There’s no way Ashtonlikesme.
I’m not a model or an actress, or some socialite with manners and witty conversation skills. I’m no one important, no one of interest. I’m just Sophie Laz of Battle Harbour, who works at the fish and chip place and helps out at the pet rescue.
Then I start thinking maybe I don’t need confirmation that he doesn’t like me. Because it’s nice to know there’s the slightest bit of hope that he might.
But Ashton never shows up.
I ask Marissa, the maid who has been tasked to check in on me, and she said she thought he was still in the castle, but hadn’t seen him yet today.
He bought me new paints.
He doesn’t come until almost six o’clock.
By that time, I’ve covered the first of the canvases with a blue background and started with the water and stopped checking the time.
I ate lunch alone, with a sandwich in one hand and a paintbrush in the other. I have a good start on the waves, inspired by the view out my window, but it’s warm in my picture.
I have the whole thing planned in my head and it’s only reluctantly that I clean up when I lose the light from the window.
Ashton still has yet to come by.
He doesn’t have to. Just because I’ve seen him every day since the accident doesn’t mean he’s obligated to stop by. I don’t need a babysitter. I’m fine in my own company.
I should tell him that too. I don’t like people to feel obligated.
I’ve just about convinced myself that he’s not coming today when I hear voices in the hallway and a knock on the door.
“Don’t get up, I’m just coming in,” Ashton calls and pushes the door open. “You decent?”
“I—” I manage. Ashton is here. He came, and he’s beautiful. Snow melts on his dark hair, and his cheeks are pink from the cold. He must have left his boots and jacket downstairs because he pads toward me in thick grey socks, bringing a gust of outdoors and a scent of something that is entirely Ashton.
But he doesn’t come to me. Instead, he veers off to check out the canvas. “Nice.”
“Do you think she’s sitting around not being decent?” His sister, Fenella, glides in behind him. “This place is freezing. Plus, it’s almost six o’clock.”
“And shouldn’t you ask if she’s decent before you open the door?” Silas is here too, carrying pizza boxes, and the smell emanating from them makes my stomach rumble with approval.
They are all here. With pizza. To see me?
I’m so glad I changed out of the paint-spotted pyjamas I had been wearing. My flared leggings and over-sized sweatshirt can’t begin to compare to Fenella’s outfit—straight legged corduroy pants the green of a Christmas tree, with a cropped knit sweater in shades of cream and white. Her black hair is pulled back in a ponytail that is sleek and straight without any of the frizz that surrounds my head like ahalo.
“I can only hope.” Ashton’s smirk turns into a smile as he catches sight of the boxes of paint piled by the wall, the half-finished canvas I’ve been working on. “You got the paint.”
I can only stare and the three of them, completely foreign in my room strewn with books and paint and an empty teapot. “You sent me paint.”
“I did.” The smirk returns.
“You sent me a store-full. This is… Ashton, it’s too much.”
“Is it?”
“I…”
“Will you use it?” At my nod, he shrugs. “I didn’t know what your favourite colours are. They’ll have a new shipment in next week, so you’ll have to wait until then if there’s something else you need.”
“No, this is great. Thank you. Seriously—thank you, Ashton.”
Another shrug. “Shopping is fun.”
