Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
ASH
I used Rusty's body wash.
My hair is still up in its bun—curly girls don’t use anyone else’s shampoo—but I smell his subtle signature scent on me, and it makes me smile at my reflection when I get out of the shower. The fact that I'm wearing his robe also makes me smile.
This thing is plush.
The master suite is surprisingly nice. Everything I've seen so far is. It's all been updated and upgraded. I expected his house to look like a hunting lodge or maybe a bachelor pad, but this looks like a family home. The shower has his and hers shower heads, and I wonder if the previous owner installed those or if Rusty did.
And if so, who is the "her" he had in mind?
Prickles spread across my skin like a rash.
I don't like thinking about that.
At all .
I leave the bathroom for the bedroom. The walls are painted a light sage green, and the dressers and queen bed frame look like they were made from reclaimed wood. It's beautiful and earthy and feels like him. But also … more. This isn't a room meant to represent Rusty. I don't know why, but this seems aspirational. Opposite the bed is a small sitting area with a gorgeous leather couch and an end table made of the same wood as the rest of the furniture.
Did Rusty make it?
He doesn't have any books, but he does have a speaker, a sketchpad, and some colored pencils. An image pops into my head of Rusty sitting and listening to an audiobook while he sketches.
My hands itch to look through the sketchpad. He knows I'm up here. He told me he expects me to look through his stuff. Does that include something as intimate as this? Thunder rumbles outside as the storm shakes the house. I don't always have the best impulse control, but maybe I should, right? Maybe I should be a better person? The kind of person Rusty can rely on? The kind of person who safeguards his private expressions of self? My finger runs along the side of the thick cover. Shouldn't I make every effort to show him that he's safe with me? That I would never invade? —
I'm already looking.
So much for self-restraint.
I flip through page after page.
Although there are colored pencils next to the pad, his first several sketches are all in graphite. The earliest sketch is a face in so much shadow, it's hard to make out the features. The next few are landscapes, each of different places on Sugar Maple Farms. There are a pair of hands at a workbench, old and knotted. Another pair of hands kneading dough. Page after page of gorgeous, intricate drawings. I have a decent understanding of graphic design, but I'm an amateur at best .
Rusty is a master at it, and that extends fully to art.
Pookie sits at my feet, and I pet her as I flip through the pad.
After the first fifteen pages of sketches, I spot that same shadowed face again, only this time, instead of graphite shadows, these shadows have a hue of cornflower blue.
And the face is Rusty's.
Huh.
I flip through to another page and it's his face again, only this time, the shadowed hue is bubblegum pink. It's a great color. It would look amazing in my hair … in fact, didn't I do bubblegum pink a few months ago? And this fire engine red, same as the one Mrs. Beaty just got. And an olive green.
"Ash?" Rusty knocks on the door, and my heart jumps in my throat. "No rush, but the food is ready whenever you are."
I slam the sketchbook shut and instantly kick myself. "Okay! I spent too long in that his and hers shower," I say, my face instantly getting hot. Don't mention the shower! Or that it's his and hers ! "I'm just finding clothes? — "
"There's a dresser in the closet," Rusty says. Is it me, or does his voice sound pinched? "Take your time."
In the closet, I go through Rusty's sea of plaid and neutral button ups until I notice baseball jerseys. I forgot Rusty played on Clemson's baseball team. I love baseball. All of my stepbrothers played, so I saw a lot of their games growing up. Mom used to dye my hair team colors and get me the most garish …
Hold up.
Rusty played college baseball, and I've never Googled him?
I throw on a jersey, put back on my own underwear, and find a pair of his sweats that I cinch up as tight as possible. Rusty doesn't have a full-length mirror, but I'm sure I look like a goofball in the oversized clothes.
Sexy, Ash.
Real sexy .
If I were trying to make him see me differently — WHICH I'M NOT — this would not be the way to do it.
Good thing I don't care. If anything, I should be thinking of ways to make sure our relationship stays the same after all of this canoodling . We have to be able to go back to our easy camaraderie, to our jokes and teasing, to the way he puts up with all my silliness with that tender smile and his hair flopping in front of his eyes, to the way he says "as you wish" and pulls me into hugs and kisses my head and tells me how smart and gorgeous I am …
NO!
The Ash and Rusty Show didn't include hugs and kisses and compliments! But now that I've had them, can I really live without them?
Us plus kissing.
That's all. I want us plus kissing.
Is that so much to ask?
Pookie is asleep at my feet, so I scoop her up. Her wild ear hair sticks out all over, and suddenly, a wicked idea forms in my mind. Delicious kitchen smells pull me from my scheming, so I make myself a reminder and take Pookie downstairs.
The stairs are the same hardwood as the main floor, and I peek into an office on one side of the hall and a living room on the other. Apart from the office, there's very little furniture in the house. When did Rusty move in, anyway? I knew he had a house, but I've never thought about it.
I really have put Rusty in a box.
He's out now, though. That box has burst wide open, and even if I wanted to, I wouldn't be able to put him back in it.
And I don't want to.
With Pookie tucked in my arms, I pad through the house, following the smell of bacon.
When I reach the kitchen, I spot platters of food on a 4- person table: waffles — ha! — blueberry pancakes, bacon, eggs, and berries.
The kitchen is lovely: marble counters, unfinished wood cabinets, the same sage green walls from upstairs, gleaming appliances.
And best of all: Rusty loading the dishwasher in a plain black apron.
