I'd always had a knack for being the friend everyone's parents loved, the one invited to stay for dinner, spend the night, join their summer camping trip. I'd learned early how to make myself invisible yet also indispensable.
"You're not hearing me, love," Ash whispered. "I know you and I know—"
"Hold up, Ashville. You don'tknowme."
He hummed against the juncture between my neck and shoulder but he didn't pull back to look me in the eye for this conversation. He went on kissing me as if he required it. I did. "Maybe I don't know your favorite of the Indiana Jones films—"
"Those movies are such terrible representations of archaeology, they should come with a warning."
Smiling against my neck, he continued, "Like I said, I know you. I know my family too. They'd keep you and toss me."
"I wouldn't let that happen, boss."
And that does it.
Ash's body tightened against mine, a rope stretched to the point of fraying, and a husky breath rattled out of him. Then, "You're sure about this, Zelda? You're allowed to say no."
I was allowed to say no.
While I knew that in an abstract sense, I wasn't sure I knew it in the practical, make my own limits sense. Not until Ash granted me the right.
I scraped both hands up his back, holding him as I had all night. "I want to go," I said. It was good to touch someone this way. Good to gather him in my arms and hold him together while he nibbled my neck. It fed a need in me that'd gone untended too long. "Do you?"
"No," he replied, laughing. "I have to talk to my dad about business matters and I know it won't go smoothly."
If we kept this up, we'd while the day away with circular conversation and unending embraces. The trouble was, I was certain neither of us saw an issue with that. "Why?"
"Because—" He stopped himself, shook his head, and stared down at my breasts again. "We don't see eye to eye on the running of the firm."
This was one of those instances where there was nothing appropriate for me to say and thus silence was the only solution. I'd only learned to spot these situations in the last year or two. Before, my cringeworthy motormouth would've said something snarky about Ash's micromanaging or his leadership by doing everyone else's jobs for them. It'd taken too long to realize it but those comments weren't edgy, they weren't funny, and they weren't helpful.
Silence lingered between us though Ash seemed to find enough entertainment from frowning at my breasts to keep him busy. Eventually, he loosened his hold around my waist and dragged his gaze up to my eyes, saying, "We should head out. Summer traffic is ridiculous."
I followed him out of the apartment, down the hall, into the elevator. We didn't speak but somewhere between locking the door and pressing the button for the basement garage, we agreed to the terms of a new game where every touch had to be reciprocated. It was a twisted, grown-up iteration of the game we all used to play where the only objective was to keep the ball from dropping. And I was absolutely positive Ash didn't know how to lose a game.
Elbows grazed forearms, shoulders slid across chests, hands glanced down backs and over hips. Our hands lingered over each other as we walked toward Ash's car, a surprisingly cool vintage Porsche. I almost lost the game for us when I skittered to a stop several paces ahead of the hunter green roadster but he hooked his arm around my waist and urged me onward.
"I would not have expected—" I pointed at the car as Ash shot me a sidelong glance. "I didn't expect this from you, Ashville. Very nice."
"You might know me," he replied. He opened the door for me, his fingers grazing my backside as he helped me settle into the passenger seat. He crouched down, tucked my hair over my ear. "That doesn't mean you know everything."
I smiled to myself as he rounded the vehicle. I hadn't intended to like this guy. Not this much. I'd wanted a job and I'd wanted to be better than a hard pass. There were obvious reasons for these intentions too. I was in no condition to grow feelings for anything more sentient than a spice rack. Plus, it was clear he'd recently stepped out of some sort of fucked-up situation. I didn't need the whole story to understand everyone's shock at me being someone other than the notorious Millie.
However, the deep, dark, true reason I didn't plan on liking him—or anyone—this much was I didn't know how. I knew how to handle my boss, whomever that was at the moment, but that was more a matter of topping from the bottom than anything else. I could do that now. I could muddle along, anticipating his moods and managing his office and melting into his arms, but I didn't trust myself for anything else.
Inside the small cabin of the Porsche, our game continued in earnest. I rested my hand on his knee as I bent to retrieve my purse. He ran his hand down my arm as he glanced out the rear window. I passed my hand over his when he reached for the gearshift, a thick groan tumbling out of him in the process.
"Are you gonna survive?" I asked, my hand returning to his as he scrunched his eyes closed. "I'm not sure driving a stick shift is on your list of approved activities for a few more days."
He flexed his hand on the knob and choked down another groan. "All good."
Though I didn't entirely believe him, I kept that to myself. We'd know within a couple of minutes of city driving whether he could manage and that gave me the opportunity to ask him the question I'd stored away since commandeering his kitchen. "Do you have a grocery service?"
Ash barked out a laugh as we emerged from the underground garage and into blinding summer sunlight. "Yeah. It's called Diana Santillian Is A Busybody. Great service but the fees will kill you."
Because I truly did not understand, I asked, "What does that mean?"
"It means my mother takes it upon herself to leave her home on the southeast coast of Massachusetts, drive to Boston, and stock my kitchen with whichever items she believes I need."
