Chapter Three #2
I look up to find Ash leaning against the counter next to me, arms crossed, watching my disaster with deep amusement.
“What?” I ask defensively, my face heating up.
“Nothing,” Ash laughs, his eyes crinkling. “It’s just cute.”
My brain stalls. Cute. My face flushes. Guys don’t call other guys cute. At least, not where I’m from. But Ash steps closer, unaware of my internal panic.
“You’re going to chop a finger off holding it like that,” he murmurs, stepping into my space. He moves behind me, his chest brushes my back, and reaches around to cover my hands with his.
I stop breathing. He smells like sandalwood and leather, and his hands are warm over mine.
“Tuck your fingers in,” he instructs gently, his voice rumbling next to my ear. He adjusts my grip on the knife, guiding my hand in a smooth, rocking motion through the carrot. “Like a claw. See? That way the blade rests against your knuckles and you keep all your digits intact.”
“Right,” I manage to croak out. My heart is pounding against my ribs. I try to focus on the vegetables, on the knife, on anything other than how solid and warm he feels pressed against my back.
He steps away after a few slices, leaving me shivering in his absence. I clear my throat, forcing myself to keep chopping the way he showed me so I don’t look like a total idiot.
“Do you like cooking?” I ask, desperate to fill the silence with something normal.
“When I have time,” Ash says, moving over to stir a pot on the stove. “It’s relaxing. Plus, if I don’t cook, we’d probably starve. Or eat takeout every night.”
“Your roommates don’t cook?”
Ash snorts, shaking his head. “Aiden’s completely hopeless at anything domestic.
He tried to boil pasta once and somehow set off the smoke alarms. And Ryker…
” Ash rolls his eyes fondly. “Ryker has never so much as touched a microwave in his entire life. He’d sooner fly in a private chef from Italy than attempt to make a sandwich. ”
I laugh, imagining someone throwing a fit over a microwave.
By the time dinner is ready, my heart rate has returned to normal.
We sit across from each other at the massive black dining table, eating a chicken and roasted vegetable dish that blows my mind.
The apartment is quiet, the city lights twinkling outside the windows, and I realize I’m quite comfortable.
More than comfortable. For the first time since I left home, I feel safe.
I catch myself staring at Ash across the table. The low lighting highlights the gold in his hair and the soft curve of his lips as he takes a sip of his wine. He has a natural glow about him, a warm, inviting energy that makes you want to just pull up a chair and stay in his orbit forever.
I watch his mouth as he smiles, tracing the shape of his lips with my eyes. A weird, heavy flutter kicks up in my stomach again. It’s confusing as hell. I’m straight. I’ve only ever dated girls. I’ve only ever looked at girls.
But as Ash laughs, his brown eyes warm and focused on me, I can’t stop wondering what it would feel like to be closer to him again.
We finish up the last bites of dinner, leaving the plates scraped clean.
The silence hanging between us feels comfortable now, no longer filled with the nervous energy from earlier today.
I gather up the empty dishes and carry them over to the sink.
Ash tries to wave me off, claiming he can just load the dishwasher later, but I refuse to let him do all the work.
I grab a soft dish towel off the oven handle and insist on wiping them down.
Ash sighs, bumping his shoulder against mine playfully as he hands me a wet, soapy plate. The warm water runs over his hands, sliding down his wrists. He washes, I dry.
Halfway through the stack of dishes a sharp electronic beep echoes through the quiet apartment. The front door clicks open with a heavy thud.
Ash looks up from the suds, shaking the water off his hands. “Ah, that must be Ryker.”
My stomach drops. My grip on the porcelain plate tightens.
I force myself to set the dish down on the marble counter before I accidentally drop and shatter it.
The easy, comfortable bubble Ash and I built over the last couple of hours pops in an instant.
I’m suddenly hyper-aware that I’m standing in a multi-million-dollar penthouse wearing borrowed clothes, eating food I didn’t pay for, and the man who actually owns the place is walking down the hall.
Footsteps echo against the hardwood. I stiffen, wiping my hands on the towel, and brace myself for the worst.
Then Ryker steps into the kitchen, and my thoughts grind to a halt.
If you put this guy in a lineup, I’d bet my last stolen dollar he was a mafia boss or some kind of underground kingpin.
Tall, maybe six-two, with dark hair swept back and styled long on top, covered in ink.
