Chapter 6 Asher #2
“Where is here?” she asks breathlessly. “In your car, talking about loneliness?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s a good thing?”
“It’s an optimal thing.” The light turns green. I accelerate. “I don’t like small talk. I like this.”
“This?”
“Truth.”
She goes quiet again. I can feel her watching me. Analyzing me.
“You’re not what I expected,” she says finally. “I always thought you were just... the quiet one. The one who fixed things in the background.”
“I am.”
“No. You’re the one who pays attention.”
The words hit me harder than I expect.
“We’re here,” I say abruptly, pulling up to the curb in front of her apartment building. It’s an older brick building, renovated but still gritty.
I put the car in park.
“Thank you,” she says. She unbuckles her seatbelt but doesn’t open the door. “For the ride. And the brownie. And for not making fun of my dead car.”
“It wasn’t the car’s fault. It was an electrical failure.”
“Right.” She bites her lip. She looks at her building, then back at me. “Do you… do you want to come up?”
My hands lock on the wheel. “Come up?” I repeat.
“For coffee,” she adds quickly. “Or water. Since you probably don’t drink coffee at night. Just… as a thank you. I don’t want to owe you.”
“You don’t owe me.”
“I know. But…” She trails off. Her eyes are searching mine, wide and vulnerable in the dark car. “I don’t really want to be alone right now. The signal is weak tonight.”
The signal. She’s using my language. I should say no. Ethan would say no. Owen would say yes, but for the wrong reasons.
I unbuckle my seatbelt.
“Decaf,” I say. “If I have caffeine now, I won’t sleep for three days.”
Tessa smiles. It’s a genuine, unguarded smile that cracks my defenses wide open.
“Decaf it is.”
Her apartment is small, cluttered, and warm.
It smells like her. Sweat and floral. It hits me before I even cross the threshold. There are throw pillows everywhere. A stack of fashion magazines on the coffee table next to a stack of coding manuals.
It’s chaotic. It’s perfect.
“Make yourself at home,” she says, dropping her bag on a chair. “I’ll start the kettle.”
I stand in the middle of the living room, feeling too large for the space. I keep my hands in my pockets to stop myself from touching things.
I walk over to a bookshelf. It’s overflowing. The Art of War is wedged next to Vogue.
“You have eclectic taste,” I call out toward the kitchenette.
“I contain multitudes,” she calls back. I hear the sound of water running. “Don’t judge the romance novels. They’re research.”
“Research for what?”
“On what women actually want.”
She walks back into the room holding two mugs. She has taken off her blazer. She’s just in the cream silk blouse now. It’s sleeveless. Her arms are bare and smooth.
She hands me a mug. “Chamomile. I figured it was safer than decaf coffee.”
“Safe is boring,” I murmur, taking the mug. Our fingers brush.
“You said the black dress was safe,” she whispers, without pulling her hand away.
“It was.”
“And the red?”
“Torture.”
She steps closer. We’re standing in the middle of her living room, holding mugs of tea, and the air is suddenly so thick I can barely breathe.
“Why did you really come up, Asher?” she asks. Her voice is trembling slightly.
“You invited me.”
“I invited you for coffee. You don’t seem like the type who drinks coffee at night.”
“I came up,” I say, setting my mug down on the bookshelf without looking, “because the probability of me driving away and leaving you here alone was zero.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to see where you live,” I admit. “I wanted to see the variable in its natural habitat.”
“Stop calling me a variable,” she says, but there’s no heat in it. She steps closer, until she’s standing right in front of me. She has to tilt her head back to look me in the eye. “I’m not a line of code.”
“I know.”
I reach out, unable to stop my hand from lifting and tracing the line of her jaw. Her skin is soft, warm. She leans into my touch, her eyes fluttering shut.
“You’re soft,” I whisper.
“Asher,” she breathes.
I slide my hand into her hair, cupping the back of her head. Her hair falls out of her bun.
I shouldn’t do this. I’m her boss and her best friend’s brother. I’m the guy who lives in the server room because people are too messy.
But she isn’t messy. She fits. I lower my head.
“Can I?” I ask.
“Yes,” she whispers.
“If you say yes,” I warn her, my voice low and serious, “the variables change. Work changes. We don’t go back.”
She opens her eyes. They are clear. Sure. “I don’t want to go back.”
I kiss her.
It’s not gentle. I don’t know how to be gentle. It’s hungry. Her lips are soft and taste sweet. She makes a small sound in the back of her throat and wraps her arms around my neck, pulling me down.
I groan, the sound vibrating in my chest. I wrap my arm around her waist, hauling her flush against me. I can feel every curve. The fabric of her blouse is smooth under my hand.
I walk her backward until her back hits the wall.
“Asher,” she gasps against my mouth.
“Open,” I command.
She opens her mouth, and I deepen the kiss, my tongue tangling with hers. It’s wet and messy. It’s better than order. It’s chaos, and I want to drown in it.
My hand slides down her back, cupping her ass, lifting her slightly so she’s pressed against my groin. I’m hard. Painfully hard.
I want to take her right here. I want to lift her legs around my waist and bury myself in her until the only name she knows is mine.
My logic centers go dark. Just the taste of her and the terrifying realization that I would burn the company to the ground just to stay here.
Ethan’s warning flashes in my mind like a red error message. She’s off-limits.
I stop completely. Tessa is kissing my neck, her fingers gripping my scalp. “Asher… don’t stop.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. It takes every ounce of restraint I possess, every bit of iron-clad control I’ve built over a lifetime, to pull back.
I pull my head back, resting my forehead against hers. We are both panting, our breath mingling in the small space.
“I can’t,” I rasp.
Tessa blinks, her pupils blown wide. “What?”
“I can’t,” I repeat, stepping back. My hands are shaking. “Not like this. Not… yet.”
“Yet?” she whispers.
“If we do this,” I say, my voice rough, “we don’t stop. I don’t stop. And tomorrow, everything is different. The dynamic changes. The work changes.”
I run a hand through my hair, frustration warring with the overwhelming need to pull her back.
“I need to calculate the fallout,” I say. “I can’t crash the system just because I want you.”
Tessa stares at me. She looks flushed, her lips swollen, her hair a mess. She looks devastated.
“So that’s it?” she asks. “You kiss me against a wall and then talk about systems?”
“I want you,” I say intensely. “Never doubt that. I want you so much my logic centers are failing. But I need to do this right.”
I need to leave. If I stay another minute, I won’t leave at all.
“Asher,” she calls out as I reach the door.
I pause, hand on the knob.
“Monday,” she says. “The stand-up meeting.”
“What about it?”
“Don’t ignore me,” she says. “If we’re stopping… Don't ignore me.”
I look at her one last time.
“I couldn’t ignore you if I tried,” I say.
I walk out, pulling the door shut until the latch clicks. I head down the hall, my jaw grinding, my groin still aching against the denim.