24. Asher
ASHER
The quiet hum of the exhaust fans is the only sound left in the Vine’s kitchen now.
The clatter, the shouts, the splash of pans and ringing of tickets—gone.
I step inside and the warmth wraps around me like a familiar coat.
This space, stripped bare, stripped down, belongs to me. Tonight, it’ll belong to her, too.
She’s at the admin desk in the corner, backlit by the single lamp still on, her hair catching gold in the low light.
Harper. Bent over files, pen between her teeth, the same way she was three nights ago.
The same way she was last week. I watch her for a moment, the way her shoulders tense under that thin sweater, how she lifts her wrist to push hair from her face, the braid slipping loose. She hasn’t noticed me.
Not yet.
I move quietly, boots muffled on the tiled floor. “You eaten?” I ask, voice low.
She jumps, pen clattering to the desktop. “Jesus, Ash—don’t sneak up on me like that.”
“You’re adorable, mon couer,” I say.
She sighs, rubbing her temple. “Just finishing up. There’s still the Rosewood guest list—”
“No.” I step forward, hold her gaze. “You’ve been here since eight this morning. And you didn’t answer your phone when I called you on my break.”
She frowns. “I didn’t hear it.”
“Because you’re doing this.” I gesture to the stack of files. “And you didn’t eat.”
She opens her mouth, then closes it. Defeated. “No. I didn’t.”
“Come with me.”
“Ash—”
“Now. The kitchen’s closed. The staff’s gone. This place,” I say, spreading my arms slightly, “is ours.”
She studies me for a long moment. Then nods, slow, like she’s letting go of something heavy. She stands, stretches, a small groan escaping her lips. I don’t offer to help. I know her. She doesn’t want help unless she asks.
But when she stumbles slightly—the heel of her boot catching on a loose floor tile—I’m there. One hand under her elbow, not gripping, just there.
“Thanks,” she murmurs.
“Don’t mention it.”
I lead her into the kitchen proper. The stoves are cold now, but the ovens still emit a low warmth.
I flick on the under-cabinet lighting—soft, amber.
It glows across the stainless steel counters, the copper pans hanging like ornaments.
I pull a stool up to the central prep table and motion for her to sit.
She watches me as I move. I don’t rush. I never do.
The ritual matters. I grab a heavy-bottomed pan, set it on the induction burner.
Olive oil—good oil, thick and green. I pour with my thumb over the spout, just enough.
Garlic slices hit the oil with a whisper of sizzle.
I let it cook, slow, until the smell rises like a promise.
“What’re you making?”
“Spaghetti aglio e olio. Simple. Fast. Good.”
She smiles faintly. “You always feed me when I’m tired.”
“Because you forget to feed yourself.” I glance at her. “Harper, you’re the kind of person who’d skip breathing if it got in the way of a deadline.”
She doesn’t argue. Just tucks her hands between her knees, watching me. “I didn’t know how to say no as a kid.”
The words come out quiet. Unexpected.
I don’t turn. I keep stirring the garlic, lift the pan slightly to let the oil swirl. “Say no to what?”
“Everything.” Her voice cracks slightly.
“Jason and Rebecca—my dad and his wife—they had this... way of making everything feel like a transaction. A gift came with a list of ways you were supposed to thank them. Dinner meant sitting through three hours of their commentary on my career, my body, my shoes. It wasn’t love.
It was... theater. And I played my part. ”
I add crushed red pepper to the oil. The scent bites sharp at the back of the throat. “So you learned to earn your place.”
“Yeah. By sixteen, I was managing the front desk at a boutique downtown just so I’d have my own money.
Took night classes through community college.
Drove myself to every job interview dressed in secondhand suits from Goodwill.
Still got passed over for girls with ‘connections.’ I didn’t break the glass ceiling—I climbed it with a hammer. ”
I turn then. Set the pan aside. Pour the pasta—already cooked and held—into the oil and garlic. Toss in parsley, a shower of Pecorino. I plate it quickly, bring it to her with a fork and a glass of still water.
She picks up the fork, twirls a strand. “You didn’t say anything.”
I lean against the counter across from her. “Didn’t need to. I was listening.”
She chews slowly. Then laughs, a dry, quiet thing. “They came to my office back in New York.”
