Chapter 4 #2
The only bed.
I nearly groan. He’s about to do that dumb guy thing, where he attempts to be chivalrous but just ends up with a backache. “I’ll take the sofa, and you can have the bed for the night,” he says, nearly right on cue.
I glance over at the incredibly small love seat, then back at Asher. I don’t know his exact height…Okay, that’s a lie. Of course, I do. He’s six feet two. And that sofa is most assuredly not.
The bed, however, is large enough to accommodate both of us.
“That’s ridiculous,” I tell him, giving a nonchalant wave, as if the thought of sharing a bed with him doesn’t make me bolt for the door. “We can share it.”
He starts to protest, his gaze wary. “I really must insist. It wouldn’t be proper.”
I giggle-snort. Proper?
This, from a man who wrote a song about how good a woman…
tastes. Scotland really does bring out the manners in this rock star.
“You’re the one who was just saying we’re practically family, Ash.
What exactly isn’t proper?” I challenge him, my voice far more confident than I actually feel.
“I’ve had to share a bed with my brothers before.
Are you telling me this is any different? ”
If he’s going to insist that he sees me as nothing more than family, then I’m going to hold him to it. His eyes dart to the bed once more before he finally relents. “All right. If it’s fine by you, I wouldn’t mind avoiding the sofa for the night.”
“More than all right.” I fake a smile. “And if it helps, I’ve been told I don’t snore.”
His jaw tics as he heads to the fireplace and starts a fire. “Old boyfriend tell you that?”
My brow scrunches in confusion. “What? No, my brothers, remember?”
I swear his neck starts to redden, but he palms the back of it before I can confirm. “Right, yeah.”
He pokes at the fire for a while, and I finally gather the courage to ask. “Is there a bathroom I can change in and use to wash my face?” And pee? I desperately need to pee. But I leave that part out.
“It’s just outside,” he says, rising to his feet.
“Outside?” My eyes widen.
An amused grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. It’s the first I’ve seen since I made a fool of myself in front of that guard at the front gate.
“Yes, I’ll show you,” he says, motioning toward the front door. “It’s not as bad as it sounds.” Then he pauses, considering his words. “Well, it could be worse.”
“Very encouraging,” I mutter under my breath.
He’s right.
It could be worse.
It’s not an outhouse, which, in all honesty, was exactly what I was picturing. It is, however, very…rustic.
At some point in the last few decades, whoever lived here—a groundskeeper or shunned relative—had this old shed or barn converted into the bathroom I am currently standing in.
It hasn’t been updated since.
The penny tiles are chipping, the grout is crumbling, and the porcelain sink is cracked in several places.
But the water is hot, the shower works, and considering its condition, it’s surprisingly clean. After the day I’ve had, the water feels amazing. I stand under the hot spray much longer than I should, letting it warm me from the inside, hoping for an epiphany about my next move.
Absolutely nothing comes to mind.
But I do leave the bathhouse feeling clean and relaxed for the first time in over twenty-four hours since I left LA.
God, has it really been that long?
No wonder I’m so tired. I’ll probably fall asleep the second my head hits the pillow.
I step into the cottage and come to an abrupt stop.
Asher is over by the bed, slowly tugging off his shirt. He’s already swapped out his jeans for athletic shorts. It’s so much skin all at once.
Despite his noticeable weight loss, those toned muscles are still rippling. The shorts he’s wearing are dangerously low on his hips, and all those gorgeous tattoos of his are on full display.
My mouth suddenly has too much saliva.
He must catch a glimpse of me out of the corner of his eye, because he turns just as he grabs a T-shirt from a duffel bag by the bed.
His gaze sweeps over my body for a moment, and I try not to squirm under his intense stare.
I didn’t exactly plan on being around anyone at night, so my pajamas are exactly what I normally wear at home—shorts and a tank top.
“You might get cold,” he says as he resumes redressing. He pulls on the T-shirt and tosses the Henley he removed into another bag. “The fire is the only heat source here, and it doesn’t last through the night.”
I’m tempted to say something sassy, like, “I was hoping you’d keep me warm.” But I’m really tired, and I’m starting to wonder if that comment about being family offended me more than it should.
Because, of course, that’s what we are.
Or at least, what we should be.
“I have a hoodie in my suitcase,” I tell him just as I head over to it and switch out my day clothes for the old Creeds Bar hoodie I have tucked inside.
I slip it over my head and zip up my suitcase. “Are you—” My words catch, because asking if he’s going to bed suddenly feels so intimate.
“Uh, no,” he answers, thankfully catching on to what I was implying. “It’s still a little early for me.”
I check my watch. “Oh, right.”
“But don’t stay up on my account. I’ve flown plenty. I know how brutal it can be for your sleep schedule.”
I want to argue that I’m fine and can stay up, but my body betrays me at that very moment, and I let out a big yawn. He chuckles, a rich, deep sound that sends shivers down my spine. “Okay,” I manage to say. “I guess I’ll see you in the morning.”
He just nods.
I plug my phone into one of the few outlets and set it on the small table by the bed.
Asher takes a seat on the sofa, notebook in hand.
Even though I’m a little curious about what it might be, I don’t pry.
I simply slide back the plain comforter and sheets and slip underneath, careful not to take up more space than necessary.
I try to find a comfortable position and end up on my side, facing the wall. Soon, my eyes grow heavy, and just as sleep begins to pull me under, I swear I hear the faint sound of music.
No, not just music…singing.