It was a pricey neighborhood too, which I noticed as the driver opened my door and helped me out.
Not a single home on this street could be worth less than three million dollars. It made me feel horribly out of place.
"Ma'am," the driver said, staring at me as I gawked at the towering row homes lining the street.
"Uh, sorry… Which one?" I asked nervously, and he pointed straight ahead. My nervous nod was all I could muster as I clutched the files tighter to my chest and started that way.
Dealing with Clayton in a bar was one thing. Walking up to Asher Locke's multi-million-dollar home was another entirely.
I was definitely out of my league with this family.
I had made a very bad decision to enter into that agreement with Clayton Locke, and every cell in my body regretted it now.
When I raised my hand to knock, the door swung open before my hand connected.
Asher stood there, and I forgot how to breathe.
He looked awful, pale and sickly, with dark circles under his eyes that made them look sunken.
His hair fell across his forehead in complete disarray, looking like he hadn't showered in days, and he wore a white dress shirt with the sleeves shoved up past his elbows in messy, uneven folds. No tie. No jacket. No shoes.
His feet were bare, and that detail struck me as more intimate than anything else, more vulnerable.
But his eyes were painfully clear, that pale, icy blue unclouded by alcohol or the fog I'd seen lingering there for two weeks. Asher was sober and not doing well with it. It made my heart ache to hold him.
"Come in," his voice scraped out, and I swallowed hard.
I stepped inside because it wasn’t like I'd come all this way to turn around now, and he closed the door behind me.
The foyer was warm, almost too warm after the cold evening air, and I could hear a grandfather clock ticking somewhere deeper in the house.
I held out the files with both hands because I needed something to anchor myself. "The quarterly reports and the Lang correspondence," I said. "Penny said you needed them tonight…" When he didn't respond immediately, I said, "I could've just emailed them?—"
"I don't need those." He didn't take them, didn't even glance at them. His eyes stayed locked on mine. "I needed you here."
My stomach dropped and turned over. "I don't understand." My fears were still mounting, but Asher looked calm, not accusatoryor upset. So I felt confused as he relaxed his shoulders and rubbed a hand over his face.
"Please." He gestured toward the living room with one hand. "Just come sit with me for a minute."
I set the files on a narrow table by the door and followed him down the hallway, but my hands were shaking now.
The living room was cozy too, and expensive, but my nerves were too rattled to pay much attention.
Asher gestured to the sofa and I sat on the very edge of it, perched there with my purse in my lap and my coat still buttoned.
He walked over and stood by the fireplace and stared into the flames for a long time.
The silence between us stretched and stretched, pulling tighter with every second, and I didn't know if I should speak or wait or run.
Then he turned to look at me and his expression was so raw, it hurt to see, stripped of every defense he usually wore.
"I haven't been at work today because I'm trying to get sober," he said gruffly. I noticed his hand shaking too, but I got the feeling it wasn't from nerves. "I know that probably doesn't mean much to you," he continued. "You've only known me as the guy who shows up half-drunk and snaps at everyone. But I used to be different. I used to be better than this."
"Asher—"
"Let me finish." He held up a hand and I pressed my lips together. "Please, I need to say this."
I nodded because my throat had closed and I couldn't have spoken if I'd wanted to.
