messy bedhead, makes my heart flop.
“I don’t mind. You’re as light as a feather.”
“Yeah. Right. Keep telling yourself that.” Laughter. Banter. Friendship. Keep things light. Casual.
“You wound me by underestimating my strength.” As if to emphasize it, he brushes his fingers through his tousled hair, his bicep flexing.
My eyes linger a bit too long, and his laugh makes my eyes fly to his.
His playful smile tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing. He glances toward my ankle. “Mind if I take a look?”
“Sure.”
His fingertips caress my ankle with such tenderness that it sends tingles down my spine.
I may have been hesitant to work with him, but in this moment?
I’m incredibly grateful for all he’s done for me: giving me a training job with insane pay, taking in the dogs, and now, caring for me.
And here I am, Suzy Home-Wrecker crashing in, begging him to sleep in my bed.
I absolutely cannot let these warm, fuzzy feelings grow.
“The swelling looks pretty good. Can you rotate it?”
I slowly rotate my ankle. It’s tender but not unbearable.
He gently caresses around the swollen joint. “Good. Want to try putting some weight on it?”
His touch causes words to stick in my throat. I nod instead.
He shifts from his crouched position and stands. His bright blue eyes remain steady on me. His rumpled state makes him impossibly more attractive. He holds out his hands.
I scoot closer to the edge of the bed, my head level with his stomach.
“Go slow, okay? Take it easy. Use me for support if you need it.”
“Okay.” I avoid his all-too-kind eyes, afraid he’ll see straight to my heart, and focus on the carpeted floor.
He clasps my hands, pulling me to my feet. I stand and put all my weight on my left foot before testing my right.
He dips his chin, forcing eye contact, trying to read my pain response. “You good?”
I bob my head, place my right toe on the floor, and release one of his hands.
Blood fills my ankle, and pain radiates.
I hiss through clenched teeth. I let go of his other hand, still placing most of my weight on my left foot, standing with my right on my tiptoe.
I hobble a couple of steps before I wobble sideways into the bed.
Griffin rushes to my side and grips my forearm, coming around to face me, and latches on to my other forearm. He bends his knees and peers into my eyes. “Hey, keep it slow. No hurry. Take your time.”
I straighten my posture and attempt a couple more steps. Despite my resistance, tears sting my eyes. It’s not just the pain. It’s him. He’s too nice. This can’t be real. I have the sudden urge to push him away.
I don’t trust him. I don’t trust myself with him.
His voice is soft and gentle, like he’s calming a spooked dog. “Hey, hey. It’s okay. There’s no rush. Let’s sit down.”
He eases me into a sitting position on the edge of the bed and squats in front of me.
I cover my face with my hands. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
He laughs. “There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re hurting. How about we take you to the doctor today?”
My head shoots up. “No. That’s not necessary. Really. I’m not crying because of that. I mean, it does hurt, but it’s something else?—”
How can I say what I’m feeling without completely embarrassing myself? It’ll ruin our relationship completely if I admit to having feelings for him. There’ll be no going back.
“What?” He tilts his head, the earnestness in his tone weakening my resolve.
A tear trickles down my cheek. “You’re too nice .”
He chuckles. “And that’s a bad thing?”
“Yes!”
“Why?”
“For one, you have a girlfriend. And I can’t—I can’t—" I can’t even say the words. I can’t have feelings for you.
“About that…I have something I need to tell you.”
I swipe my cheek. “It’s fine. You don’t need to say anything. We don’t need to talk about last night or this morning. It won’t happen again.”
“It’s not that.”
I look away, unsure if I really want to hear what he’s about to say.
He takes my hand in his. “It’s more of I’m not really supposed to…”
He’s going to say he can’t have feelings for me. Or we’re not meant to be together.
He squeezes my hand and stands. “It’s fake, okay? The whole relationship between Scarlet and me is fake.”
I dart my focus to his face. “You sure about that? Because it seemed pretty real for Scarlet when she came over last night.”
His expression is pained. “Trust me, it’s a marketing ploy to ensure the success of our final season.
And to help with Scarlet’s reputation. She makes pretty poor relationship choices.
Since fans have painted me as some Hollywood Golden Boy, I was the most logical choice—especially given our on-screen relationship.
It didn’t take much for people to buy it.
“The only reason I didn’t tell you is because I can’t. Or at least, I shouldn’t. There’s this NDA. I’m legally not allowed to say anything. If it got out, it’d jeopardize my spot in Wesley’s next film. That’s Scarlet’s dad, and who I met with the other night. I just couldn’t give specifics.”
“I’m sorry you felt obligated to tell me.”
He bends and brushes a strand of hair from my face. “I didn’t. I wanted to. Because I like you.”
“You like me?” Shock ripples through me, and something blossoms within my chest.
“Yes.” His finger curls the strand behind my ear, his thumb tracing my jawline.