His arms are wrapped in tattoos, dark sleeves of roses woven with thorns and barbed wire crawling all the way up his neck.
Silver piercings glint in both his ears.
He’s in an expensive-looking dark button-down with the sleeves rolled up, revealing even more artwork.
He has a dark, edgy vibe that gives off danger.
He’s sharp, intimidating, and damn is he handsome. Objectively, I mean.
Ryker stops short when he sees me standing by the kitchen island. Piercing blue eyes lock onto my face, sharp as a knife and cold as ice. I freeze in place. I don’t know whether to wave, say hello, or just bolt for the balcony and take my chances with gravity.
Ash steps into the gap, grabbing a towel to dry his hands. He flashes Ryker a bright, welcoming smile, unfazed by the sudden drop in temperature. “Hey. How was your trip?”
Ryker doesn’t drop his gaze from me. He casually slings a leather duffel bag off his shoulder, letting it hit the floor with a soft thump. “Same bullshit as always,” he grunts, his voice rough. “Who’s that?”
He doesn’t ask it like a question. It sounds like a demand.
Ash leans forward, stepping between us to break the staring contest. “This is Jaxon. He’s going to be staying here for a little while.”
Ryker’s dark eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline. He tilts his head, his eyes narrowing to tiny slits as he appraises me from head to toe. I feel like a bug pinned to a corkboard. Ash takes another step closer to him, keeping his voice calm and level, and starts explaining my pathetic story.
I look down at my feet, my cheeks burning with humiliation.
I hate hearing it said out loud. Ash keeps it brief, keeping the details sparse, just mentioning where he found me sleeping in the alley and how I got stranded in Seattle without a dime or a working phone.
I trace the lines in the floor tiles with my eyes, wishing the earth would swallow me whole.
It sounds so desperate when someone else summarizes it.
Hearing my own failures broadcast to a guy who probably makes my parents’ life savings in a week is a tough pill to swallow.
When Ash finishes, the kitchen falls into a suffocating silence.
I force myself to glance up. Ryker’s eyes flick back to me, studying my face, my shoulders, the clothes hanging off my frame.
His stare feels like a weight on my shoulders.
He analyzes me with a sharpness that unnerves me down to my core.
Then, he looks at Ash. “Have you given him our standard offer yet?”
His voice is a gravelly, deep rasp that makes my pulse jump.
A shiver rolls down my spine. But I frown, confused.
What standard offer? Does Ryker have some kind of entry-level warehouse job in his shipping company?
A trial period for stray roommates? I search his face for a clue, but his expression gives nothing away.
Ash goes rigid. He darts a quick, nervous look in my direction before leaning in closer to Ryker. “I didn’t bring him here for that, Ryker,” he says in a lowered, warning tone.
My stomach twists into a hard knot. I might be sheltered, but I’m not stupid.
I can read the tension bouncing between the two of them.
There’s a whole world of subtext woven into those few words, a hidden conversation happening over my head.
They aren’t talking about a job at the port.
My mind races through a dozen different scenarios, each one wilder than the last. I’m maybe a sheltered kid, but I know guys like this don’t just run charity houses for the fun of it.
Ryker doesn’t look deterred at all. He tips his head to the side, giving me a long, perusing look. His gaze slides down my chest, over my hips, and back up to my eyes. His lips curl up into a sharp, cat-like smirk that makes my breath hitch.
“Why not?” Ryker purrs, a teasing edge bleeding into the roughness of his tone. “He looks like he’d be perfect for it.”
I swallow hard. Perfect for what? The way he’s looking at me feels incredibly intimate, stripping away the clothes Ash bought me until I feel exposed under the kitchen lights. Ryker shifts his attention back to Ash, his smirk widening into a wicked look.
“You’re telling me you didn’t consider it from the moment you saw him?” Ryker asks, challenging his friend.
Ash huffs out an exasperated breath, his calm demeanor finally cracking.
“Of course I considered it,” Ash admits, and my heart nearly leaps out of my throat.
My face flushes crimson. “But he’s twenty-two, Ry, and he’s in a tough spot with no resources.
Maybe once he’s settled and can make a better decision—”
Ryker doesn’t let him finish the thought. He scoffs, rolling his eyes as he talks over him. “He’s old enough to make his own choices. There’s no point in dragging it out.”
“Ryker,” Ash warns, his voice dropping.
Ryker ignores him, stepping around the kitchen island.