CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Kaia
“Kaia.”
Sharon’s loud voice spooked me. My diary and a handful of pens slipped from my hands, scattering across the beige rug. I scrambled to gather them.
“Sorry.” She chuckled, stepping toward me. “I lost track of time. We’ll be late for your session with Dr. White unless we leave now.”
I grabbed my denim backpack from the bed and shoved my phone inside. As I reached for the diary, Sharon tilted her head. “A diary? I had one at your age. Every girl in my class did. We even swapped them and read each other’s secrets.”
Mandy and I had done that once, not long after Mom’s death.
The memory still clung to me—Mandy’s entry about a new dress, mine about a funeral.
I remembered the way her face froze when she finished reading, how awkward silence stretched between us.
It was like we lived on different planets.
Hers had rainbows, unicorns, and pretty dresses.
Mine smelled of damp earth and grief, heavy with loneliness.
Not that it was Mandy’s fault. She just didn’t know. And I was glad she didn’t. Nobody should.
“Kaia?”
I shoved the diary and pens into my desk drawer. “Yeah, we swapped diaries too. I’m ready.”
Sharon chuckled again as I followed her out. She looked relaxed, while every muscle in me tightened at the thought of sitting across from Dr. White.
He was supposed to be one of the best—or so Dad and the framed certificates on his wall claimed. But I didn’t trust him. I wasn’t comfortable spilling my heart to him. Therapy helped some people. Sometimes it even saved lives. It just didn’t help me.
We got into Sharon’s car. As she pulled onto the road, I fumbled with my phone. The longer she drove, the more determined I became. I set an alarm for twenty minutes and finally eased back against the seat, staring out at the stream of cars headed downtown.
When we arrived, I marched into Dr. White’s office. The receptionist, Anne, glanced up from her magazine and gave me the same polished smile she probably gave everyone. “Kaia. Dr. White will be free in just a moment.”
“Okay,” I said, sinking onto the brown couch.
My alarm went off right on cue. I pulled out my phone. “Sorry,” I said, holding it up. “It’s Dad.”
Anne returned to her magazine as I pressed the phone to my ear. “Dad? What’s wrong? … Oh, I completely forgot. I’m sorry. Sure. I’ll be there right now.”
Ending the fake call, I crossed the reception area to Anne’s desk. “I’m so sorry. Please tell Dr. White I need to cancel. Dad just remembered we have somewhere to be.”
She sighed, lowering the magazine. “All right. But a late cancellation still means you’ll be charged.”
“No problem. See you next week.” I slipped out the door, relief washing over me. I wished I never had to come back—but for now, skipping one session was enough.
When I stepped outside, I felt lighter. I had almost one hour of freedom until Sharon came to pick me up, and I was going to take advantage of every minute.
***
Sharon didn’t suspect a thing. By the time she parked at the office, I was already waiting outside, and on the drive home I answered her usual questions about therapy with ease.
I’d never been a liar, but unless Dad finally listened, I was stuck in sessions I hated—sessions that only made me feel worse.
She left soon after to meet a friend, leaving Dad and me alone for the first time in months.
I could keep skipping therapy, but he’d still pay for it, and I’d rather he spent that money on something useful—like a secondhand car.
I could drive myself to school, to hip-hop, even to see Asher once racing started at the nearby circuits.
Dad was in his office. The steady tap of his keyboard carried through the closed door as I stood outside, fiddling with the hem of my hoodie. Nobody should be this nervous to talk to their father, but I was. Our conversations were minefields—one wrong step and everything blew up.
I filled my lungs and knocked.
He cleared his throat. Papers shuffled. “Come in.”
The smell of leather and orange cleaner hit me as I entered. Despite the heating, the room felt cold—like us.
“Kaia.” His brows rose. “What is it? I’m busy.”
When wasn’t he busy?
The typing resumed, coiling my insides tight. I forced the words out anyway. “Nothing. I just thought we could talk.”
He glanced up. “Okay, but fast.”
I hated being rushed, but it was this or nothing. “It’s about therapy. It isn’t helping, and I’d rather you didn’t spend so much on something I find—”
“I don’t care what you think about something that’s necessary for you. You’ll keep going.” He frowned at his screen, already done with me. “Anything else?”
My heart plummeted. I should’ve been used to it, but his cold dismissal made me feel small every single time.
“Nothing,” I whispered. “Keep working.”
He didn’t even look at me. I shut the door and went to my room, burying myself in PSAT prep for four hours before curling up with the copy of Love in the Time of Cholera Asher had given me.
At ten, quiet footsteps in the hall made my pulse race. Asher was finally home. I didn’t want to wait for him to come to me.
I grabbed the novel, slipped out of my room, and crossed into his. Without knocking, I let myself in.