I go still. “Jason and Rebecca.”
“Walked in like they owned the place. Told my assistant they had an appointment. They didn’t.” Her knuckles whiten around the fork. “Jason said, ‘We just wanted to remind you that families stick together.’ Like I’m supposed to feel guilty for not inviting them to some gallery opening.”
“And you?”
“I smiled. Handed them a brochure. Told them the next event was invite-only.” She lifts her eyes to me. “I fired up the shredder while they were still in the elevator.”
I almost smile. Almost. But there’s too much ache beneath her tone. “You think they’ll leave it?”
“No.” She sets the fork down. “They’ll try again. They always do. But I don’t belong to them anymore. I haven’t for years.”
“No,” I say softly. “You don’t.”
She watches me. “You never flinch when I say stuff like that.”
“Because I see you.” I step closer. “The part of you that still carries the weight—the part that thinks she has to prove herself every single day, that one misstep means the floor drops out. But fuck them. You earned every damn thing you have. You built it. And anyone who can’t see that doesn’t deserve a seat at your table. ”
Her throat moves as she swallows. “You really believe that?”
I reach out, take the fork from her hand, set it aside. “I know it.”
She’s quiet then. The only sound is the slow tick of the cooling kitchen. Then—“How did you and Monica... you know. End?”
I don’t answer right away. I pick up a dish towel, fold it. Not because it needs folding, but because my hands need something to do.
“I came home early,” I say. “Sixteen hours in the air, crew changes, delays. Got a last-minute clearance to land an hour ahead of schedule. I called. No answer. So I thought... I could surprise her.”
I glance up. Harper’s eyes are steady on me.
“I walked into the bedroom, duffel still on my shoulder. Took my boots off at the door, like always. And there they were. Her and some guy. On our bed. Her face—she didn’t even have the decency to look surprised. Just annoyed I’d interrupted.”
Harper closes her eyes. A muscle flickers in her jaw.
“She didn’t know him. Just some stranger. Doesn’t matter. It wasn’t about who he was. It was about what she did. Like it was nothing. Like me coming home, me seeing her—that was just a minor inconvenience to her fun.”
“She never apologized?”
“Said it was because I was ‘never around.’ Like that excused it.” I snort. “Like sixteen-hour service weeks and my passport getting stamped more than hers made me less real.”
“That’s not an excuse,” Harper says sharply.
“No. But love—when it’s real—it doesn’t just disappear when it’s broken.
” I look at her. “It sticks around. In the way you notice someone’s favorite coffee cup in a cupboard, years later.
In the way you still know how they take their eggs, even when you don’t share a kitchen.
Once it’s there, it doesn’t vanish. It just... hardens. Turns brittle.”
“And Monica?”
“She uses it. Uses the fact that I still remember how she likes her steak done. Uses the fact that I won’t badmouth her in front of others. Uses it to walk back into my life like nothing happened. Like she can take pieces of me whenever she feels like it.”
Harper reaches across the space between us. Places her hand over mine.
“I’m sorry you went through that.”
Her voice is steady, but her thumb moves—once—over my knuckles. A pulse of warmth.
“Long time ago,” I say. But it’s not. Not really. “But Monica’s like a shadow. Doesn’t matter how much light you bring in—she’s still there, waiting for a crack.”
Harper’s grip tightens. Just slightly. Enough that I feel it in my chest.
I turn my hand under hers, link our fingers. Then lift it, press my lips to the soft skin of her knuckles. Her breath hitches. Her eyes darken.
And then, voice low, “And Killian. And Maddox. How do you feel about that? Sharing me.”
I don’t drop her gaze.
“It feels natural.” My voice is rough. Honest.
She blinks. “It does?”
“Yeah. Because you’re not divided, Harper. You’re not split between us. To me, you’re mine—and you’re theirs. We don’t trade you. We hold you together.”
“That’s... not how most men would see it.”
“I’m not most men.” I shift closer. “I’ve seen the way you carry yourself—with respect, even when no one’s watching. I know you wouldn’t play with trust. And I know Killian and Maddox—they’d cut off their arms before letting you feel unsafe. I trust them. And I trust you.”
She flushes. A slow, deep blush spreading from her neck to her cheeks. Not embarrassment. Heat. Recognition.
