Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
MERCURY
We have another two days of solitude before our quiet little bubble is broken.
Mac just finished dropping off two breakfast trays filled with pastries and bacon. The scent fills the cottage, and my mouth instantly waters.
But not because of the bacon.
Or at least not just because of the bacon.
Asher steps into the cottage, freshly showered, his dark hair still dripping wet down his bare back. How he can walk from the bathhouse into the freezing morning air in nothing but sweats is beyond me.
But I’m going to be thankful I’m here to witness it. ’Cause, damn.
I’ve never asked him about his tattoos, but I want to. I know the one on his chest is his family coat of arms, and the lyrics on the side of his torso? They’re from Manic’s first single to ever go platinum. But the rest are a mystery—one I wouldn’t mind solving.
Preferably with my tongue.
A blush creeps across my cheeks as he takes the seat across from me. “Been reading again, love?”
“What?” Then I realize he’s referring to the color of my cheeks. I toss a grape at his face. He dodges, and it flies toward the front door as it opens.
And the countess walks through.
She watches with pursed lips and a tilted chin as the grape hits her pastel pink Birkin bag and lands with a thud on the wooden floor.
Fuck my life. Seriously, what are the chances?
While both of us are still in sweats and hoodies, the Countess of Dunloch is dressed as if she’s off to meet the king.
For all I know, perhaps she is.
Her cream-colored suit and blush pink blouse match perfectly with the Hermès scarf expertly tied around her neck. I tug at the hoodie I desperately need to wash and try not to squirm.
I’m usually much more put together than this. There’s a reason I recognize the crazy-expensive bag on her arm and the vintage Chanel pin on her lapel. I love fashion, and I’m usually covered in it.
But there hasn’t exactly been a need for it in this run-down cottage. This is how I find myself greeting the countess.
Shit, do I need to stand up and bow? Curtsy?
“You could have knocked,” Asher says simply, looking wholly unimpressed as he pops a grape into his mouth and leans back in his chair.
His mother looks at his bare chest, scrunches her nose, and steps over the grape on the floor. “There’s no need to knock if the person at the door happens to be the owner,” she says confidently.
“True.” He shrugs. “But I can’t guarantee we’ll be dressed the next time you come by unannounced.”
Oh my god. My blush intensifies as I try very hard not to picture what he just described.
It does not work.
I feel very, very warm.
“Well, since there won’t be a next time, I doubt it will be an issue.”
Our heads snap up. “What are you talking about?”
“You didn’t think we’d let you two keep living here?
You’re our son and heir.” She scoffs as if the idea is ludicrous.
“What would people think if they knew?” I doubt the idea of her son living here bothers her that much, considering he’s been here for over a month.
Her heir, though? That’s probably what she’s actually worried about.
“How would they even know?” He questions her logic.
She waves a dismissive hand in the air. “You know how the staff talks.”
“Do they?” I say, surprising everyone in the room, myself included.
There’s something about Asher’s parents talking down to him that irritates me and makes me forget I actually hate confrontation.
Theodora’s gaze lands on me with the same look of curiosity she had that night at the gala, when she turned to me and forgot all about Isobel.
“Because Asher has been home for weeks, and not a word has leaked to the press. Seems to me everyone here is pretty loyal.”
She stares me down, and when I somehow don’t give in, she lets out a heavy sigh, drops her very expensive Birken bag—one I would literally give my left tit to have—on the small table by the door, and takes the empty seat at the table.
“The press was fond of you, Mercury,” she admits, placing her phone beside her.
On the screen is an article, and front and center is a picture of Asher and me from the gala last week.
Following Asher and my family’s advice, I avoided searching for any photos or news articles.
I knew the damage the press could do to someone’s mental health.
But when I look down at that photo, all I see is the way Asher was looking at me, like I was the center of his world.
Not real. Not real. “But it’s no surprise. I knew they would be,” Theodora says.
No, you didn’t, I want to say. But I don’t. There’s only so much backtalk you can get away with when speaking with a countess or your fake boyfriend’s mother, and I think I’ve hit my limit for the day.
“The truth is, you’re not ready for the road ahead,” she says pointedly as she puts away her phone. “Neither of you are. You need media training—”
“I’ve had media training,” we both say at the same time.
