They don’t take up much room—Bono’s favourite spot is on the back of the couch, right in the middle where the cushions meet, and he curls up in a tight, furry ball. Freddy lounges in the corner, nestling between me and the arm of the couch.
But Jon, the big ginger, ignores the comfort of furniture, and sprawls on the floor in front of the fire.
It’s a warm spot, so warm the cat keeps moving a few inches away from the fire when his belly gets too warm.
There are a few meows when they wake up. Freddy pushes at my hand to pet him. The rumble of purrs competes with the music I keep turned down low.
The cats are good company, obviously content with their living arrangements. They live in a castle. Who wouldn’t be content?
I am content. Staying here has been pretty good so far. I miss my apartment, but it’s comfortable. They take care of me.
It’s nice, for so many reasons.
For the last few days, Ashton has appeared at my door around ten thirty in the morning. And he stays until around three o’clock.
That’s five hours of together time. Me, with Ashton Carrington. It’s kind of hard to believe.
But still—I’ve started to expect it.
Ashton at my door, with a cup of coffee in his hand, his sardonic smile on his handsome face, and wearing some fabulous set of clothes that puts anything I own to shame.
It’s not that it’s fashionable or even more out-there than jeans and a sweater—it’s just that he looksso goodin everything.
I’ve thankfully managed to condition myself to Ashton’s good looks, so I’m no longer
agog with infatuated amazement when I see him. Think old-timey cartoon characters with eyes that pop from their heads, filled with hearts. That was me before I got to know him and Fenella.
That was me when I went to Saint Pierre to visit the set of The Suitorette.
Not any more. I am no longer in thrall of Ashton’s cashmere sweaters, looking as soft as a cloud of kittens. Or the way the said sweaters hug his shoulders. And the sight—however infrequent—of the elusive dimple.
It’s just one, and it gives his face a charming asymmetrical-ness that takes away from the perfection.
Because Ashton Carrington is not perfect.
I am well aware of that.
At least, I keep telling myself that. Along with everyone else.
His resting expression is usually that of indifference, so people assume that’s what he is. He’s bad-tempered when he doesn’t get his way. There’s an aura of entitlement that surrounds him and tells me he really has no clue how the other half live.
But it turns out he’s not as rude as I first thought. Or as grumpy. Yes, he’s a little abrupt when he’s speaking, and his lack of consideration and unwillingness to compromise can be apparent, but he’s not a bad guy.
Unlike what most of Battle Harbour may think of him.
Knowing Ashton isn’t what every thinks of him, gives me a happy buzz, like a chainsaw faced with an overgrown tree. But pruning trees isn’t as easy it seems. You need to be careful with a chainsaw.
I need to be careful with this happy buzz, to make sure it stays inside where I can control it.
I slipped up with the hug last night.
It was the first time I’ve touched Ashton since the accident, save for him helping me with my balance or the brush of fingers when he hands me my crutches. It wasn’t necessary.
But it was nice.
So at ten-thirty-five, when Ashton hasn’t appeared, I set up my easel by the window and spread out my paints. If Ashton does show up, he’ll see that I’m not waiting for him.
I’m not expecting him. Or assuming he’s coming to visit me.
