Ishove through the patio doors. With his hood up and jeans riding low, Asher kills the garage light and suddenly looks twenty-four instead of immortal.
“Enjoy the spin?”
I toss the keys to him. “Sleeping out there tonight?”
He glances back to the garage before the weight of his arm slips around my back. “You wish. That'd let you off way too easy.”
I duck out from under his arm as we cross the threshold, his fingers scorching a trail along my skin. Why is he hellbent on making me uncomfortable?
He blocks the doorway before we head back through the house, his presence alone anchoring me in place. “Stop thinking about it, Ivy. It's a fucking car. I have fifty.”
“You have fifty?” My brow arches. “I'm trying really hard not to judge you right now, but you're making it difficult.”
His laugh vibrates down my spine as I pass.
“Judge all you want. You and I are still going to be great friends.” He says it like a verdict, leaving no room for argument.
“Are you really living here for a year?” I ask, unable to move on. The thought sits wrong in my gut. It really would be an inconvenience.
He buries himself in the fridge, his broad shoulders blocking the light.
“Nah. I've got a place I'll be crashing at.” Glass bottles clink as he shifts things around. “I just have to hang around for Parker. He's getting a little senile in his old age.”
Senile.The word makes my fingers drum against my thigh. I've never questioned Parker's work and never felt the need to, but why would Asher need to hang around?
“Ah, the age jokes,” I tease, swinging onto a bar stool. The leather creaks under me. I've barely settled into this house, yet Asher has talked to me more than Parker. Not that I mind my husband's silence; it keeps things clean. Simple. But Asher doesn't fit into any of my carefully constructed boxes, and with him, this dangerous banter feels… fine.
Too fine.
He tilts his head, holding water in his mouth with puffed cheeks. He looks cute, for someone entirely too large to be called cute. His throat bobs as he swallows, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Age a sensitive subject for you?”
I hold his stare, his teasing words clawing at some buried wound I keep well hidden. “Not when it has nothing to do with anyone under me.”
His brows shoot up in surprise before his head tilts back with a bark of laughter.
A grin spreads across my face, matching his.
“Alright, alright. That's fair. Clearly you like them older, so what does he have on you?” He pauses, using his fingers to count like a toddler. “Five? Ten? Twelve? Years on you?”
I'm twelve-years-old today!
The doorbell rings and excitement ripples through me as I make my way down the stairs. Dad was away on business, but he promised he'd be back in time for my birthday. He always was!
Swinging it open, my world stops, and my smile falls when I see a tall figure dressed in a leather coat and wearing a top hat.
“Hello, Ivanya,” the man says, his voice gravelly. He smells of burned flesh and Gin.
“Um.” I peek around his shoulder, noticing a black car with dark windows. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, you can,” he says, his voice rough. “I am afraid I am here to take you to your father.”
“Dad?” I perk up. Dad doesn’t have friends, but the ones he does have are business partners. They wear suits and ties, not trench coats and top hats. My skin prickles.
“I don’t think so…” The nanny has probably retreated to her bed for the day, after her fifteenth glass of Jack and Coke. I'm alone. All alone.
“He raised you right. Listen, how about you ask me something that only you and your father know? He and I were close. I can answer almost anything.”