She arches one of her perfectly waxed eyebrows at her son. “Hollywood does things differently than we do. You know that.”
Then she turns her gaze on me. “And you’re too green. You got lucky with your confrontation with Isobel. Her mother reined her in before she could cause a scene, but if it had been someone else…”
I think back to that confrontation, to what might have happened if she’d pushed back. Finally, I nod, understanding what she’s implying. “It could have been me causing a scene.” And I never want to be the reason Asher’s name is shrouded in scandal.
“So what are you proposing?” Asher asks, taking a sip of tea, though he looks thoroughly unconvinced.
“You will both move into the main house. Immediately.” She gives another pointed look, this time letting it drift from me to Asher. “You will take up your old quarters, and Mercury will occupy one of the guest suites.”
“No.”
“Asher,” his mother tries to argue.
“We will move into the main house if that is what you wish, but Mercury will not be placed in a guest suite,” he says, his voice icy and demanding. “She will stay with me.”
His mother sputters, her eyes blinking rapidly. “It’s not how things are done, Asher. You’re not married—”
“I don’t care.”
I have no idea why he’s being so adamant about this. Maybe he thinks it will make our relationship look more convincing. He once told me he thought his mother had doubts.
But this seems personal.
And it makes me very…confused.
“We’ve already made all the arrangements. Why do you think it’s taken me so long to come down here and talk to you? We had to prepare the room and order the clothes—”
“Mother.” His voice is calm. Almost eerily soft.
“Yes?”
“This is my only demand,” he says. “You can send us to galas and balls. We will smile and wave. I’ll give speeches and do interviews. I’ll do whatever is needed, but Mercury stays with me. Is that clear?”
Theodora blanches slightly, as if she’s just now realizing she’s dealing with a future earl, one she won’t be able to control for much longer.
She gives a curt nod. “Crystal.”
“Perfect.” He takes another sip of tea, then turns to her. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, you and your father seem to have a habit of interrupting our breakfast.”
Her lips pucker bitterly, but she rises nonetheless. “Of course.” She walks over and slides her bag onto her arm, then stops. “Enjoy your…grapes,” she says, crushing the purple fruit with the heel of her shoe.
When the door slams a moment later, I find my hand rising to cover my mouth as my shoulders start to shake. My gaze finds Asher, and he’s trying so hard not to laugh.
A second later, we’re both cackling at the top of our lungs.
“God, do you think I was the grape she crushed with her shoe?” I snicker, tears streaming down my cheeks.
“No.” He chuckles. “That was most assuredly me. I think she actually likes you.”
“Shut your mouth!”
“I’m serious. She just redecorated a room for you. That’s her love language. Or whatever the closest thing to love she feels. Admiration? Fondness? Mild appreciation?”
“And you just turned it down?” My eyes grow wide. “Do you think we should have separate rooms? What if she hates me now?”
“I don’t give a fuck, Merc.” He grows serious. “I’m not leaving you alone in that house for a second.”
“Are you sure?”
“Why do you think I’ve been living in this shithole for a month? Being under the same roof as my parents is a nightmare, even one as large as Blackstone. Yes, you’re staying with me.”
“So I guess we’ll still be sharing a bed, then?”
“I thought you loved the one-bed trope?”
My eyes widen, and I gulp. “What?”
He shrugs, acting innocent. “Just something I heard.”
“Something you heard?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Oh my god, Asher.” I grab a handful of grapes. “You.” I toss one at his head. “Better not have read.” He’s laughing now, but not ducking as I throw a couple more. “My Kindle!”
“It may have been left on accidentally while you went to shower. It’s not my fault. My eyes skimmed over and happened to land on the enormous font. Seriously, are you blind? Maybe you need some slutty glasses for your slutty book!”
I jump out of the seat and tackle him. I have four siblings. This is how we solved our differences growing up.
But Asher is definitely not my sibling.
Our bodies crash together. I make a sound that sounds something like “Argh!” and he lets out an “Oomph!” He grabs my waist to steady us, and somehow I find myself straddling his waist, my thighs wrapped around his—
“Sorry!” I scramble to get away so I can go die in a ditch somewhere, because only I would end up accidentally mounting a rock star. “I get a little violent when people touch my Kindle,” I try to joke.
