10. Liv
It should be illegal to look like Ash Wilder.
A haircut shouldn’t make such a drastic difference, but maybe it was more than that.
Actually, no it was definitely more than a haircut.
He’d shaved the longer scruff down to a more intentional five o’clock shadow with clean, defined edges, and holy shit , the sudden urge to trace his jaw to find out how rough it might be hit me like a—well like a large hockey player, I imagined.
Even his clothes were different, more fitted, and less like stretched out comfy clothes he’d worn a million times.
Well, no, he’d always knocked me off kilter. Every time I saw the man, something about him put me on my ass, whether it was his cocky smile or saving me from myself or flying me across the country to see my father or the cocky smile again…
“Barnes!” He called out.
Shit, no avoiding him now. I didn’t want to avoid him; somehow, now, all of Ash felt inevitable. “Ash.” It came out as a croak.
Maybe I misread the signals, projecting something he didn’t reciprocate. Our only connection now was Polly, and his surprise at seeing me made me wonder if she was involved in this somehow. Again.
Determined not to let the awkwardness get to me, I remained stalwart in my decision not to be the first to break the silence, heading back toward the table to pack up the rest of my things.
Following me like an irritated shadow, Ash worked his jaw and rubbed the back of his neck, like he would’ve tugged on the strands but couldn’t with the new length. Clearly, he was as unsure how to proceed as I, but something more than awkward silence snarled between us.
The hulking, brooding man beside me distracted with his uncharacteristic moodiness, and I stepped off the sidewalk without looking. My foot skidded as I flailed for balance, but a hand wrapped around my upper arm, steadying me. “Thanks,” I grumbled.
Ash only scowled. I’d never seen him so surly, only cocky, even when fans surrounded him. I didn’t know what to make of this side of him. Did haircuts always come with personality changes?
A student from the culinary department, decked out in chef’s whites and black rubber clogs, held out a tray of bright red candied apples.
Without thinking, I took one, needing something to do with my hands.
Too bad I hate candied apples. Sweetness flooded my tongue as I bit into the vermillion sugar coating.
My teeth stuck together as I chewed, but the tart crispness of the fruit set it off nicely.
Ash held out his hand, and on reflex, I placed the stick in his palm. The apple reappeared in front of my face with a massive bite taken out of the opposite side. I sputtered, “What the hell?”
Never mind the tiny, idiotic part of me who wanted to press my lips to where his mouth had been, imagining his teeth sinking into?—
The mischievous sparking in his eyes appeared for a moment but shuttered and died when Brad appeared out of nowhere, grabbing my hand and dragging me along with him toward the long line at the cocoa stand. He nearly pulled my arm out of the socket as he went.
“Stop taking my hand,” I snapped. He didn’t let go, so I snatched my hand away, shaking it. Partly from the cold, partly from Brad’s gross hand.
He didn’t notice my reaction as he wandered off to find who knew what, but Ash noticed, pausing beside me, tugging a pair of gloves out of his back pocket, and holding them out to me. The whole time, he wouldn’t even look at me.
I didn’t want to take them, but my hands were freezing. He’s being nice. The gloves were still warm as I reluctantly slid my hand inside, and much too large. The inside was velvety against my fingertips, like petting the soft fur of a baby animal.
“Thanks,” I muttered.
“Hmph,” he grunted. No smirk, no thinly veiled innuendo, nothing. My focus zeroed in on his sullenness, drowning out the background noise of the festival.
“What’s your deal?”
“No deal.” He crossed his arms over his chest.
“Asher Whatever-the-fuck Wilder. I don’t know what to think about any of this.
The first time we met, you irritated the hell out of me on purpose.
We went to a concert, and you stopped my panic attack.
Then, when you heard about my dad’s accident, you flew me across the country.
We ate gummy worms and talked about books, and it was nice .
And just now, you gave me your gloves because you saw I was cold, but you’ve said about three words since you got here.
Which, come to think of it, why are you here?
” Boiling heat roiled in my chest as I rounded on him, looking up into his onyx eyes, when they refused to meet mine.
It felt like we were playing some sort of game, like he was waiting for something specific, but I didn’t know what.
Scowling, he said, “Please excuse me for not flirting with you every five seconds, Olivia.”
