“You are. And he’ll appreciate your honesty.”
Especially because Asher and I had both lived through the lack of it—and though the wound healed, the scar remained, jagged and unyielding.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Asher
Training and the sponsor photoshoot kept me busy until afternoon. By the time I crossed the racetrack’s parking lot toward my car, all I could think about was Kaia waiting at home.
“Asher.”
I did a double take. Dawson stood by my rental. “Dawson? What are you doing here?”
He shifted his weight. “The vacation I told you about. Are you heading home?”
He’d never said where he was traveling, and El Puerto was the last place I expected him. He loved Spain, sure, but this felt odd.
“Yeah,” I said. “Need a ride?”
“I was hoping we could talk. If you have time.”
I unlocked the car. “Where are you staying?”
“El Puerto,” he said. “I’ll follow you in my car.”
It would’ve been easier to stop by Grandma’s, but I nodded. “Let’s go.”
The drive took half an hour. I parked on the street and followed him to the same house he’d rented years ago. In the kitchen, Dawson pulled two bottles of beer from the fridge and handed me one.
We sat at the wooden table. He wasn’t a man of many words, but the silence between us felt loaded. Suspicious.
“What did you want to talk about?” I asked. “Have you seen Grandma?”
He set his cap beside his beer. “Actually”—he scratched at the label on the amber glass—“it’s about her.”
I froze mid-sip. What did she have to do withthis? Unless…
Fragments of small memories clicked into place—him chatting with Grandma every evening when I lived in El Puerto, her always asking about him, them staying in touch after he went back to Stetbourg with me.
Dawson toyed with the bottle, eyes cautious.
It was oddly endearing to see him fidget.
“What about her?” I asked, trying to keep a straight face. “Did she finally tell you about that guy she’s seeing?”
His brow furrowed. “A guy she’s seeing? Is she seeing someone?”
Oh, priceless. I wished Ale was here—he was much better than me at giving people shit.
“Yeah,” I said. “Juanma, the gardener. Grandma’s ferns have never looked so good. She says he’s good with his hands. With other stuff too, I imagine.”
The tips of Dawson’s ears reddened. “Asher.”
I lost it. Laughter burst from me, and Dawson shoved my shoulder, groaning. “You little shit.”
Nobody had called me that in a while. I leaned back, arms crossed. “Not quite little anymore.”
He chuckled under his breath. “I can’t believe I fell for it.”
