It doesn’t budge.
I could offer to help, but I’m not positive she wouldn’t just try to hit me over the head with it, and besides, this is actually entertaining. Watching her tits nearly topple out of her sweater as she tries to force the cork out is basically soft-core porn.
Okay, so maybe that was a little too asshole-y.
Feeling guilty, I take a step forward until her head snaps up, looking seriously possessed. That chick fromThe Exorcisthas nothing on Ashton Carmichael. “I don’t think relaxed is going to be in my emotional bank for the next few days...” The cork finally comes loose with a pop, and she watches triumphantly as the champagne sprays all over the curtain before taking a long pull right from the bottle. “Or maybe ever again.”
“Fair enough,” I offer gently, like I’m trying to calm a skittish animal.
Are honey badgers skittish?
“Fair enough...” Ashton mocks, her voice rising as she drops down onto the couch. Wild golden eyes fill with unshed tears. And that’s when I see it—not the fire or the frustration but the exhaustion hiding underneath. The kind that sinks into your bones after a day that won’t stop kicking your ass while you’re already down. “You think?”
Something in my chest tightens, and I dial back the shit I’m giving her.
Ashton’s family has been fucked up for years. But I always thought the rumors about her mom were just rumors. Finn has never mentioned anything.
She brings her legs up to her chest, crossing her feet at the ankles, and rests her face on her knee as she turns toward the window, staring out at the city buried under a blanket of white. Peaceful and quiet, like the storm didn’t just screw over an airport full of people.
“You want to know the worst part?” she whispers, not bothering to tear her eyes away from the city below. “I wasn’t even surprised.” Her voice cracks, and so does the armor she’s hiding behind. “When the lawyer called... There wasn’t even a moment when I didn’t believe it. I wasn’t surprised it happened. Just surprised it took so long for her to get caught.Again.”
“I—that... Shit, Ace. I don’t even know what to say,” I admit and watch as she lifts the magnum back to her lips.
“Wow. That’s a first.” Her shoulders shake with silent, sarcastic laughter as her eyes find mine.
“What is?” I ask gently as I take the seat at the other end of the couch. Far enough away that we’re not touching but next to her, offering what little bit of support I can as I reach for the bottle.
It’s not enough, but it’s better than nothing, and more than she’d typically let me give her.
“You... not saying anything,” Ashton answers and lifts a perfectly arched eyebrow.
When I don’t put my hand down, she relents and hands me a bottle. The unopened one, looking even more pissed when I uncork the thing with practiced ease and take a pull of truly shitty champagne.
What the fuck? This stuff’s awful.
I guess misery loves company because a small smile tugs at her lips as she rips back into the box of candy. Pressing the tip of her finger into the bottom of a chocolate, Ashton checks to see what flavor is hiding inside. Whatever she finds must pass inspection because she pops it into her mouth and moans.
Fuck me if that sound doesn’t go straight to my dick.
I watch as this beautiful trainwreck washes the chocolate down with champagne from the other bottle, then cradles it to her chest like a lifeline or a baby, not sure which. And man, I don’t like this. Feisty Ashton is fun as hell to torment. But this version of her has me wanting to just fix it all so she doesn’t have to cry.
Damn, I hate seeing a woman cry.
Especially this one.
I’ve seen enough of that to last me ten lifetimes.
“You gonna be okay, Ace?”
A sharp, humorless laugh falls flat as she twists her hair into a bun like she’s done it a thousand times. She tilts her head and stares at me, daring me to argue with her. “Define okay.”
“Good point.” I nod and stretch my legs out, kicking off my boots as I get comfortable. “Wanna get drunk?”
Silence settles between us in the time it takes for Ashton to consider my words. They’re a truce. An offering of a momentary reprieve from whatever shit we’ve built up between us over the past thirteen years. For tonight, we don’t have to acknowledge that mountain.
Ashton’s eyes linger on the bottles of champagne. “Do you think two bottles will do it?”
“Not a chance,” I laugh. “But I’ve got a credit card, and they have room service.”
