13. Ashlynn
13
ASHLYNN
There’s a lot you can find out about a person when you’re living with them.
For starters, I am a morning person through and through.
I like waking up before dawn when the house is still and quiet. It’s the best time to relish the peacefulness of the hour as I make my way downstairs to the kitchen. I start the coffee maker and electric kettle; the familiar ritual grounds me for the day ahead.
Gilbert, on the other hand, is not a morning person. At all. And since we live together, I found a way to incorporate him into my morning routine, mostly in ways he doesn’t care for. Otherwise, with my schedule and his practice, we would never see each other. How else are we going to get used to each other? By avoiding each other like the plague?
No, thank you.
This house is big enough. Enormous. I see no reason for there to be an even bigger wedge between us because of it.
Besides, it’s not like he can avoid me. So far, he’s seen me at my worst — twice, I might add. It’s not a pretty sight, me screaming my head off in the middle of a nightmare, drenched in sweat. He takes it all in stride, keeping the mini-fridge in my room stocked with water and my lorazepam within reach. He also changes out my sheets while I shower, despite my numerous protests that he doesn’t have to do that for me.
So… it’s only fair that I get to see him at his sexiest — with a well-deserved bribe, of course. I’m not a coffee drinker, but he is. And no one says no to my coffee.
After the coffee brews, I head to his bedroom with his coffee and my tea. However… getting there means walking past Rachel’s bedroom.
This house has its own primary wing, a rather unique feature that eight-year-old Ashlynn thought was the coolest thing ever. This wing has two massive primary bedrooms, two impressive walk-in closets, and two luxurious spa-like bathrooms. They are side by side and practically mirror images of each other. Even though their entrances are side by side, they share a common sitting area in the back, which opens up to a shared outdoor balcony. The his- and hers- closets are connected by equally impressive bifold mirror closet doors, and the his- and hers- bedrooms are connected by a pocket door masquerading as an art piece — Rachel’s side has a portrait of Sylvie Guillem, while Gilbert’s side has a picture of the Eiffel tower.
I’ve never seen anything like it, not that I make it a habit to go poking around in other people’s bedrooms. Young and impressionable Ashlynn enjoyed jumping on Rachel’s four-poster canopy bed almost as much as she liked hiding in Gilbert’s closet. She had no reason to wonder why they slept in different rooms. After all, Gilbert was like Dad — gone all the time — so it probably didn’t make a difference.
The door to Rachel’s bedroom remains closed. Maybe it’s locked; I wouldn’t know. I have free rein over the entire mansion, but it remains the one place I haven’t had the strength to venture into.
Gilbert’s door is slightly ajar, and I peek inside. He’s still asleep, his dark brown hair tousled, with a few grays catching the early light. His face is relaxed, and I can see the light freckles across his nose and cheeks, details that make him seem so much more human, so much more real.
And so much more unattainable.
“Morning,” I whisper, tapping lightly on his door before pushing it open more.
The dark liquid sloshes in the mug but doesn’t spill over. It is just how he likes it — strong and black — and the aroma travels. He stirs as I approach, his blue eyes slowly opening. In the dim light, they look almost stormy, a mix of blue and gray that always seems to see right through me.
Open files and loose sheets of paper are spread out over his bed. It’s odd, as he’s not the type to carry paper files around. Nor is he the type to bring his work home with him.
“Morning,” I repeat, setting our mugs down side by side on his nightstand.
He groans softly, sitting up and running a hand through his hair. I turn to face him, and my gaze lands on his morning wood. It takes everything in me to drag my gaze upwards. The sight of him, hair messy and shirtless, his six-pack on display, sends a small thrill through me.
“Morning,” he replies, his voice rough with sleep.
I won’t pretend I wasn’t looking. Am looking.
Bye-bye, panties.
As he shifts, a piece of paper slides off his bed and floats to the floor.
I pick it up. “More housekeeper interviews?”
He groans and runs a hand over his face. “It shouldn’t be this hard to find someone who checks all of the boxes on our very eccentric lists.”
“Or, you could go through an agency, like other normal rich people do. Just a thought.” The irony of the situation doesn’t escape me. Here I am, casually tossing out the suggestion as if I don’t fall under that category.
Before he can answer, his phone lights up on the nightstand. He reaches over for it, and the waistband of his pajama bottoms rides a tad lower, giving me a delicious view of what’s hidden underneath the covers. As if there wasn’t already so much flesh on display.
His expression darkens, his brow knitting together to form a deep frown.
I can’t help but chuckle, leaning over to lightly tap his forehead. “Careful now. If you keep scowling like that, your corrugator supercilii and procerus muscles might get stuck.”
The shiver that barrels through me at the brief contact will stay with me all day.
He doesn’t acknowledge the contact, though. He rolls his eyes at my attempt at a joke, but a hint of a sleepy smile tugs at his lips. “That was the security company.”
These hands of mine will get me in trouble this morning, so I keep them occupied by picking up my mug and curling my fingers around it. “Did someone stomp all over the petunias? I thought no one could get on the grounds without prior authorization and a retinal scan.”
I wish I were joking. I am not.
“Worse. There was a disturbance at your father’s house.”
