I’m grateful for the visits, although it’s not necessary. But my sister is more of an introvert than I am, and I know the constant traffic into my room is getting to her. That night, I convince her that I will be fine here by myself and that she really needs to get back to the shelter.
She leaves the next morning after arranging for one of the castle maids to check up on me every hour.
Stella wanted every thirty minutes, but that was too much for me.
The nurse has been by twice by the time Ashton appears.
One moment I’m looking down at my ereader, and the next minute Ashton is at the door, left open so I don’t have to keep getting up to answer it.
Seeing him standing there doesn’t exactly take my breath away, but there is a breathless flutter. He’s so good-looking—a cross between Timothée Chalamet, Miles Teller, and Finn Wolfhard.
It’s an odd combination, but it works.
The dark hair is mused in a way that suggests he’s on his way somewhere special, the dark denim jeans aren’t the lounging type, and Ashton’s dark green sweater looks softer than Bono the cat’s fluffy fur.
Bono the cat is a Scottish Fold, and he’s very soft. I should know because he’s curled up beside me, and keeps nudging me to pet him.
To me, Ashton looks like he’s on his way out, but maybe that’s just his usual billionaire outfit.
“Hey,” he says, lounging against the doorframe. “What’s up?”
“Nothing,” I tell him in a flat voice. “Nothing at all.”
The corner of his mouth raises just a little. “Already bored of castle life?”
“Not the castle, but—” I point to my foot, wrapped up in my sandal boot, but with one of my father’s socks to keep the broken and non-broken toes warm, propped up on the coffee table. I have to adjust every time I bend over to pick up my tea. “I’m not a fan of being an invalid.”
“No? I love it. All those pretty nurses giving me sponge baths.” His mouth twitches again, the only sign thathe’s joking.
Not that I’m looking at his mouth. “I’m surprised that you’re still here,” I say, to stop myself from staring at any part of his face.
Or all of it. He’s almost too good-looking.
Ashton seems surprised. “Where would I go?” he asks, strolling in to take the seat on the couch beside me.
Me, still wearing my flannel pajama pants and an old Battle Harbour High sweatshirt, most of my hair caught up in a messy bun perched on top of my head.
It is clear, based on my appearance, that I am not going anywhere. But there’s no sense of being embarrassed to be caught like this, because Ashton is not here to see me.
Or maybe he is, but why should he care what I’m dressed like?
“I would have thought you’d be anywhere that my father isn’t,” I say. Stella told me Dad went on a tangent about Ashton staying here after he—in Dad’s own words—caused this entire mess. Apparently, King Magnus likes Ashton almost as much as he enjoys keeping the guest rooms full.
Dad may be the chief advisor for Laandia, but even he can’t tell the king who he likes.
Ashton laughs uneasily. “I’m not afraid of your father.”
I lift an eyebrow at the obvious lie and he slings an arm along the back of the couch. “Are you close to him?”
“I would like to be,” I tell him honestly. “But my mother wasn’t that keen on us getting to know him when we were growing up. Dad was here at the castle with Spencer, and Mom kept me and Stella in town. There wasn’t a lot of quality time with him then. Lately, though… it’s getting better, but he’s very busy.”
“From the sound of it, Duncan runs the castle,” Ashton muses. “And most of the country.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. The king is pretty hands-on. Dad advises.” There’s a pause, and I realize I don’t know much about Ashton, other than what he lets people see at first impression. “Are you close to your father?”
He opens his mouth to speak, then stops himself. “I amuse him,” he says finally. “I don’t think he thinks much of me.”
The thought of that makes my heart ache a little for him. “Why do you say that?”
