Chapter 10 #2
"Let's start," he says, turning toward me. One arm stretches across the back of the couch, his fingers mere inches from my shoulder. "My parents will be watching everything. Every touch, every glance, every word."
I nod, throat dry.
“Let’s start with our story. When someone asks how we met, you’ll say through mutual friends. When they ask what attracted you to me, you’ll mention my confidence, my ambition.”
I snort. “Add modesty to the list.”
One eyebrow lifts as Asher looks at me. “If you think so,” he retorts, and I think… he’s joking? It’s hard to tell with Mr. Stoic.
“Wait, but what mutual friends would we have?” I ask, wracking my brain.
“It doesn’t matter.” He waves me off. “As long as we have the same line.”
I narrow my eyes. “I thought you wanted this to be convincing?”
He considers me for a moment. “It will be.”
I shake my head, a bit of bravery rising up in me. Or maybe stupidity? “It’s generic. And if anyone pauses to think about it or asks further questions, it will unravel.”
Sitting back slightly, asking, “Do you have any suggestions, then?”
I stand up, pacing as I think it through. The best lie is partly truth, right? “We met at a coffee shop. I go to different ones to write most days, so that’s believable and not something I need to lie about. And we say you stopped in one morning? Afternoon?”
“Morning,” Asher fills in.
I nod. “And I turned a corner too fast and spilled my drink on you.”
The corners of his lips lift. “Almost the truth.”
“Almost the truth.” I smile, liking that he’s into this. “I was horrified, but you were kind about it.”
“Well, of course.” He stands as he fills in the story. “You looked like you were about to have a panic attack.”
“I was,” I agree. “But then you were so nice, and you bought me a new coffee. An iced caramel latte, of course. My favorite.”
“The gentlemanly thing to do.”
“Mhm. Which you are, of course.”
We both smile again at that. “And then we see each other the next few mornings.”
“Yep. Adorable meet cute, and then it just grows from there.”
Asher smiles. “You’re right, that is better.”
“Thank you.” My chest warms at his praise. “We’ll say we fell in love like a month later, in that same coffee shop. We should pick which one—”
“No,” Asher interrupts, and I look at him, confused. He just said this story was better… I’ve stopped my pacing, and Asher uses the opportunity to move closer to me, leaving only a foot of space. “I knew I loved you the moment you spilled that drink on me.”
I suck in a breath. “Oh.”
“It’s sweeter that way, right?”
My thoughts jumble from him being so close, and his use of “drink” instead of “coffee” has me blurring reality and fiction. I shake the thoughts from my head. It’s all fiction, I remind myself. “Yeah, that’s better.”
“Now…” He takes another step forward, invading my space but not quite touching me. “The next thing we need to work on is being comfortable around each other.” His gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second.
Heat crawls up my neck. "Comfortable how?"
"Physically." He reaches out, his hand resting lightly on my arm, and I flinch immediately, shifting away from him. "And that is why we need to get more comfortable.” He gives me a pointed look. “Can you handle me touching you, Grace?"
My name from his mouth sounds like a dare.
"Yes," comes out breathier than I intend, and I attempt to relax my body, moving back into his orbit.
His hand lifts, hovering near my face. Waiting. "May I?"
I manage a nod.
His fingers brush my cheek and tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. It’s featherlight, almost reverent, and entirely at odds with the controlled businessman who critiques my eating habits.
"You're trembling."
I clear my throat. "I'm fine."
"Lying already?" His thumb traces my jawline. "We need to work on that."
My pulse hammers in my ears. "I'm not—"
"Grace." He leans in, close enough that I can see flecks of darker gray in his eyes. "If you can't handle a simple touch without shaking, my mother will see right through this."
The mention of his mother snaps me back. Performance. Contract. Business arrangement.
Not whatever this heat pooling low in my stomach thinks it is.
I straighten my spine and force my breathing to steady. "Right."
Asher leans closer, his breath skates across my skin as his hand reaches around my head, threading through my hair.
In an instant, my mind short circuits and it’s Richard’s face I see in front of mine. His breath coasts across my cheek. His hand yanking on my hair. His words whispered in my ears, making me shiver with dread. “You want this? Don’t you?”
At the time, I thought he meant his touch, something I absolutely did not want. But now I know that his unwanted advances were the cost associated with him selling my manuscript.
I break away from Asher, putting space between us. This is useless." I huff, pulling my hand back from his and dropping my face into my palms. "I'm not going to be convincing."
That means no payment. Which means moving back to Michigan. Which means losing everything. My chest aches at the realization.
"You give up too easily." Asher's voice is honest, not demeaning but not gentle either.
I whip my head to the side, anger simmering in my veins. I can feel tears burning at the corners of my eyes, threatening to escape.
He's not wrong. I have a bad habit of quitting things if I'm not immediately good at them. Every sport I tried growing up never lasted more than a month before I was begging my mother to let me quit. And she did. Every time. Much to my father’s dismay, who wanted me to tough things out, grow through adversity.
But my mother never wanted to force me into situations where I was unhappy.
"This is why we're practicing. Chemistry isn't manufactured," he murmurs. "It's discovered. Now take a deep breath."
Just like the last time he ordered me to breathe, my lungs respond to his command, sucking in a deep breath and focusing on him.
Asher leans in close, his palm brushing my cheek softly, his breath ghosting over my face.
"I'm going to kiss you now." He says the words so simply, but something flutters inside me. Butterflies flapping their wings against the walls of my ribcage.
This is a bad idea.
This is all supposed to be fake.
There should be boundaries.
But any boundaries there might have been come crumbling down when his lips press against mine.
The kiss is deliberate. An experiment between us. His lips are soft yet commanding. Without thinking, I find my hands reaching for his chest, curling into the fabric of his shirt.
The kiss deepens, and something shifts. It doesn't feel like practice as his tongue slips between my lips.
It doesn't feel like practice as a tingling sensation travels down my body, straight to my core.
And it definitely doesn't feel like practice when he moans into my mouth as if I'm the best thing he's ever tasted.
Strong hands find the small of my back, drawing me closer until my body is flush against his. I fit against him in a way that feels dangerously right.
I’m sucked into the kiss, clinging to him as any worry that was plaguing me before slowly drifts away.
The pretense of practice evaporates as his hand slides up the side of my thigh, and I feel exposed in the pajama shorts, knowing that he could reach underneath. He doesn’t, though, just strokes my thigh as he kisses me.
A distant chime breaks through the haze of desire—Asher's phone, reminding us of reality.
I break the kiss, gasping for air. Asher's eyes are dark and full of heat, and I can feel the fire lacing my skin, sure I'm flushed red.
"That's enough practice," I rush out, jumping up from the couch and running away.