I’ve seen him walk the runway. I watched a few of his fashion shows that are posted on YouTube. I did that before I knew him.
I wouldn’t do it now, because that would seem like I was digging into a part of himself that he wants to keep hidden.
I wonder if I asked him, if he would tell me what it was like to do Fashion Week in Paris. If he would tell me what it’s like to race cars. To go so fast that your body is frozen in place, and you need your reflexes to keep you alive. I wonder what it would be like to drive that fast.
I read more of my book, shooting looks at him every once in a while to make sure he’s asleep. His foot is so close to mine.
I want to put my hand on his foot.
There’s a serious urge to touch the heavy cotton sock. To run my hand up his pant leg.
Shaking my head in disbelief at the thoughts—thoughts that aren’t me. I don’t think things like that. I don’t have a foot fetish. I don’t go ga-ga over a man’s calf.
Arms are a different story, but Ashton is always bundled into heavy sweaters, so there’s no way to get a sense of what may be underneath.
It’s the foot that’s drawing my attention like a bag of potato chips on a stressful day. Grey socks with black thread running through.
I wonder if they’re cashmere. I bet he has cashmere socks.
He’s a billionaire, so he probably sleeps in the stuff. It’s warm, it’s soft, it’s perfect for pyjamas.
Don’t think of Ashton in pyjamas.
It’s this foot. Just a simple stroke of his big toe to make sure this beautiful man sleeping on the couch beside me is real and not a figment of my imagination, addled by the pain meds.
But I only take them at night now.
I’d be willing to take more if the image of a sleeping Ashton would stay with me longer.
He looks so peaceful. Almost… nice. Not that Ashton isn’t nice, but he’d never be called Mr. Sunshine. There’s a bite to his words, a sharpness to his laugh. But I think underneath it all, there’s a softness that’s afraid to come out.
He’s different from what I expected. From what I knew of him before. He’s still grumpy. That frown is somehow etched onto his forehead, but there is laughter too. He can be funny.
Nice.
The one thing I remember about the accident is the expression on his face. That was not the expression of a man who is crusty all the way through.
Ashton is like a crème brulée—add a little sugar and his outside gets crunchy, but stays soft inside. Or like a freshly baked baguette; oh-so crispy just out of the oven and warm and soft inside, just waiting for a slash of butter.
Thinking about Ashton as food is making my stomach rumble.
The crush I had on Ashtonbeforeseems like the sort of interest that you have for a movie star, or one of the guys in One Direction. Someone who’s not real. Someone who you could never really believe would someday be sitting beside you.
With every stolen glance at Ashton’s foot, I realize that everything I thought I knew about him has changed. Nice is not a word that anyone would describe him as, but he is. He bought me paints. He wants to come to my bookclub.
He keeps coming back to see me. To visit, content to sit with me. Keeping me company.
Like he’s babysitting me.
It is nice, despite being babysat.
It’s guilt. It has to be guilt.
There’s no reason Ashton would be here for any other reason than guilt. He feels bad. He’s bored.
He doesn’t have a lot of friends in town other than Gunnar, who is always with Stella, and Basher, who would be off mooning over Mabel if he were here. Fenella has a busy schedule, and Silas—if they can be called friends—runs Coffee for the Sole.
There is nothing keeping Ashton in Battle Harbour. None of his friends are here, and it would be easy for Gunnar to fly him someplace in the world where it is warm and sunny and exciting, somewhere there is so much to do that no one ever thinks to ask what there is to do.
