Chapter 6 - ASH #2
“Let’s see what we’ve got here,” I say, overly dramatic. “His hands gripped her hips as she shattered beneath him, breathless, undone—” I blink. “Wow. Okay. That escalated.”
She smacks my arm. “Told you to stop.”
I lower the book, but keep my eyes on her. She’s flustered now—cheeks pink, brow furrowed. Adorable.
“You know,” I murmur, “if you ever want help fact-checking some of these scenes…”
She huffs. “No, thank you. And if I do need someone, I know exactly who not to call.”
Well. Ouch.
***
I’m stirring a pan of butter and garlic like my life depends on it.
Stress-cooking wasn’t always my thing. I used to handle pressure with whiskey, women, and regrettable tattoos. But these days? I julienne vegetables like a man possessed.
The kitchen smells like rosemary and delicious carbs.
I toss in the pasta and try not to think about the fact that Olive Hart is sleeping one hallway away from mine. In my house. In my world.
Just as I’m getting ready to plate everything—I hear her.
Barefoot. Quiet.
I turn just as she wanders into the kitchen, wearing a T-shirt that says Reading Is Sexy and shorts that really shouldn’t qualify as pajamas.
Her hair’s a little messy. Her mouth curves in a surprised smile when she sees me.
“You really do cook?” she asks, like she can’t quite believe it.
I nod. “Helps me relax.”
She eyes the pan. “Fancy.”
“You want some?” I ask.
“I mean,” she says, walking over and plucking a piece of pancetta from the plate like she lives here, “it would be rude not to.”
She hops onto a stool, legs crossed, completely unfazed.
My kitchen. My house. My life. And somehow, she owns the moment.
“You always cook like you’re filming a cooking show?” she asks, watching me plate with far too much interest in my knife skills.
“Only when I’m trying to make a good second impression on my future wife.”
She scoffs. “You messed up pretty badly the first time, I’ll admit.” Then she grins. “Lucky for you—this is objectively incredible.”
I smirk, trying to play it cool even as my heart pounds like a bass drum behind my ribs. “I also do a killer risotto,” I say—then immediately regret using the word killer while staring at her lips.
She takes another bite, moans softly, then freezes. “Oh my god. I sound like the heroine in one of my romance novels.”
I take a sip of water. I wish it were cold. I wish it could put out the fire under my skin.
I raise a brow. “Tell me: You ever read anything without shirtless men or innuendo in the title?”
She blushes. Beautifully. But she holds my gaze when she says: “Nope.”
I grin. “What are you reading right now, for example? Billionaire with a secret dungeon? Grumpy pirate with a heart of gold?”
“Single dad who bakes muffins and gives oral like it’s his job,” she says, deadpan.
I cough. “Wow. Okay.”
She glances up, one brow raised. “What? You asked.”
“So explain it to me.”
“What?”
“The books. The, uh—soulmate sex and heaving chest stuff. What do you like about them?”
She hesitates. Not defensive—just thoughtful. Like no one’s ever really asked before.
“It’s not just the sex,” she says finally.
“Oh?”
She gives me a look. “I mean, yes. The sex is great. But it’s more than that. It’s the way the characters fall for each other. How the intimacy builds. The tension. The stakes. The payoff.”
I tilt my head. “So… foreplay, but with feelings?”
She smirks. “Exactly.”
Then her expression softens a little. “But also… in a good romance, it’s not just about the guy being hot.
It’s about how he sees her. Completely. Wants her.
Wants to make her feel safe. Loved. Desired.
And not in a ‘look at my six-pack’ kind of way.
In a ‘you’re the only person in the world who matters to me’ kind of way. ”
My throat goes tight. “Have you ever had that?”
She thinks for a moment. “No. Not really. My dating history is… short. Two relationships. Both a few months. Sophomore year and last spring.”
“What happened?”
“The usual,” she says. “He was sweet until he wasn’t. He made time for me until he was always busy. So I am allergic to men who cancel with ‘crazy week!!!’ every week.”
I grin. “A common strain.”
“And you?” she asks, casual. “What’s your relationship history? With wom— I mean, humans. I mean, whoever.”
“Relationship history? There isn’t one. I don’t do serious, and I don’t plan on changing that,” I say. Then, because I enjoy shocking her, I add, “Sexual partners? That would be a looong list.”
She chokes on air, then bursts out laughing. “Geez, Ash! I don’t need to know that. That’s none of my business. Anyway, I hope I won’t have to fight off any disgruntled exes?”
“Disgruntled? No. I always leave my partners very satisfied, I promise.”
She laughs again, then sighs. “I’d love to find the person I’ll spend the rest of my life with.” She looks away quickly, like she’s said too much.
I clear my throat.
I want to reach out. I want to kiss her again.
I want to bend her over the kitchen counter and make her forget her own name.
I want to give her the slow-burn romance she dreams about—and the grand finale she deserves.
I want her to feel incredible. I want to make her the heroine of her own damn story.
But then—the thought crashes in, unwelcome and sharp:
She’s off-limits. Liam would kill me. This is just a business arrangement.
A business arrangement that’s already driving me insane.