Chapter 18 #2
“Ah, divorced?” That would make sense and explain why Asher is the way he is.
“Dead,” he says.
I nearly choke on my next sip. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry . . .” I wait for him to tell me he’s kidding, but he doesn’t. “How
did I not know that? I feel like a bad person for not knowing that.”
“Well, I don’t really go around playing the ‘dead mommy’ card, but maybe I should. I wonder if that would win me some pity fucks. What do you think?”
I lean back on his headboard, shaking my head. “Your ability to make anything a joke is astounding.”
“I probably should’ve mentioned that before the trip. Would’ve been really awkward if you had asked about her there.”
I debate asking the next question, because it requires getting personal with Asher, the thing I’ve been trying to avoid lately,
but my curiosity wins again. “What happened to her?”
“Cancer.”
“I’m sorry.”
He changes the subject. “Do you like the scotch?”
“No,” I answer honestly.
That’s one of the perks about hanging out alone with Asher: I don’t have to lie to him, or be polite to him, or be anything
I’m not. I’m not trying to impress him. He huffs a laugh, but I can’t get over the fact that I didn’t know his mom was gone.
If we really were dating, I’d be the worst girlfriend on the planet.
“What’s your middle name?” I ask.
“Why?”
“Because I’m realizing I know next to nothing personal about you. If I have to meet your family in two weeks, I should probably
know more about you.”
“Okay, fair. Collins is my middle name.”
“Asher Collins McCavern.” I test out his full name on my tongue, like a wine that you’re trying for the first time. How you’re
supposed to swirl it around and smell it first. Though I usually just gulp it down. “I like that.” He doesn’t say anything
in return. “Aren’t you going to ask mine?”
“We’re not hanging out with your family,” he says. I shake my head again at his blatant crudeness. “Fine, what is yours?”
“Elizabeth.”
“Sloane Elizabeth Sawyer.” He says each name with a pause in between, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard any man say my full
name before. I’m not sure how I feel about it. Would I like it if it were Wes saying it? I make a mental note to find out.
“What’s your favorite color?” I ask.
“Blue.”
“Favorite movie?”
“The Lord of the Rings trilogy. They were my favorite books growing up.”
“Interesting,” I say.
“What, you didn’t think I’d be into fantasy?”
“No, I didn’t think you knew how to read.”
He smirks. “If that’s impressive, wait until you see how high I can count.”
I laugh and continue with my line of questioning. “If you could have dinner with anyone in the world, who would it be?”
“This is a dumb question,” he says.
I swirl around the scotch. “Just answer it. Mine would be Lana Del Rey, or no, no, wait, it would be—”
“Hans Zimmer,” he says.
I shake my head, still thinking. “No, not him.”
“No, that’s mine,” he says. “He’s my favorite composer.”
“Asher Collins!” I say, surprised. “You are such a nerd—I had no idea.”
He shakes his head. “Okay, enough with these questions.”
“But I’m just getting started! Just a few more.” I can feel my cheeks getting hot from the drink as I manage to choke down the rest of what he poured me if only to get it over with. I’m surprised how it goes right to my head for such a small amount, and now I get why people drink this stuff.
“My family wouldn’t think it’s weird if you didn’t know who in the world I’d have dinner with. In fact, the weirdest thing
between us—” he starts but cuts himself off, also drinking the rest of his drink and setting it down on the nightstand beside
him.
“Is what?” I ask.
He looks at me with his mouth in a hard line. “How awkward you are with intimacy.”
My mouth drops open. “What? Me?” I am not awkward with intimacy; I am awkward with him. There is no manual on how to fake
date someone to trick the guy that you really like into liking you.
“Yeah, you. You practically spaz any time I try to touch you in public.”
I turn toward him, ready to argue. “Because we aren’t really together. I don’t want to be touched by you.” I’ve said this
before, but each time I say it, it feels less and less true.
