Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Asher
I pull on a t-shirt and pad to the door, opening it to find Kat standing on my porch in an oversized sweater that barely covers her thighs. Her hair is tousled, her bright green eyes wide with something that looks like embarrassment.
“I know it’s late,” she says, shaking her head and making her dark hair shimmer under the moonlight. “But the power went out in the main cabin, and I can’t find the circuit breaker anywhere. I tried using my phone’s flashlight, but I think the battery’s dying, and I don’t even know where to look.”
“Shit.” I grimace, stepping aside to let her in. “That’s not great. Come in before you freeze to death out there.”
She moves past me into the warm space, and I get a little hint of her scent as she passes—that enticing mix of almond and cinnamon that’s been stuck in my head since the moment we met. Her sweater rides up slightly as she turns to face me, revealing another inch of her smooth, thick thighs.
“Sorry to bother you in the middle of the night,” she continues, running a hand through her hair. “I should know where the breaker box is in a house I’m staying in. But everything looks different in the dark, and I got turned around—”
“Don’t apologize.” I move closer, wanting to reassure her. “Let me grab a flashlight and I’ll help you find where it is. Probably just a tripped breaker.”
But when I reach for the flashlight on the kitchen counter, she follows, ending up right beside me. Close enough that her shoulder brushes against my arm and I can feel the warmth radiating from her skin. The contact sends heat shooting through my entire system.
“Thank you,” she says softly, looking up at me with those eyes that somehow seem to shine even in the darkness. “I…”
There’s something in her voice, something breathless and uncertain, that makes my pulse quicken.
We each turn a little, and we’re no longer standing side by side, but face to face in the small space.
Her full chest rises and falls as she draws in a deep breath, her lips parting slightly on the exhale.
“Kat…” I start to say, my voice coming out rougher than I mean for it to.
She reaches up then, her fingers coming to rest against my chest, splaying over the thin cotton of my t-shirt. I can feel the heat of her palm burning through the fabric, can hear the way her breathing has changed—faster now, more shallow.
“Asher,” she whispers, and the way she says my name makes my blood heat.
I should step back. I should grab the flashlight and walk her back to the main cabin like a gentleman. Instead, I find myself reaching up to cup her face, my thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone the way I wanted to do but didn’t that first time I kissed her.
She leans into the touch, her eyes fluttering closed for just a moment, and when she opens them again, her head tips up in silent invitation.
It’s an invitation I can’t fucking resist.
When our lips meet, it’s nothing like the public performance at her parents’ house under the mistletoe. Her hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer, and I respond by backing her against the counter, my body pressing against hers.
She makes a soft sound against my mouth, and I deepen the kiss as I—
The sharp blast of my phone alarm jerks me fully awake.
Light streams through the cracked curtains of the guest house window, bright enough that I know I’ve slept later than usual—usually, I wake up well before my alarm goes off.
It’s morning, not the middle of the night, and I’m not kissing Kat.
I sit up, trying to shake off the dream, but it was vivid as hell. Real feeling, in a way that has me disoriented for a few seconds. Her scent, the weight of her body against mine, the feel of her curves as my hands moved over that soft sweater…
I shake my head and shove the covers back, ignoring my body’s reaction and the morning wood I’m sporting.
I don’t know why I had a dream like that about Kat, but I figure my brain is just processing the weirdness of pretending to be her boyfriend.
All those little moments of fake PDA and closeness have clearly scrambled my subconscious.
I get up and head for the shower, letting the hot water wash away the dream and my body’s reaction to it. By the time I’m dressed and ready to face the day, I’ve managed to convince myself it was just a random firing of neurons, nothing more significant than that.
I open the curtains and glance toward the main cabin. Kat’s curtains are open too, but there’s no sign of her. She must already be awake, and considering her car is still in the driveway, she’s probably just in some part of the cabin that I can’t see from here.
I’m half tempted to go over there, to grab coffee like I did yesterday morning and see what she’s up to today. Truthfully, I’d much rather hang out with her than do what I actually have to do.
But I can’t.