“You don’t get jealous?”
“I do.” I don’t lie. “But not because I fear losing you. I get jealous because I want more—more of you, more of this. But knowing you’re with them? Knowing they lo…feel the same way about you? It doesn’t lessen what I feel. You’re worth it.”
She exhales. A soft, breathless sound.
And I can’t wait anymore.
I step forward, close the space, frame her face in my hands. She leans into me like she’s been waiting. Her hands come up, grip the front of my shirt—black henley, sleeves rolled to the elbows, ink crawling down my forearms.
My mouth crashes into hers. Not gentle. Not sweet.
Hungry. She opens for me, meets me with the same fire, same need.
Her tongue sweeps against mine, a sharp spark of taste—salt, wine, her.
Her legs shift, spread slightly on the stool as I press closer.
I run my hands down her sides, feel the curve of her hips, the steel beneath the softness.
She moans into my mouth. A low, raw sound.
I break the kiss only long enough to lift her—effortless—off the stool and set her on the steel prep table. Cold beneath her, but she doesn’t flinch. Just grips my shoulders as I step between her legs.
Her hands tug at my shirt. I let her pull it off, toss it aside. Her fingers trail over my chest, down the hard lines of my stomach, stop at the tattoo that peeks beneath the waistband of my jeans—bouillon de légumes, the handwritten script, the recipe for the broth I learned from my grandmother.
“You’re marked,” she murmurs, tracing the faded ink.
“So are you,” I say. “Just not on the skin.”
She doesn’t answer. Just leans in and bites my shoulder. Sharp. Real.
I growl, low in my throat, and yank her hips forward. Her ass drags across the steel. She gasps.
Clothes come off in pieces. Her sweater over her head. Her bra undone with one hand. Her skirt pushed down her thighs, panties following. My jeans open, zipper screaming, shoved down just enough.
No foreplay. Not tonight. We’re past that. This is claiming. This is I see you, I know you, I want you.
I press against her, thick and ready. She arches, grips my arms—tattoos, muscle, bone.
“Now,” she says. “Ash, now.”
I push inside.
She’s tight. Wet. Hot. A velvet fist around my cock. She cries out, head thrown back, throat exposed. I don’t give her time to adjust. I thrust deep, once, twice—her nails bite into my skin.
“Yes—yes—”
The kitchen is silent except for us. The clink of stainless steel. The soft slap of skin. Her breath breaking on every stroke. I brace one hand on the table beside her, the other in her hair, holding her steady as I drive into her, deeper, harder.
She’s coming fast. I feel it—her breath hitching, her thighs trembling.
“Not yet,” I growl. “Look at me.”
She does. Eyes wide. Glassy.
I slow. Pull out just enough, then sheath myself again, slow, deep, deep. Her mouth falls open.
“You’re mine,” I say. “And theirs. But right now—here—you’re mine.”
She moans, shudders, and her inner walls spasm around me.
That’s all I need.
I fuck her through it—ruthless, relentless. My hips snap forward, each thrust a punctuation mark: you’re wanted. you’re known. you’re ours.
Her second orgasm hits like a storm. She screams, low and guttural, back bowing off the table. Her fingers claw at my shoulders, my chest, my neck.
I follow her over the edge—growl her name like a prayer, a promise—Harper, Harper, Harper—and pour everything into her.
We collapse together.
I catch her before she slips, wrap her against my chest. Her breath comes hot against my collarbone. My cock still buried inside her. Skin to skin. Heart to heart.
She doesn’t speak.
Neither do I.
The kitchen is warm. Quiet. Ours.
Eventually, I lift her gently, carry her to the back staff lounge. There’s a cot there, rarely used. I lay her down, pull the thin blanket over her.
“Stay,” I say.
She nods. “Just... don’t go far.”
I press a kiss to her temple, her cheek, her mouth. “I’m right here.”
I return to the kitchen, wipe down the table with a damp cloth. The steel gleams under the low light. I don’t think about tomorrow. Or Monica. Or Jason and Rebecca.
I think about the way Harper looked at me. The way she said my name.
I think about the future.
But not now.
Now, I go back to her. Sit beside the cot. Watch her sleep.
And know—know—that this is real. That she is. That we are.