“I could. I know. Iknow,” I say when both of them continue to stare with their skeptical glances. “I just haven’t.”
And probably won’t
So I shouldn’t complain about it.
Even though I know I can complain about anything I want to Kate and Lyra, I don’t because complaining doesn’t do anything but make you a complainer.
Lyra nudges my shoulder. “There’s an eligible man.” She nods toward the table where all the laughter is coming from.
“Basher?” I scrunch up my nose. “Cute, but I think Mabel has staked her claim.”
“Not Basher. Ashton.”
“Ashton Carrington,” Kate chimes in like I know so many Ashtons.
I look and wish I didn’t. Because I’ve already forced my gaze away from Ashton Carrington several times tonight.
More than several.
Looking at Ashton Carrington is inevitable, just like me chipping a nail as soon as I get a manicure, Thanos and the snap in Avengers, and the questions about my date with Martin. Because like his twin sister, Fenella, Ashton has this way of grabbing attention and keeping it held hostage with no requests for ransom.
It may be his wardrobe, which is pretty darn fabulous for a man, even says fashion-backward me. It is definitely the way he looks in that wardrobe, all broad shoulders and long legs with thighs pants like to hug just so.
And that’s not taking into account his model good looks, because—of course—heisa model. And a race car driver. And the former boyfriend of some of the most beautiful women on the planet.
All that wrapped into a neat six-foot-plus tall package—complete with black hair that swoops and dips and flops as becomingly as Stranger Things’ Steve, and dark blue eyes the colour of the night sky after the first star appears—and enough zeroes on his bank account to make any gold diggergirl happy.
Ashton has it all. But he’s… really grumpy. Grouchy. And a little… rude.
“Absolutely not,” I say with the conviction of a woman who gets all the second dates, and third ones too. And who knows she’s got it going on enough to catch the attention of a man like Ashton Carrington.
Which is not me. At all.
2
Ashton
“Ican’tbelieveyou’veneverlet me drive your car,” I say to my sister Fenella with disbelief and offended brother vibes.
Fenella has had the car for almost a year, and I’ve never once gotten behind the wheel. Which wouldn’t be an issue for most, but I race cars for a living. Off-road, rally, stock cars—I’ve driven them all. I’ve even tried kart racing.
And yet my sister keeps the keys to her banana-yellow Dodge Charger away from me like a good bartender on New Year’s Eve.
“You have so driven my car,” Fenella argues.
“Nope.”
Fen got the car last fall, but I’ve only been here for short spurts until the summer. After I finished filming The Suitorette reality show in nearby Saint Pierre—the outcome I still refuse to discuss privately or publicly—I stopped in Battle Harbour but the car was having body work done. Next time I was here, Fenella and Silas were on a driving tour of the Maritime provinces. Late September, Laandia got hit with the tail end of a tropical storm, and a few of the roads had washed out and were undrivable, and when I was here in October, the car was getting snow tires.
I’ve been back and forth to Laandia a lot lately.
Part of the reason is that my twin, Fenella, recently relocated to the tiny country of Laandia after she fell in love with the town barista, of all people.
Silas is great, don’t get me wrong. It’s just that we’re the kids of Carrington Toys, heirs to a billion-dollar-company. Trust-fund babies, used to the finer things in life. Even without the family name, Fenella makes a living as a model and sponsorships from her influencer gigs. Even the driving tour she went on was some sort of deal arranged by Dodge, the tourist boards of the provinces, and organized by famous travel vlogger, Shae, who had to back out at the last minute.
Being twins and all, Fen and I are pretty tight, so she needs to see me a lot. And since she is busy rearranging the entire town of Battle Harbour when she’s not filming TikToks, she makes me come to her.
And then there’s Basher.