My eyelids flutter, then close as I sip my tea, savoring the warmth. “Oh.”
“Someone set off the alarms.”
“It won’t be the first time.” I shrug, trying to downplay the situation.
“They were arrested.”
My eyes open at his sharp tone, and our gazes lock — his gaze intense as his blue eyes bore into mine.
“Serves them right.”
Although I’m not sure why he’s telling me this. It sounds like the security company has a handle on things. They did their job. Aunt Bonnie and Gilbert can decide if they want to press charges. Either way, it makes no difference to me.
He picks up his mug. “Who’s Leland?”
The name sends a chill down my spine. My spine stiffens, albeit momentarily, and then I will myself to loosen up.
A beat passes, then I settle on, “A boy.”
It’s his turn to freeze. Those piercing eyes of his meet mine again. His jaw clenches.
“A boy,” he deadpans, like nails on a chalkboard.
“That’s what I said.”
Except, Leland Roberson is so much more than just a boy, but Gilbert doesn’t need to know that. Aunt Bonnie calls him a stalker and a menace to society. I call him a nuisance. We’ve obviously agreed to disagree on the subject.
It doesn’t take a genius to guess whose side Gilbert will be on.
Clearly, the name alone bothers him. My response too.
His jaw shifts, and he brings his mug to his lips. “Friend of yours?”
The scoff slips out before I can rein it in. “He wishes.”
Gilbert’s movements are slow and deliberate as he takes a generous sip of his coffee. A look of gratitude spreads over his face as he lowers it, but he doesn’t say anything else.
He doesn’t have to.
He’s already doing so much for me. The least I can do is make sure he starts his day with his coffee to perk up his day. I’ll skip the breakfast in bed, seeing as I’m not that ambitious… yet. But I can fantasize about it, knowing it would never come to fruition.
I can think of a million other things I’d rather do to him in bed, none of which involves sustenance. The thought sends another thrill through me, and I quickly push down.
Or try to, anyway.
“It’s biology.” His hoarse voice cuts through the lusty haze.
I look away. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to. Your fuck-me eyes are saying plenty.”
“My… what ?”
“You’ve been staring at my dick, Ashlynn.”
“I wasn’t,” I mutter, but the protest is weak. So I unceremoniously gather up the loose pages on his bed before plopping down on the foot of his bed. The liquid sloshes around in my mug and some of the now-lukewarm liquid splatters on my hand.
I can’t meet his eyes. I’d rather not, and my flaming cheeks aren’t winning me any points right now. I keep my gaze downcast, perusing the housekeeper resumes, but I can feel his eyes boring into the side of my face.
“Leland told the arresting officers that he was simply being a good friend,” he changes the subject, switching into psychiatrist voice with a practiced ease. “He said he was just bringing your homework to you since you’d been out of school for so long.”
“Bullshit. I only missed a few days of school for the funeral, and that was weeks ago. I have since caught up, something he would know if he actually bothered to show up to school, which he doesn’t.”
“I thought you said you aren’t friends.”
I wave a hand dismissively. “I don’t have friends at Bluegrass, and before you make a smart remark about that, know that it’s my choice. If anything, I go out of my way to fly so far under the radar that it’s almost comical. Yet some people just can’t seem to get the hint.” I stand, pull three resumes out of the pile, and hand them to him. Our gazes lock, and an unspoken question passes through his eyes. “These ones seem promising.”
He takes the pages from me and sets them aside, never breaking eye contact. “Everyone needs a friend, Ashlynn. Even if they think they don’t.”
I study his face, taking in the worry lines that seem out of place.
“I have friends,” I eventually say, but it’s more to appease him. “I just happen to be much more selective about who those are. I don’t care for petty teenage drama, cliques, or playing into contrived school politics. What I am, however, is observant, cynical, and a loner. When Dad died, do you know how many of my so-called acquaintances from Bluegrass attended the funeral? None.”
His brow dips again. “No one? Not even your principal? Or any of your teachers?”
I feel my grip tighten around my tea mug. “My life revolves around ballet. But the law says I must get an education, so high school’s just a means to that end.” I can tell he doesn’t like that answer, so I add, “My dream is to become a professional ballerina, not a high school cheerleader. No shade to those who do, but that’s not the life I want.”
I know fully well that that’s a loaded statement, one that’s open to interpretation in a million different ways. And, as a psychiatrist, Gilbert will dissect those words over and over again. With my cynical outlook on life, perhaps he’ll even go so far as to attach some hidden meaning to it, one I haven’t considered could be at play here… and I’m inclined to let him.
It’s his job to dissect things, and it’s’ my job to infuse beauty in the world through dance… all while maintaining a healthy dosage of cynicism. I think my job is so much cooler.
As he watches me, I can see the metaphoric wheels churning in that big, beautiful brain of his. Eventually, he pushes the covers off his body and swings both legs over the edge of the bed.
“I’m taking you to school today,” he says, standing.
I stand too. “Why?”
“I’m going to have a long overdue chat with Principal Richardson.”
“Again, why?”
“For my own peace of mind,” is all he says as he disappears into the bathroom.
Crap.
Did I just poke the bear?