“Wow. Thank you.”
Ashton’s tone is gruff. “Just a coffee.”
“I appreciate it.”
He shrugs like he’s not used to be thanked. Or appreciated. “What’s on the sched for today?”
“It’s an exciting day,” I tell him. “I thought I’d start off with a rousing game of solitaire, then do some light reading and finish with some sketching.”
“Not painting?”
“Stella keeps forgetting to pick up my paints for me. I’ve got my sketchbook.”
Which Ashton immediately picks up and starts to leaf through. “Nice.”
“They’re just sketches, nothing really.” They are—to me—even though they don’t look like much. It’s the beginning of an idea, a plan, a way I see something. Some of them make it onto the canvas, but most will remain half finished, waiting for the day I need inspiration.
Ashton holds up the book. “I like this.”
It’s a sketch I did of the capelin rolling last year. The sun is shining, making the little fish turn silver and gold in the water. I tried it with pencil crayons, but paint would be better. Adding a touch of ultramarine blue with a gray, or even a burnt umber or ochre yellow for a more golden glow. Then top with iridescent…
Ashton is still speaking. “…wouldn’t have even known what that was a year ago.”
I snap back into the conversation. “I thought you weren’t a fan of that date?”
“I ended up wet and smelling like fish, so not my favourite.”
“That was the day you kissed Abigail.” I regret the words as soon as they pop out of my mouth.
Ashton glances at me, eyebrow raised. “A fan of the show, are you? Or me?”
My cheek flush. I don’t want to think back on how excited I was when I heard Ashton Carrington was joining the cast of The Suitorette. It’s too embarrassing. “Lyra is my friend. So is Abigail. Of course I watched it. Both parts.”
“How are things with her and Spencer?”
“Spencer? Not Tanner?”
“I talk to Tanner, so I know it’s all good there. But Abigail seemed worried about her friendship with Spencer, and since he’s your brother…”
“Half-brother,” I correct. “But I think they’re okay now.”
“Good. Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You sound considerate.”
“I can be considerate.”
“You’re also extremely grumpy. Why?”
“I’m not grumpy,” he grumbles. I Google him on my phone and show him the first picture that mentions him. The headline is grumpy billionaire…
Ashton frowns. “I’m not grumpy.” I scroll to another picture, and he pushes the phone away. “Some people are just naturally happy. Not everyone is like that.” He looks at me.
“I like to be happy.”
“Good for you. I don’t see why I need to express myself in that way.” He prowls around the table, skirting carefully around the chair my leg rests on.
“Maybe it’s a turn on for some women,” I muse, my entire body on alert. “I’m not one for the brooding, grouchy type, but you know, others might enjoy that.”