“What? Flirting ?”
“Yes, flirting. What the hell did you think it was?”
“You were being—I don’t know—obnoxious!”
“I was not.”
“It doesn’t matter, does it?”
“No? Maybe?” More bubbling, boiling spewed up, making me furious at him without knowing why. “Why doesn’t it matter?”
“Just drop it.”
Absolutely not. And he was so different . Distant. I didn’t like it, not one bit. The push to tease him, to draw out his playful side rippled through me.
“How about this? We play a game. The winner, which will be me, has to tell the truth.” Maybe bringing out his competitive side would lighten the mood. The cornhole game a few yards away would be perfect; I’d taught myself how to win it in college, too.
Ash grunted again, but there was no way of knowing whether it was in affirmation or not. “But as the challenged party, I get to choose.”
“What? Why?”
“Isn’t that how they do it in your historical romances?”
I grumbled about his reading habits, but the games around the quad looked easy enough, probably not rigged like carnival games.
I was fairly confident I’d still win, and then I’d sort this out.
For no other reason than simply needing to know what was bothering him.
I hated not knowing. “Okay, fine. You choose.”
“That one.” He pointed, his arm stretching straight in front of us to the far end of the quad.
“That’s not a game.”
His scowl deepened, and his shoulders turned a fraction of an inch inward. “I don’t know why I bothered. See you around, Barnes.”
“I can’t.” The small ice rink was situated in a gap between buildings, with open sky behind it and strings of fairy lights strung back and forth, giving it a magical glow. “Ash, really, what’s wrong?”
“Skate with me, and I’ll tell you.” His body already turned away from mine, as though he was already preparing to leave me here.
“I can’t skate.” Panic rose in the back of my throat, metallic like blood, and dully throbbing with old embarrassment.
Ash cocked his head, and I missed his longer hair. The longer strands would’ve fallen over his forehead with the movement. “I’ll show you what to do.”
“No, please, I—” It was stupid, how afraid I became.
Ice skating wasn’t easy, but toddlers could learn how to do it.
Hell, Brad said he could skate. I was a grown-ass woman, not a ten-year-old girl anymore.
Ash and I were friends, sort of, and he’d been there for me in our short acquaintance enough times.
Maybe I owed him this, to help him somehow.
Besides, I wore enough layers to bounce right back up if I fell on my ass. Probably.
Letting out a wheezing breath, I nodded, avoiding eye contact.
“How is skating a game? Are we going to race? I feel like you being a professional would be cheating?—"
“Just…skate with me.” When Ash spoke, it was still low, barely audible, but the tone conveyed more than shouting ever would.
And I expected to lose all feeling in the cold, but his tone sent warmth right to my?—
Nowhere. Ash Wilder sent warmth right to nowhere. He was cocky and annoying, except he wasn’t any of those things right now, was he?
Shit .
I glanced toward Ash and watched him repeatedly pulling on the wrist cuff of his jacket, realizing I still had his gloves. God, his hands were so much bigger than mine. Tugging his gloves off, I smacked him in the chest with them, looking away when he stared, affronted.
Why won’t he tell me what’s wrong? Why is he still here if he’s so upset? And it’s clearly something I did, so why is he here ?
But Ash stayed.
Why? Why would he stay? Did he have some ulterior motive?
What was he even doing at the fair?
But we arrived at the head of the line, and even though Ash muttered about renting skates, he did it, taking the battered boots with a wince from the attendant.
With a gulp, I took the pair of skates the attendant handed across the counter.
Scuffs marred the leather, and creases crossed the ankles as if they’d bent and flexed a million times.
Silvery blades glinted as I nearly dropped them, surprised at their weight.
Laces, long and no longer white, fell over my hands, their touch barely there against fingers too stiff with cold to move.
Did I actually agree to this? I didn’t remember saying yes. Mental images from the last time I skated swirled up; dust blown off an old photograph. Like swiping a hand through fog, all my attempts to shove the memories aside did was stir them up further.
Somehow, I was twenty-eight and ten at the same time, sitting on a bench, skates in hand. Excitement trilled through one version of me, dread through the other.
God, ten years old was a lifetime ago.