“Well, that is less likely to happen if he thinks we’re not together. Do you not notice how he looks at you when I’m near
you? I think his head would explode if he actually saw us kiss.”
“So what, what do you want from me? We’re already telling everyone we’re sleeping together. Should I cling on to you at all
times too?”
“Is that what we’re telling people? Because that’s not what Annica and Danielle have been saying.
You’ve been absent this entire month and Annica is blabbing on about our sex life that isn’t really happening, questioning if we’re even really together and accusing me of cheating on you.
Though I will say that gets Wes pretty riled up, jumping down my throat about what he’d do to me if I hurt you.
Then I have Dani offering me advice on how to be romantic. Honestly, it’s been torture.”
He’s right, and now I feel flustered and overheated. “I just, I—”
“It’s fine,” he says, putting his hands behind his head and leaning back. “Just loosen up a little on the trip and try not
to run away when I touch you.”
I can feel my cheeks turning red. He’s talking to me like I’m a prude, which I am most certainly not, but I’m also not the
kind of person that can fake affection that isn’t there.
“Then let’s practice.” I can feel my heartbeat in my ears at what I just suggested, and I half hope he shuts down the idea.
But only half.
He only raises a brow. “What?”
“Yeah, let’s practice. Maybe I’ll feel more comfortable, and it’ll look more natural, if we just . . . tried it out first.”
“What exactly would you like to try?” The corner of his mouth turns up.
I take a breath and scoot in closer to him. “Well, I can move in closer, like this.” I scooch down and lean a little toward
him so that my arm is now against his. “And you can put one arm around me like this.” I take his arm and put it around my
shoulder before snuggling up to him and leaning my head on his shoulder. I’m sure it looks just as strange as it feels. He
only lets out a long sigh. When we’re this close I notice he smells like cinnamon and pine. It reminds me of Christmas.
“Is this helping you?” he asks after a moment.
“I mean, it might if you weren’t so stiff.” I squirm around under his arm, trying to get comfortable.
“I don’t know what you want from me right now. This isn’t what I thought you had in mind.”
I sit up again with a sigh, scooting over so we are no longer touching. “What did you think I meant?”
He smirks. “Come back over here.” I do what he says, moving in toward him. “Closer, Sawyer,” he says quietly.
I’m nestled into him again, as his hand lifts my chin, sweetly this time, not in the rough way he grabbed me on Halloween.
My breath catches in my throat when I realize what it is he wants to try. I try to calm myself down because it’s just a kiss,
Sloane, it’s just a kiss. And it’s a practice one at that. This is like eighth grade with Bobby Mathews behind the bleachers
all over again, and somehow I’m just as nervous. I look up at him from under my lashes before he tilts my face toward his
and gives me that usual snarky grin. He leans in slow, and my lips part ever so slightly and my eyes flutter closed. Then
Asher Collins McCavern’s lips are on mine.
And I was right, they are soft.
He tastes like scotch and spearmint gum as he deepens the kiss, and his hand moves back to my hair, where it settles, tangled
in the long strands. But it doesn’t last long, and he ends it by pulling away from me. And that was all I needed to confirm
what I already thought. I’m in trouble.
“Not bad,” he says, as our faces are still so close. “Anything else you want to try?” He smiles with those white teeth and
I feel dizzy.
“I— No, that was good, fine actually, it was fine.” I start to edge to the side of his bed. “I think we’re all set for the
trip, then.”
“And here you go running away again,” he says, leaning back against his headboard.
“I’m not running away.” Though I certainly am, because if I stay I think we might end up practicing a lot more than a kiss.
“I have stuff to do tonight.”
“On Thanksgiving?”
“Yes, actually, I have . . . Black Friday shopping to do. For skiing stuff. Outfits for skiing and whatever else you need
for . . . that.”
“Okay.” He smirks. “Just make sure they’re tight. And get a bathing suit for the hot tub. A slutty one.”
“Oh my god,” I mutter, leaving his room.
“See you in two weeks, Sawyer,” he calls out after me.