Mostly, what I have is a sheen of sweat coating my face and mascara that’s probably dripped down to my chin. I pull out my travel makeup bag from my tote and start to touch up my mascara—right as we go over a pothole. I manage to only get a small black smudge on my cheek.
“I wonder how many people have lost an eye that way,” Asher says.
“I haven’t.”
“You haven’tyet,” he corrects, as if it pains him that he could be proven right.
I hold up the tube of mascara. “I’m an expert at this.”
“Like at crosswords?”
So he was peeking at my phone screen when I thought he wasn’t looking. Did he catch me looking him up? “I’m not an expert at crosswords. Today’s took me longer than normal.”
“So three whole minutes?”
“Two minutes and fifty-eight seconds, thank you.”
Asher huffs. “My mistake.”
“Do you like crosswords?” He must if he was watching me do one.
“No.”
I wait for him to add anything to that. When he doesn’t, I go back to coating my lashes in mascara. “I’m not planning to lose an eye,” I say.
“Does Brayden not have object permanence?”
I pause mid-swipe. “What?”
“You’re obviously—” Asher gestures to my face as if whatever he’s saying is self-explanatory. “He doesn’t remember what you look like in makeup when you’re not wearing any?”
I don’t know if he remembers me at all.Because after our wedding, he deposited me back in the hotel suite then went and got spectacularly drunk at the bar. When he stumbled back in, I was worried he was going to try to crawl into bed with me. He didn’t. I assumed he’d passed out on the couch until I got up the next morning and found him asleep in the bathtub, still in his suit.
He hadn’t bothered with much of a goodbye that morning. Just grunted at me to “get room service or whatever,” then hopped an early flight to meet his team as they continued their road trip.
“I want to make a good first impression,” I said. “I’m meeting his parents.”
“Well, if you lose an eye, they probably won’t notice you have…” He motions to his own cheek as if removing mascara.
I take out a compact, attempt to scrub away the mascara with a Kleenex. Every dab only makes the situation worse.
“Here.” Asher plucks the tissue from my hand and reaches across the car until he’s close—his seatbelt all the way taut. “Lean in.”
My stomach drops. Asweet, Southern wifewouldn’t let a man who isn’t her husband touch her face. And I shouldn’t be letting someone else fix my problems. So I scoot away from him. Pick up the mascara wand again and dab it across my other cheek. “See, now I match.”
Asher barks a laugh. “That stuff makes you look like you’re going to war.”
I basically am.“I’m sure Brayden’s parents are very nice.”
“Yeah, you sound pretty sure,” Asher says sarcastically. “If it helps, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t want to go against you in battle.”
I don’t laugh. Nothing about this situation is that funny: not Brayden abandoning me at the airport or the mix-up with the town car or the fact that I’m sitting next to a man who Brayden will be playing alongside every day. A man who is possibly flirting with me. Not funny, but a little ironic perhaps: I’ve been an A student all my life, breezing through classes with very little effort. Now I’m going into a situation I’m clearly unprepared for.
I shouldn’t even be looking at Asher: not the amused curve of his lips or his arms in the snug sleeves of his T-shirt that looks soft and wash-faded and nothing like the polos and button-ups Brayden prefers. There’s a slight hole in the collar that offers the dark flash of tattoo ink underneath. I won’t look at him, talk to him, laugh along with him.
I turn myself to the window to hide my answering smile against the glass. After a second, I realize he can see me in the reflection, so I school my face into a frown and vow that this will be my last-ever interaction with Asher Adler.
Twenty minutes later,the driver pulls up to Brayden’s house, a McMansion that screamsnew moneyfrom its ostentatious front columns to the new sod tiled across the front lawn. That’s the old Savannah talking: the Savannah who could afford to be picky.