But his hands tighten around my waist, holding me there. “Wait,” his deep voice demands.
“Are we sharing chairs now too?” A hesitant laugh escapes my lips. God, am I sweating?
I can feel him everywhere. The rhythmic cadence of his breathing. The hard planes of his stomach. His massive hands possessively wrapped around my waist.
“Maybe.”
“Kind of makes it hard to eat.”
“I’m not really interested in eating right now.”
My heart hammers so hard in my chest that he can probably feel it. “What are you interested in?”
His thumb rubs back and forth over my hoodie. “Why are you so embarrassed by what you read?”
“I’m not embarrassed,” I start to say, but his brow arches, and I sag in his arms, relenting. “Okay, I’m a little embarrassed.”
“Why?” he asks. “Is it because you’re worried I’ll make fun of you?”
“You did make fun of me!”
“I teased you. There’s a difference. But you have nothing to be embarrassed about. I think the romance genre is incredibly empowering.”
“You do?”
“Yes. It allows women to explore their sexuality in a way that feels safe. Or maybe fulfill a need that’s otherwise missing in their real life, whether that’s a devoted partner or a satisfying sex life.”
“You seem to know a lot about romance.”
He shrugs. “I read a lot.” My brows shoot up, and he chuckles. “Not a lot of romance. I like thrillers and sci-fi. But I’ve read a little, and I know the genre gets a lot of flak. But it has merit, and I want to make sure you’re not ashamed to read what makes you happy.”
“I’m not ashamed. I’m just inexperienced.”
“With reading?” he replies with a frown. Then his eyes go wide, and he says, “Oh. Oh!”
I try to scramble off his lap again, because now I really am embarrassed. I cannot believe I said that.
I cannot believe I just said that…to him.
His grip tightens, and then he asks, “How inexperienced?” His eyes go wide, as if he can’t believe he just said that to me. “Shit, you don’t have to answer that. It’s none of my business.”
“Very,” is all I manage to say.
This time, when I make a move to get off his lap, he doesn’t stop me. I don’t know why, but it makes me a little sad. Is he going to treat me differently now? Is he going to tiptoe around me like I’m a fragile doll that can’t be touched?
I take a step back. Then another, wrapping my arms across my chest as he leans forward in the chair, looking up at me. “Define very. No, wait, don’t,” he sputters, clearly at odds with himself. “Just answer this. If we had to kiss in front of the press, it wouldn’t be your first kiss, right?”
The look I give him is all the answer he needs.
Suddenly, he’s on his feet. “Right, that won’t do.” He stalks to the bed and grabs a shirt from his duffel. “Put on some jeans and grab a coat. We’re going for a walk.”
“Why?”
“Your first kiss sure as shit won’t be in front of a bunch of money-hungry paparazzi. But it won’t be in this leaky shack either.”
“Who said I wanted to kiss you?” Butterflies flutter deep in my belly. I definitely want to kiss him.
His gaze falls to my neck, then roams up to my cheeks, which are now most certainly red. He grins. “You did.”
About five minutes later, I’m dressed and bundled up for the Scottish morning in jeans, a wool coat, and boots.
I ditched the hoodie.
It does not need to be part of this core memory. Although I’m still in denial, it’s actually going to happen.
“Ready?” he asks, as I stuff my phone in my pocket and nod.
We both head to the door. With every step, I feel my nerves start to rise. No, not nerves. Maybe it’s just anticipation. Excitement, even?
Asher Knight is going to kiss me!
He takes my hand, and all those feelings skyrocket a thousand percent as he turns the handle, pulls the door open, and nearly runs headfirst into Mac.
“Sorry, my lord!” Mac apologizes, steadying himself as Asher checks to make sure I’m all right.
“No problem, Mac. We were just headed out. The trays are in their usual spot and—”
“Actually, I’m not here for the trays.”
“Oh?” Asher’s brow furrows.
A sullen expression settles on Mac’s face, as if he knows he’s about to ruin our day. “I’m here to collect your things. You’re to move up to the main house…immediately.”
So much for that walk.