This probably explains why he never took off my shirt when I asked him. The mortification of that burns.
He’s just looking for a beard—someone to marry him so his sexual orientation doesn’t become public. Someone low-drama, low-maintenance. Public enough to polish his brand, private enough to leave his actual life untouched.
And I fit the profile perfectly.
It makes sense.
It really, really makes sense.
So why does it feel like someone just pressed a thumb into the center of my chest and held it there?
I lean back into the couch cushions, eyes drifting toward the hallway whereAsh disappeared.
It’s fine. This is good.
No messy feelings. No overthinking. No stakes.
Just business.
I should feel relieved.
Instead, I just feel... small.
***
The construction paper is fighting me.
Or maybe it’s the glue stick.
Or maybe it’s just the fact that my brain is currentlynotparticipating in the task of assembling next week’s Very Hungry Caterpillar bulletin board.
I stare at the wiggly googly eyes and half-finished fruit cutouts spread across the coffee table. I’m supposed to be making a cheerful visual aid about portion control for five-year-olds.
Instead, I’m thinking aboutAsh Ryder’s mouth.
I drop the apple cutout and flop back on the couch with a groan.
It’s like my brain has been hijacked. Every time I try to focus on gluing a banana to a strip of cardstock, I’m ambushed by:
Ash’s lips.
The little growl in his voice when he’s amused.
The way he looked at me—reallylooked at me—like he wanted to devour me.
My toes actually curl.
I sit up straight. “Stop it,” I mutter out loud.
I pace the living room.
“He’s gay, Olive,” I say, pointing a glue stick at myself like it’s a wand of truth. “Stop making everything about you. Gay men can have good bone structure too.”
But oh God, thebone structure.
And thevoice.
And that mouth.
