He looks inexplicably angry with both of us. “Alright.”
I end up making him wait while I change.Outsideof my apartment, since I’m too embarrassed to let him see the inside of it. By the time I greet him again, twenty minutes have passed, and his angry expression has turned into fury. It melts away when he sees that I’m wearing a short blue skirt with little star patterns on the soft material, and a navy top that imitates a corset and is detailed with lace.
I might’ve called Delilah in a panic. She knows my closet better than I do—most of the good clothes I have were bought on her suggestion, and I swear she has a photographic memory—so she gave quick suggestions and reminded me to stay celibate for the next week.
Asher gives me a long, leisurely once-over. I feel his eyes like feather soft touches as they trail over my exposed collarbones, linger on my chest, and sweep down my legs. Then, he gives me another up and down, as if onelook wasn’t enough. I lose the battle against fidgeting by thethirdtime, and his eyes finally snap up to meet mine.
“You look… fuck.” His eyes slide closed, and he shakes his head. “Let’s go before I do something dumb.”
I drape a nice, long sweater over my outfit to protect myself from the chill, and follow him to the elevator. “Want to tell me how you found out where I live?”
“I have my sources.” When I stare at him expectantly, he relents. “I asked Oliver. Said I wanted to check on you after name-dropping you.”
I frown. “How doesOliverknow where I live?”
“He’s good with computers. I’m pretty sure he can find out almost anything about anyone.”
I happen to agree. I’m certain Oliver has a skillset that goesfarbeyond normal data analysis and IT, and it’s the reason why I think he’ll be able to help me when I ask him for data from other teams.
A short elevator ride later, Asher opens the passenger door to his McAllister for me. My heart stutters at the casually chivalrous gesture. Todd never opened any doors for me, beforeorwhile we were dating.
“Thank you.” I settle inside, melting into the butter-smooth leather.
Asher closes the door for me, then gets into the driver’s seat and switches gears into drive. “You like pizza?”
“Yes.”But my waistline doesn’t.I gaze at his profile as he pulls onto the road. “You eat a lot of junk for a professional athlete.”
He scoffs. “Trust me, I don’t. Only when I go out, which isn’t often. The rest of the time it’s lean proteins, healthycarbs, andso much fucking kale. When I get the chance to indulge, I don’t worry much about it.”
The rest of the ride is taken in silence. I do my best not to stare at him, which means I glance at him only every five seconds or so. I can’t help myself; he looksgoodwhen he drives. Calm, confident, and at peace. One of his hands clutches the wheel, and the other one rests on the center console. My thoughts wander to what it might be like if he slid that hand my way and rested it on my thigh.
Again,the kiss flashes through my mind. I cannot stop remembering the way he touched me. His strong hands on my body. His eyes filled with desire, his lips moving with passion… I shift in my seat uncomfortably. Asher casts me an amused glance, and as if heknowswhat I’m thinking, his hand inches sideways. Just a bit at first, but then a little more, and more, until his pinky rests on the edge of my skirt. My breath catches in my throat as that familiar burst of electricity sparks to life in my body. Even one of hisfingersis enough to turn me on.
He waits a beat to see if I move away. When I don’t, his calloused palm lands on my thigh, and I almost whimper from how good it feels. His hand covers almost the width of my thigh, and most of the exposed skin.
Dear god, I need to get a hold of myself. At this rate, I’m going to fall on him like a rabid dog. Then, I’ll have to move countries from sheer embarrassment.
Thankfully, we pull into a parking lot not two minutes later. It’s in a strip mall, in front of a gym and a pizzeria.
“Is it safe to park here?” I ask. It looks kind of abandoned, with only a handful of other cars around us.
His hand squeezes my thigh, and a gasp gets trapped in my chest. He needs to stop touching me, or I’m liable to make a fool of myself. “Yes, the locals know me. And no, the paparazzi doesn’t know I frequent these sorts of places.” He suddenly looks irritated. “I got left alone by them for a while, but they’ll probably be on my case again, especially if we do well two races in a row. Which we will.”
We. Not I. Again, he’s acknowledging my contribution, and he doesn’t even have to think about it. It just comes naturally to him.
“Come on. Let’s get some food.”
The pizzeria is wedged between a dry cleaner and a nail salon, with a sign above the door that’s sun-faded to the point where the name is barely visible. A red and green striped awning sags over the entrance, and through the smudged front window, I can see a cramped dining room with maybe ten tables, most of them mismatched.
Inside, it smells incredible—dough, garlic, melted cheese, tomato sauce and something herby and warm that hits me the second Asher pulls open the door. The floors are checkered black and white tile, scuffed from years of foot traffic. A chalkboard menu hangs behind the register in handwriting that hasn’t been updated in what looks like a decade.
“I’m sorry about name-dropping you earlier. I didn’t mean to,” Asher says once we’ve ordered and claimed a small table in the back. “If there’s any heat on you, it should blow over quickly. As long as…”
As long as we’re not seen together in public. Which, unless this is our last date, will probably happen.
Oh shit, does this mean we’redating now?Or is that a specific conversation that needs to be had?
I’m way too out of practice and far too much of a nervous wreck to handle this stress.