My tenth year gave my life a perfect line of demarcation; before and after. Nine years, nine whole years. And during the tenth—when everything realigned. My first taste of the real world and how awful people could be. And how our actions always have consequences.
My dad’s face swam in my mind as I remembered that particular lesson, and I had to remind myself that he was safe ; I talked to him this morning and his nurse would call if anything happened.
Recovery was going well, and his spirits were lifting, based on the number of times he ribbed me about the next time Ash would fly me out to see him.
Dad was fine, I was fine, this was fine .
Clumsy fingers managed to unzip my winter boots, but tugging the skates on was another thing entirely. I shoved my feet in, yanking the tongue straight and jerking the laces with my stiff hands.
Oh God, oh God, what is Ash doing?
“Get up,” I hissed as Ash sank to the ground.
One large hand wrapped around my ankle, and I kicked, but I couldn’t escape his grip.
“I can lace them myself,” I snapped.
Annoyance crossed his face, but his words were soft. “You don’t have to do everything yourself. Let me help. I am a professional.”
There was no way he touched skin, not with the layers of socks and leggings, but fire lanced up my leg where his hand wrapped around my ankle. The brush of his thumb over my ankle bone sizzled where it shouldn’t.
His movements were fluid, practiced, as if he’d done it all his life, which I realized, he probably had.
He wasn’t exactly gentle, more like… smoothly efficient, and somehow it was so attractive.
It was a testament to how tangled up my mind was, I realized, how unphased I was at the idea of Ash Wilder being sexy. Later, I would probably regret it, but for now, I would let him play distraction.
Besides, the sight of him at my feet was… powerful.
And then he slowly rose, unfolding to his full height so slowly I knew it was intentional.
The darkness of his eyes told me he’d read my mind, damn my expressive face , somehow knowing I wanted him to be a distraction.
He wasn’t happy about it, though which part he didn’t like, I couldn’t tell. So, fuck him for being unreadable.
“You guys are up next.” The attendant’s cheery voice sliced the moment like a rope cut in half, and Ash jerked away.
Ankles secured in the skates meant rolling them would be impossible, and I cursed Ash again for his impeccable knot-tying skills.
Awkwardly, I got to my feet, using the bench’s armrest to push myself up, and then with a shuffle so wobbly it would embarrass a penguin, I waddled toward the ice.
It loomed, a massive expanse of shining white, cut through with curving, cursive trails cut by skaters who whizzed past me like it was nothing to have knife blades on the bottom of a boot. Colorful costumes dotted the ice, decorations, balloons on a party table.
A shove from behind had me stepping forward, and bile rose.
I couldn’t, I couldn’t , I couldn’t .
A hand wrapped around mine, another at the small of my back, slowly gliding us to the waist-high wall. All the air disappeared like some sort of giant Hoover in the sky vacuumed it up into its dusty bag. A gasping sound came from my mouth as I tried to pull oxygen into my lungs, but none came.
“Olivia.”
Still, no air made it past the squeezing in my throat.
My vision sparked around the edges, growing darker as her fingers went even colder.
Did I lose my scarf somehow? Sudden cold hit my neck and my jacket fell off, and the thinner under layer went with it.
Fresh air reached my skin through my thermal shirt, and it was like plunging into icy water, but it worked.
I could breathe again.
Greedily gasping down air, I blinked, grateful. Realizing the warmth on my face was tears, I turned away, unwilling to share this with anyone, much less him. Not again.
A light weight landed on my shoulder, reassuring and gentle.
“Do you need to leave?” He stayed a respectful distance away, only bridging the gap between us with his hand, which he pulled back as I turned to face him?—
—And remembered the skates half a second too late. Bambi on his wobbling newborn deer legs was probably better at standing than me.
This time, though, someone caught me from behind, and rather than catch my shoulders, they reached beneath my arms, a hair too far forward. A disgusting, familiar scent enveloped me as the gloved hands gripped my sides. Ew did Brad feel me up ? Where the fuck did Brad come from?
“Steady there.” Brad’s voice sounded right in my ear and his body pressed against my back, but my skates still skidded on the ice, so unless I wanted to plant my ass right there, I was stuck with Brad.
Maybe planting my ass on the ice wouldn’t be so bad.