Water splashed in his en suite. I sank onto his bed, calm settling over me. The room smelled like him, warm and familiar—because here, I was always welcome.
Minutes later, the bathroom door creaked open. Asher stepped out in nothing but a towel knotted at his hips, head bent as he rubbed his hair dry. Water beaded down his chest and abs, glistening before disappearing beneath the fabric.
God help me. He looked like he’d walked out of a cologne ad—and he was mine.
“Drop the towel,” I whispered.
He stopped, staring at me as if I were the one half-naked. Then his lips curved. “I thought you were asleep. Also, what happened to ‘welcome home’?”
“And I thought you were dressed. Welcome home. Now drop it.”
His warm laugh rumbled through the room. “What do I get if I do?”
My gaze slid over every inch of his skin. “A welcome-home kiss. Or maybe I’ll lick you dry.”
Asher groaned, tipping his head back. “For fuck’s sake, peque. Have some mercy.”
“Only if you drop the towel.”
In one smooth motion, he tugged the knot loose. The towel hit the floor, and my core clenched at the sight of him. Holy shit.
I licked my lips. “So, just talking to me gets you going?”
His dark eyes raked over me. “Seeing you on my bed gets me going. Or hearing your voice. Or your existence, really. That’s it—the show’s over. Unless you want me to lick you.” He crossed to the dresser and pulled on a pair of black boxer briefs.
“Not fair,” I pouted.
He stepped back toward the bed, hunger sharpening his gaze.
Shivers ran down my spine. “You know what isn’t fair?
” He planted his palms on either side of me and leaned close, heat rolling off his bare skin.
“That we aren’t alone.” His thumb brushed my cheek, then dragged across my bottom lip.
“Because I’m dying to show you all of me—and see all of you.
But I’m not giving you your first orgasm while your father’s still in his office. ”
Warmth pooled low in my stomach. I couldn’t wait for the day it was just us. He cupped my face, kissed me quick—right before Dad’s footsteps echoed in the hallway.
When silence returned, Asher sighed. “See? That’s what I mean.”
“He’s gone now,” I murmured. “Can I sleep here?”
He tucked a strand behind my ear. “And if he goes to check on you?”
That hadn’t happened in years. He wouldn’t start caring now. “He won’t. I tried talking to him earlier, and he dismissed me.”
Asher switched off the light and pulled back the comforter. Like always, he gathered me into his arms, and I melted against him as he drew circles on my back. “What did you want to talk to him about?” he asked.
“I skipped therapy. I wanted to tell him I’m quitting altogether, but he didn’t let me finish.”
Asher kissed my forehead. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too, but I’m used to it.” I traced his jaw with my fingertips. “I wanted to do the right thing—to save him money—since I’m not going back. I’d rather spend that time studying or reading.”
“What do you think of the book?” He nodded at the novel I’d left on his nightstand.
“The setting’s fascinating. Makes me want to go to Colombia. And I feel bad for Florentino and Fermina. I can relate to having a controlling father.”
Asher nuzzled into my neck. “I felt bad for Florentino too, but fifty-something years waiting for her? Get real. He should’ve fought harder instead of letting her marry that guy her father picked.”
“Different times, Ash.” I pushed back his damp hair. I loved that we could talk about anything—even books.
He closed his eyes with a contented sigh. “Tell me something else,” he whispered, holding me tighter. “I love listening to you.”
“You’re tired.” I kissed his forehead. “How was training?”
He yawned. “Good. I think I’m ready. The opening ceremony and my first race are in Emerport.”
And he’d be there alone. No family cheering him on. My chest ached. If only I had a car. He’d never say it, but I knew he wanted me there. The first race with a new team was a big deal.
“I wish I could see you race,” I whispered, tracing lines across his shoulder with my fingertips. “I was going to ask my father for a secondhand car, but…”
“Don’t worry. You can watch online,” Asher said. “And I’ll have something just for you.”
He caught my hand, pressed it to his heart, then lifted it to his mouth, kissing my fingers. “Trickier with the helmet on.” He chuckled. “But when I win, you’ll see this—and know the victory’s for you.”
I melted inside. More than ever, I wanted to be there on his big day. He came to my showcase. I’d find a way to cheer him on too.
I pressed my lips to his. His sharp inhale parted his mouth, and I deepened the kiss, caressing his tongue with mine.
Ash rolled us over, pressing me into the mattress. The friction between our bodies stole my breath. We’d never been this close—I’d never felt him like this. His fist tangled in my hair as he kissed me harder, until a moan slipped free and I lifted my hips to his.
“Fuck, mi nina.” He panted, sliding his hand from my waist down to my hip. “We can’t. Not yet.”
“When?”
He braced his weight on his forearms, smiling down at me, his dark eyes warm with affection. “You’ll find out if you spend Valentine’s Day with me.”