This visit with my father needs to happen. It’s the entire reason I came to Maplewood in the first place.
I grab my keys and head downstairs to my rental car, glancing at the cabin one more time before I get in.
As I’m pulling out of the driveway, I catch sight of Kat through the living room window.
She’s curled up in a chair with what looks like a sketchbook, wearing a sweater that’s remarkably similar to the one from my dream.
Her hands are wrapped around a coffee mug, and she looks comfortable and unguarded in a way that makes the dream come rushing back with uncomfortable clarity.
I shift my gaze away, focusing on the road as I head into town.
The drive across Maplewood takes about ten minutes through residential streets lined with modest homes and snow-covered yards.
Edward’s house is in an older neighborhood where all the ranch homes look like they were built in the seventies and haven’t been updated much since.
I pull up outside the address he gave me and sit for a moment, taking in the place.
It’s simple, smaller than I expected. Beige siding, brown shutters, a small front porch with a single chair.
The kind of house that says someone lives here but doesn’t put much effort into making it look welcoming.
I’ve never been here before, never even seen pictures of it.
The last time I saw my father, Edward, was at my mother’s funeral three years ago, and we barely spoke then.
I check the message he sent me yesterday, confirming the address.
The texts above it are from our conversation last week when I found out he’d broken his leg.
Short, basic exchanges. Him saying he didn’t need me to come out, that he was managing fine on his own.
Me saying I’d be there anyway. Neither of us mentioning the years of silence between us, or the fact that this is the first time we’ve had any contact since Mom died.
Part of me feels like an idiot for being here. After all, he’s the one who left my mom and me when I was a kid, cutting us out of his life like we meant nothing to him. I don’t owe him anything. He made his choice years ago.
But still, when I got that text about the accident, I couldn’t just ignore it. Some part of me didn’t like the idea of him being hurt and dealing with it alone, even if it’s his own damn fault he’s alone.
I tuck my phone in my pocket and get out of the car, stamping my feet against the cold. The walk to the front door feels longer than it should, each step weighted with years of the unresolved shit between us.
Edward answers on the second knock. He looks older than I remember, grayer around the edges, with more lines around his eyes. His right leg is encased in a big walking boot, and he’s balancing carefully on crutches. For a moment we just stare at each other, and then he clears his throat.
“Asher.” He sounds almost surprised, as if he wasn’t entirely sure I’d actually show up. “Come in. It’s cold out there.”
“Thanks.” I step inside, taking in the place as I do. The house is warm but cluttered in a way that makes it clear he’s been struggling to keep up with basic maintenance. Mail is piled on the kitchen counter, a few dishes sit in the sink, and a newspaper is spread across the coffee table.
“How’s the leg?” I ask, because it seems like the safest place to start this conversation.
“Healing, according to the doctor. Another few weeks in this damn boot, then physical therapy.” He makes his way carefully to his recliner, lowering himself down with obvious relief. “Happened about a week ago. Slipped on some ice coming back from the grocery store like an old fool.”
“What kind of break was it? Did you need surgery?”
“Hairline fracture of the fibula. No surgery, just time and keeping weight off it.” He adjusts the boot with a grimace. “Could have been worse, I suppose.”
We go through the basics after that: when exactly it happened, what the doctor said about recovery time, how he’s been handling the limited mobility.
It’s stilted conversation, the kind you’d have with an acquaintance you barely know rather than family.
But then again, that’s pretty much what we are at this point.
I start cleaning up while we talk, mostly because I need something to do with my hands.
The awkward silence is too much to just sit with.
I stack the newspapers, load dishes into the dishwasher, wipe down counters that clearly haven’t been touched in days.
The place isn’t dirty, just disorganized in the way that happens when you can’t move around easily.
“You don’t have to do that,” Edward says, watching me work.
“It’s fine. Gives me something to do.”
That’s when I hear a soft meow from somewhere near the couch.
A massive orange tabby cat pokes his head out from behind the furniture, studying me with suspicious green eyes. He’s easily fifteen pounds, and he’s wearing a judgmental expression that suggests he’s not impressed by what he sees.