I throw my arms around his neck. "I love you so much."
His embrace is warm and solid and smells like aftershave and the faint trace of pine that never quite leaves him. For a moment, I'm six years old again, running to him after scraping my knee, knowing he'll make everything better with a Band-Aid and a terrible dad joke.
"Love you too, Gracie girl."
“Your parents seem like very nice people,” Wallace tells me on the ride home over the Taylor Swift playlist he now puts on every time I enter the car, after I asked one time.
“They are,” I say, which makes my lying feel even worse.
By Friday, we’re aboard Asher’s private jet (I didn’t even realize he had a private jet!), and on our way to Bali.
My Kindle is gripped between my fingers. I've been using all my free time since my parents left to read. I avoid writing by redirecting my attention to my Kindle and calling it market research.
The current book is a billionaire romance, and the parallels to my own situation are amusing. I can't help but to laugh when I realize I'm being whisked away to a foreign country on a private jet, just like the heroine in the story.
Asher’s focused on his phone, tapping away, fully immersed in whatever he's responding to.
I've been trying to focus on the book and not on the dreadful anxiety of spending a weekend with Asher's family, but so far, it's not working. My mind is swirling, wondering if I'm going to mess this whole thing up and get myself sent packing.
"We need nicknames," I blurt out.
Asher lifts his gaze from his phone. "Nicknames?"
"Yeah. Like sweetie or honey, or something."
When he doesn't respond, just staring at me, I add, "Like in romance novels. The couple always has cutesy nicknames for each other. I think if we want to sell this relationship, we need nicknames."
He tucks his phone into his pocket and moves his fingers to his chin as he considers what I’m saying. "You want me to call you baby?"
I cringe. "No, that one’s overused."
His lips quirk slightly. "What would you suggest, then?"
"Something that feels natural," I say, drumming my fingers on the leather armrest. "Like it could only be for me."
"What's the nickname in that one?" He nods to my Kindle, the words still glowing on my abandoned screen. Recalling the nicknames, I blush.
"Uhm, this one isn't a good example." I power off the device quickly and tuck it onto the seat next to me.
Asher grins. "Grace, tell me." His voice isn't forceful. It's low and controlled, and my stomach clenches. When he uses that commanding voice, it does something to me. My insides turn to molten lava and my heart beats faster. I know he can see it; his sparkling eyes tell me as much. He knows the effect his words have on me.
Slowly, he begins to roll up the sleeves of his dress shirt, each fold neat and tidy. His suit jacket was hung as soon as we entered, and he's not wearing a tie today. The top few buttons are open, showing the slightest hint of his chest. He stands from the cushioned chair across from me and takes two deliberate steps forward.
"What's the nickname, Grace?" he asks again, looking down at me.
I swallow. "Why do you want to know so badly?"
He crouches down so his eyes are level with mine, his face less than a foot away. I suck in a breath and smell cedar and sea salt scent.
"I want to know what it possibly says in that book that has you blushing like this." His hand gently reaches out, palming my cheek. "It's beautiful, seeing your cheeks red. I wouldn't mind knowing what makes you blush so I could see this sight all the time. So, tell me, Grace. What's. The. Nickname."
"He calls herbaby girl…" My eyes drop down, but Asher taps my chin, forcing me to look back up at him.
"That's not dirty."
"No," I agree. "But she calls him…"
Asher's eyes bore into mine as he waits.
