He has a group of fabulously rich friends, none of whom seem to have a job, and they all take amazing pictures every single time they’re together.
It’s guilt. He’s here because he feels bad. It’s a pity visit.
The rumble in my tummy sours.
I stop watching Ashton and focus on my book, reading silently to myself now.
It works—for a bit.
And then the warmth of the fire and the winter sun shining through the windows works its magic, like it did on Ashton, and I can no longer keep my eyes open to focus on the words before me.
I adjust my blanket, and Bono the cat who is curled up beside me, and I fall asleep.
When I wake up, the cat is gone, the blanket has slipped off me, and I’m leaning against Ashton.
I’m not sure how I end up leaning against him, because he wasn’t even close enough for me to touch his foot without reaching. It’s like he moved toward me in his sleep.
Or I did.
I use every one of my abdomen muscles to heave myself upright as quickly as possible. “Sorry,” I mutter, unable to meet his eyes, and hoping I didn’t drool. I rub the back of my hand against my mouth.
When I finally manage to look at him, Ashton has a smirk on his face.
Of course he does.
I shift down the couch, onto my own cushion. I did not mean to share a cushion with Ashton. I’m not sure why I would even want to share a cushion with him.
That’s a lie. There are many reasons I would want to share a cushion with Ashton, and each is more embarrassing than the last.
“Good sleep?” he asks like I wasn’t just leaning against him, using his taut torso like a pillow.
“Uh, huh.”
“Your hair smells nice.” And then he gets to his feet.
My… what? Smells what?
That simple compliment might have been more shocking than waking up beside him like that.
Ashton grabs the poker and stabs at the fire. He bends over and pokes it.
I watch him because… yeah.
Being preoccupied with Ashton’s foot is bad enough, so I refuse to glance at him bending over more than once.
Okay, many two.Three, max.
When Ashton turns, it’s with a smile, not a smirk. I give my stomach a little slap to stop it from flip-flopping. Because if Ashton is only here because he feels bad, there should be no flip-flopping stomachs.
He stretches, forcing his sweater to lift just enough for me to glimpse the bare skin underneath, and my stomach stops listening. “It’s so warm in here,” he says. “I didn’t think that was possible in this land of ice and snow.”
“You make it sound like a Game of Thrones book.”
Ashton gestures to my ereader. “Have you ever read those? Or watched the show?”
I shake my head, glad to talk about something else. Anything else.
“You need to. We’ll binge it.”
