I let my eyes run over him quickly. He wears a black suit with a royal blue shirt, and I decide the color was made for him. I hope I don’t look too matchy in my navy dress, and it only occurs to me now that I’m wearing one of the Hydra’s colors. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.
I’m about to return his compliment when he leans down, cups my face with one hand and kisses me. His lips move against mine tenderly, and the tip of his tongue flicks into my mouth before he pulls back. My body tingles, and I stop myself from falling forward to chase the kiss.
“Ready?” he asks, and I know he’s not asking if I’m ready to go. He’s asking if I’m ready to face the firing squad.
It takes me a moment to get my bearings, but I nod, and we turn to the group of reporters standing at the edge of my lawn. There’s a steel-colored sports car in my driveway, but I know next to nothing about cars,so if it’s not a Lamborghini or a Corvette, I’m clueless.
“I’ll take three questions, and then you all need to leave my girlfriend alone from here on out,” Ash says to the reporters as we head toward them. He slips an arm around my waist so his hand rests on my hip, and for several seconds my world narrows to that hand.
I highly doubt the reporters will honor his request, but they start shouting questions all at once.
“Is Gray working with you on your trash talk problem?” one shouts.
“Dr. Mackey,” Ash says, emphasizing my title, “isn’t a sports psychologist. And my problem isn’t with trash talk. It’s with no-talent jerks who need to chirp at others to make up for their inadequacies.”
The reporters murmur at that, and I try not to react. He didn’t directly answer the question about me, but the reporters seem more focused on Ash’s own attempt at trash talk.
“How long have you and Gr-, uh, Dr. Mackey been dating?” another reporter asks.
“Six weeks, five hours, and…,” Ash checks his watch, “forty-seven minutes. Not that I’ve been counting.”
I give him an incredulous look, but he just grins at me and kisses my forehead. I do some quick math in my head, and while I’m not sure about the hours and minutes, six weeks ago sounds about the time Ash showed up at my office.
“Last question,” Ash says, “then you all get lost.”
“How do you feel about dating an older woman?” one of them shouts before anyone else can voice a question.
Both Ash and I go rigid. My stomach drops into my shoes, although I have no idea why I should care. It doesn’t matter if I’m older than him because we’re not actually dating.
I look up at Ash and pull back unconsciously at the expression on his face. I’ve seen it before. He’s pissed, and he tightens his arm around me.
“That’s a stupid question,” Ash snaps. “She’s barely three years older than me, and you’re making her out to be some kind of cougar. But forthe record, she could be twenty years older, and I’d still think she was one of the most amazing women I’ve ever met.” He steers me toward his car, then calls back to the reporters, “Now clear out.”
Ash opens the passenger side, and I slip into the seat as he shuts the door after me. The interior of the car is just as beautiful as the exterior, and I lean over to look at the logo on the steering wheel. It’s a pair of wings with the words “Aston Martin” on them. Holy shit.
I sit up again as Ash opens the door and gets in. The car is already running, and he throws it in gear before backing down the driveway. I expect him to peel out faster than he should, but he backs out carefully and accelerates down the street like a normal human being.
“I’m sorry about that,” he says.
I shrug. “Just reporters being reporters.” I’m not entirely sure which part he’s apologizing for.
“Yeah, well, fuck them. We’re going to have fun tonight.”
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Chef Avery’s new restaurant just got a Michelin Star,” he says, “so we’re going to go see if it was earned.”
Sweet Jesus.
“You know you can take me to Outback Steakhouse and call it a day, right?” I tell him.
He side-eyes me. “No, I can’t.”
My phone dings with an incoming text, and I give him a small smile as I pull it out of my clutch.
“Sorry, it’s probably my friend Celena checking in already,” I say.
I swipe open the phone and pull up the message app, but my stomach bottoms out when I see who the text is from.
