“Yeah. Come on, I’ll take you home.”
Asher shrugged off his leather jacket, tossed it onto the bench, then peeled off his shirt.
I tried not to stare and failed. Lean, sculpted muscles, skin still kissed by the sun—he was maddeningly perfect.
“Peque.” His voice carried a warning, like he’d caught me ogling and didn’t like it.
He handed me the T-shirt. “Wrap it around yourself and come on.”
My fingers fumbled, but I managed to knot the hem. It was long enough to cover me, and some of the tension eased as I followed him.
At his bike, he slid back into his jacket and grabbed a helmet from the handlebar. “Put this on.”
I scanned the Kawasaki. “What about you?”
He gave a dry chuckle, swinging his leg over the seat. “I’ve done worse. Get on and hold tight.”
I fastened the strap beneath my chin as the engine roared to life. He glanced back; I nodded and slid my arms around his middle. Pleasant warmth spread through my chest, and my heart beat faster. Heat spread through me at the solid feel of him, the mix of leather, spice, and clean skin. Holding on to Asher felt natural. Too natural.
By the time we rolled into our neighborhood, I felt slightly better. He pulled into the driveway and killed the engine. I swung off, gripping the seat when my shaky legs hit the ground.
Asher glanced over his shoulder. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Thanks for bringing me home.” I unfastened the helmet and hurried inside before he could say more. I sprinted upstairs, two steps at a time, plugged in my phone, and bolted into the en suite.
My clothes were a mess. So was Asher’s shirt. My head was the worst mess of all.
I stripped and stepped beneath the scorching spray. Fresh tears slid down my cheeks.
I’d already missed my shift at the diner, and the thought of calling Cynthia filled me with dread—but the sooner, the better. After my shower, I pulled on a black top and black leggings. Safe enough if I had another accident. Sometimes being a girl sucked.
Ignoring the tremor in my hand, I grabbed my phone and dialed her number.
She answered on the third ring. “Cynthia speaking.”
“Cynthia, it’s—”
Dishes rattled in the background. “No time for excuses, Kaia. You didn’t bother showing up, so I’m taking you off the schedule. Pick up your last check Friday.”
The line went dead. I stared at my phone, stunned.
Then it hit. I clamped a hand over my mouth.
She’d fired me. Without even letting me explain. I didn’t have a job anymore.
Burying my face in a pink throw pillow, I sobbed. How could everything fall apart in just a few hours? How was I supposed to save for a car now? It had taken months to land this job—Stetbourg wasn’t a village like Asher teased, but for someone my age still in school, options were slim. Grill&Go paid minimum wage, but the tips made it worth it.
Used to. Not anymore.
When the tears finally dried an hour later, I opened my desk drawer. Today deserved to be written down for all the wrong reasons. My fingers closed around my diary—then a knock at the door made me yank my hand back.
“Come in,” I called, praying my voice didn’t sound wrecked.
Sharon lingered in the doorway before crossing to sit on my bed. “Kaia, I’m so sorry. I got distracted and didn’t realize how late it was.”
Distracted. What a pathetic excuse. “I waited for hours,” I said. “My job fired me for not showing up.”
She fiddled with the thin gold watch she wore every day—one of Dad’s many gifts. Clearly pointless if she never bothered checking the time. “Oh.”