He's made the most Ash meal that ever existed, and instead of getting frustrated that I'm not here, he's simply cleaning it up.
Real men wear aprons, not capes.
I'm taking that apron and stitching those words on it, because hot DANG.
I've never peeked at Rusty's abs. I've never caught him shirtless and sweaty cutting, I don't know, logs or something. This is the Rusty I've seen a million times: the Rusty who is so steady, consistent, caring, and nurturing, yet who has surprised me at every turn since I've started letting him. The Rusty who sees me and accepts me as I am without ever expecting me to act or be different.
It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. He is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
Heat swells in my chest and my stomach flips remembering the countless ways he's touched me since we started fake dating.
I don't want it to be fake anymore.
Why are we faking anything, anyway? Oh, Philip? HA! I couldn't possibly care less about Philip. My new goal is to make Rusty see me as more than his best friend. As much as I protested earlier, I want to make him see me as a love interest, not a … noogie recipient.
And I'm starting tonight.
"Something smells good," I say to get his attention.
Rusty glances up from the dishwasher and he stops. His mouth falls open, and his eyes rove over me like I'm wearing …
Oh my gosh, I must look so stupid. His clothes are way too big on me! This isn't showing that I have a smoking hot body (minus the curves necessary for actual smoke). But this jersey could at least be cute with leggings. Instead, I'm wearing sweats five sizes too big for me!
I'm so bad at this.
Rusty blinks a couple of times.
"You okay?" I laugh self-consciously. "I know I look like I'm wearing a clown suit, but? — "
"No, you very much do not look like you're wearing a clown suit. You look, uh, you look — " he closes his eyes firmly, breathes, and then opens them again. "You look gorgeous. You were made to wear my jersey."
I laugh at the ceiling, and an instant later, Pookie throws her head back and barks. "More like you were made to wear mine. "
Rusty laughs, but the sound is swallowed up by the wailing storm outside. "I didn't know you played a sport, but I'd wear your jersey anytime."
"I played badminton in seventh grade. I was a demon on the court."
"I'm not sure your seventh grade jersey would fit me."
"Hey, crop tops are back in. You could rock it," I say.
Rusty takes Pookie from me and kisses my temple, and everything inside of me squeezes like I'm in a juicer. Does he realize that he kissed my temple? Is he so in the habit of such casual acts that he forgot he's even doing them? Is this simple method-acting? Or did he kiss me because he wanted to?
He pulls my chair out for me like we're at a fancy restaurant, something I realize he's done a thousand times. His manners would make Emily Post applaud. Then he sits across from me, and his bare feet bump into mine.
"Sorry," he says.
"I don't mind," I say.
And neither of us move our feet.
NEITHER OF US MOVE OUR FEET .
When Rusty says grace, I know I should focus on the prayer and gratitude for the meal and the man who prepared it, but I'm too busy noticing how warm his feet are. I don't know how much sensation toes have, but for as callused as his hands are, the skin on the inside of his foot is incredibly smooth.
I count his toes with my toes. Five on each foot. I can't quite tell, but his nails feel short, thank goodness. Long toe nails are nasty. Absolutely no nail should pass any part of the toe. Rusty's definitely don't.
"Ash?" Rusty says.
Come to think of it, how is my pedicure? I hope the polish hasn't chipped. I have super cute feet. They're a bit small for my height, and I think they're darling. Rusty's already given me a foot massage? —
Rusty's hand touches my hand across the table. "Ash?" My eyes jump to his and to that tender smile he wears just for me. "Your feet are making out with my feet."
My cheeks flush. I would normally laugh this off, but I feel stupid now. "Sorry! My feet were acting of their own accord! With input from my brain."
I groan and face-palm.
But Rusty tugs my hand away from my face. "I'm not saying I mind, but your stomach is growling and I don't want you to forget to eat, because I know when you forget for too long, it makes you feel sick."
WOW.
Now we've progressed to talking about nausea.
So attractive, Ash!
But also, Rusty looking out for me?
So attractive .
I grab two pancakes and multiple slices of bacon. I eat the bacon first, because Millie eats low carb for a fertility disorder, so she always snags every piece of bacon she can get her greedy hands on. Rusty's too used to eating with me to comment .
Next, I put fresh whipped cream and some kind of berry compote on top of the blueberry pancakes. I take my first bite and instantly sit back, enjoying the explosion of flavor. Lemon blueberry compote? My absolute favorite combination. With the whipped cream, it's out of this world. Especially on top of this pancake.
It's fluffy, tender, and a bit tangy.
"This pancake is blowing my mind," I say. "What did you add to the batter?"
"It's sourdough," he says.
I lift my glasses and rub my eyes. "Rusty, are you telling me you whipped cream, made compote, and made a quick batch of sourdough pancakes in the twenty minutes I was showering?"
He looks at the clock. It's almost 10:00 p.m. "It was more like forty-five."
"Well, invading your privacy takes time." I take another bite and then pound my fist on the table. "Mmm. Are you kidding me with this, Hotcakes? This is restaurant-level good."
He grins at me.
I try to ask him what he's smiling at, but I've already crammed another bite in my mouth, so it comes out more like, "Wha' are 'ou 'miling a'?" And I spit a fleck of pancake onto the table.
Take notes, people. This is how you get yourself a man.
He nudges my foot with his playfully, ignoring the food flying from my mouth.
"I'm really glad you're here."
I swallow and smile. "Me too."