The scent of something divine wafted down the hallway. Chocolate and bananas and sugar. Three things she could always identify.
Three things that always made her stomach growl extra loud.
She rolled out of bed and checked her watch as she headed down the hall. It was already eight a.m. Asher would be long-gone for work by now. He must have gotten up extra early to make the bread. He’d wanted to start clearing up the boxes right away, but she’d convinced him they both needed a good night sleep first.
Her books on grief helped her understand that Asher’s grandpa’s boxes were more than a checklist of items to go through and categorize. They represented his remaining connection to his grandpa. She hadn’t been sensitive to that at all. It was no wonder he’d been upset.
This time, she’d wait until he got home from work, and they’d do it together. She’d offer moral support, but the pacing would be one hundred percent led by Asher.
She studied in her reflection in the bathroom mirror as she washed her hands. She’d been too worked up to do her intense bedtime routine last night, so this morning, her hair was wild and her mascara was rubbed under her still- sleepy eyes.
She’d check out whatever smelled so good in the kitchen, shower, and then make another video today. She was feeling inspired to chat about the importance of having a pet in your happily single life.
She shuffled into the kitchen, her feet skidding to a halt at the sight of Asher’s broad back at the stove. Like a bug careening helplessly toward the windshield, she remained frozen as he turned and saw her. Splat.
He smiled—smiled!—and said, “Are you hungry? I made banana bread.”
She brought her hands to cover her face. Could a person die of mortification? Because that would be really convenient right now. “You were supposed to be at work,” she said through her fingers. She took him in—blue plaid pajama pants and a tank top that made it possible for her to see the full image of the octopus hugging his thick biceps. In the deep armhole of his tank top, a tattoo peeked out from his ribs.
“I called in sick today so I can start cleaning the dining room.” Confusion laced his voice. “Is everything okay?”
“No. You’re not supposed to see me like this.” She needed to stop covering her face—and escape to her room—but her feet felt planted.
“Eliana. You look beautiful, as always.” His sincerity made her lungs hitch in her chest and emotion fly straight to her eyes. Corbin had never liked how she looked in the morning. His favorite phrase after she’d woken up had been: It’s lucky you clean up so nicely. Worse, though, had been the look he’d sometimes give her. Like she was day-old, crusted egg yolk on a plate he was trying to scrub clean.
He never liked anything to be less than absolutely perfect. And he held compliments over her head like she was a dog, and kindness was a treat only to be meted out when she pleased him. She thought she’d managed to get past most of her impulses to meet his standards, but seeing Asher in the kitchen, looking so heart-poundingly hot, it all came flooding back.
She’d had to learn to give herself her own compliments—which was going to be one of the chapters in her book—and to hear Asher call her beautiful? It felt disconcertingly nice. People commented on her appearance all the time on her social media posts, but to have Asher say it in that low, grumbly voice so soon after waking up?
Whoa, butterflies.
See? Disconcerting.
She mumbled something incoherent and fled to the bathroom to take a shower, refresh her make-up, and blow-dry and curl her hair.
When she went back into the kitchen thirty minutes later, she found, to her disappointment, that Asher had gotten dressed as well. He wore basketball shorts and an Orlando Magic T-shirt, and had cleared enough space on the dining room floor to sit amid the boxes. A plate with two thick slices of banana bread sat on the counter beside a steaming mug.
“There’s butter next to the toaster,” Asher said. He looked like a kid at Christmas-gone-very wrong with all those boxes around him.
She spread butter on her slices of banana bread and took a huge bite. It was moist and chocolaty and just as delicious as the Alfredo had been.
“How in the world did you learn to cook so well?” she asked. “This is seriously divine.”
“I enjoy cooking. It’s relaxing.”
“Not for me. If I want to relax, I’ll read a book or watch a show.”
The air was still a little awkward between them. Normally, she didn’t have a hard time figuring out what to say to someone. But also, normally, she didn’t accidentally emotionally destroy someone. Followed by them almost killing her turtle. They’d had a busy few days to say the least.
“I didn’t peg you as the kind of person to call in fake-sick.”
“Really. You look at me and think: Rule Follower?” His eyebrow rose.
She snorted. “Despite all of this”—she waved her hand at his long hair and tattooed arm—“yes. But mostly, I can tell you love your patients and wouldn’t want to let them down.”
“I see most of them a couple times a week, so if I have to miss, it’s not a big deal. For the others, I’ll work late a few days next week to make up for it.”
She appreciated his dependability. Her heart warmed, knowing he’d been shaken enough about what had almost happened to Louisa, that he was willing to call in sick to get this taken care of.
