Did I just saydeliciousmouth?What the fuck is wrong with me?! Get a grip, Ellie!
His shorter, wavy, not-quite-curly hair is somewhere between a medium and a dark brown, with this kind of russet or maybe auburn hue to it that makes it look slightly reddish in a certain light, depending on how he tilts his head.
His eyes are a clear, melted chocolate brown, the exact color of all things autumn, and while I can’t see them from where I sit at my desk and he stands in the doorway, I know if I were closer I would see those flecks of amber that bring his eyes to a whole ’nother level. I know, because I nearly lost myself in them on Friday night. It was like I was stargazing, seeing uncharted constellations, a rare meteor shower, which never grace Earth with their presence.
Holywow, that amused look of his when he sees my once-over of his features does something to me that involves way too many tingles and butterflies for a casual encounter with a co-worker/friend. A friendly co-worker? A co-friend? I digress.
He’s wearing another sweater today—big shocker—this one is a deep maroon that brings out that tint in his hair I was just swooning over.
I’mnotswooning.
Get. A. Grip. Mitchell.
It’s paired with dark jeans that fit him well without being obnoxiously trendy or anything like that. It’s stylish and modern with a classy touch—dare I say he looks urbane?—and I don’t see many guys his age that pull that look off. He’s got his trademark weathered brown boots paired with it, and of course I take notice they match his brown belt, the buckle of which is just peeking through beneath his sweater.
Apparently my eyes are just not listening to my stream of consciousness (or my conscience) after the latest update and reboot, they’re just roaming freely, enjoying the visual smorgasbord of freshmanon display in my office, like they no longer obey me, but this new thing in control of my nervous system, my hormones.
Pretty sure my insides just went gooey at how well he pulls the earth tones palette off. Hemustbe of Scottish descent somewhere along the way, he looks like he came straight out of the moors themself. Like a slightly smaller, ever-so-slightly hipster Jamie Fraser for the twenty-first century.
Ellie!Donotcompare him to a book boyfriend right now!
What has this new updateinstalledin me? I can’t stop staring, absorbing, reeling from the sheer masculine beauty of him.
The sleeves of his close-fitting, soft-looking sweater—am I getting jealous ofcottonright now? Really?—are pushed up to his elbows, finally showing off some of that ink here at work. Oh sweet marshmallows, he looks even hotter with those on display. My eyes linger there, on those lightly muscled, tattooed forearms for a moment as I collect my thoughts.
Has he always been handsome?
Why am I just noticing now?
Not that I made it a habit to notice attractive men when I was with David, but looking at Asher has never given me this kind of a visceral response before. Actually, now that I say that, I’m not sure looking atanyman has given me that sort of thrill deep in my core before. It’s like my body saw his and went,Oh, hello there. You were meant for me, weren’t you?
So weird, because I am almostneverattracted to men from a single look. I’m a personality kind of gal, what can I say? Unless your name is Henry Cavill or Sam Hunt, in which case, I’m sure your personality is great, but I honestly don’t even need to know.
Though, to be fair, thiswasn’ta single look at Asher. This was a single look afterweeksof working together (nearly two months, really) and gradually getting to know him. After forming a friendship beyond our close proximity in the work environment with harmless emails and, eventually, texts. One reckless—albeit hilarious and incredible—evening together letting loose. Him bringing out the parts of me I thought I’d “grown out of” and lost forever. He’s gotten to know bits of me that I don’t share with anyone except Christina, and haven’t in years. My favorite parts of myself, and of life. The parts that feltalive.
Even David wasn’t crazy about my fun side. Maybe that’s why I got so…blah over the years. I mean, I was still me. I still had the core fundamental traits that make up Ellie: responsible, mature, quick-witted, fast talker, kind-hearted. But some of that…elan, that verve, that made memeseemed to go missing over time. And with Asher, I feel more me than I have in a long, long time. He’s the one who helped me fall back in love with myself.
So maybe I am still a personality gal?
Because Lord knows I wouldn’t be lusting after someone who’s only just entered their twenties. The thought of that alone actually turns my stomach and makes me feel sick, like it’s somethingwrong, and I instantly feel bad for taking in Asher’s appearance in more than a casual way.
But thiszingI just felt straight to my toes has never happened to me before. Truthfully, I didn’t think itcouldhappen to me when I read about it in books before. Like I was broken, or just not attracted to anyone on an innately physical level. But I am quickly questioning everything I thought I knew about myself in this moment.
Asher decides it must be safe enough to approach, I haven’t thrown anything at him yet (or thrown myself out of the window to escape him), and he walks up to the side of my desk.
I shove all but my most professional of thoughts aside and hope the expression I’ve plastered on my face is one of a dedicated “apprenticer,” and nothing more.
When I stand, I notice he’s only maybe several inches taller than me. Not a lumbering giant. Not giving Shaq a run for his money. Kind of an average-sized guy. But those few inches he has on me, they’re comforting.
I can feel his presence, intimately. Like it would take no effort at all to be wrapped in his embrace. I come up to just above his chin, like his mouth would just naturally land on my forehead if I stepped into him. Or, you know, tripped and fell into him, as it were. The warmth that emanates from him, it’s inviting. Alluring. There’s something magnetic there.
I’m reminded of how good he smelled. Earthen, a little woodsy, something intrinsically salty, masculine. The way his abs felt when my fingertips pressed into them. The way he’d looked at me, down from above, holding onto me. How his tongue licked his lips, watching my own.
And I need to keep my distance. Swap my polarity to reverse me in the other direction, whatever it takes. Because this isnothow this story is supposed to go. No.
This is a tale of how I found my independence, got away from a relationship that held me back, found my worth and watered myowngrass to make it as green as I wanted; not how I melted for a man who was born when I was in the fifth grade.
“Good morning, Ellie.”
