Seth:No. I don’t need to know you’re in the waiting room while I jack off.
Talk about making it stranger. Why did I even say that?
Her reply is immediate.
Ashlin:They call it “providing a sample” :P
Ashlin:Should I book an appointment for you? I can let you know the details when I drop off the contract.
She’s far too amused for her own good. Little witch. I smile, loving that she’s comfortable enough to tease me.
Seth:Yeah.
“Smooth,” I mutter under my breath. All of my—admittedly limited—social skills go out the window where Ashlin is concerned. There was a time when I didn’t need to worry about polishing my rough edges because being with her was as natural as breathing, but even then, it was a mystery to me why an angel like her would love me. I didn’t know what she saw in me, I just counted myself a lucky son of a bitch that she saw something. How am I supposed to charm her into loving me again when I have no idea why she ever did to begin with?
Ashlin
Jotting down the last part of tomorrow’s lesson plan, I glance at the clock. It’s a little past five, and I’m nearly due to drop off an alternative contract to Seth. Much as I tell myself it’s none of my business and doesn’t matter, I can’t help but wonder whether he’s leaving work early to meet with me. Toward the end of our relationship, he’d never been home before eight in the evening, and then he’d collapse onto the sofa and not move for the night. Meanwhile, I’d have spent the entire day lying listlessly in bed. I always suspected he’d been trying to avoid me and my grief rather than actually being busy enough to warrant such long hours. In hindsight, I can’t blame him.
Don’t think about it.
Instead, I stand, and stroll to the wall that’s lined with photos of my students. I study their little faces, and emotion claws at my chest, stealing my breath. I want a child of my own so badly, and I fear it’s never going to happen.
“Your time will come.”
I jump and spin around, my hand flying to my chest. Margaret, one of the other teachers, is standing behind me, with sympathy and that emotion I hate more than anything,pity, written across her face. I try to speak, but my throat is clogged. I swallow, and try again.
“Thank you,” I choke out. She means well, but all her statement serves to do is remind me that everyone on staff knows about my loss. That’s what happens when you take a leave of absence and refuse to answer the phone for weeks. I’m just glad the administration felt sorry for me and allowed me to come back once I pulled myself together.
She smiles hesitantly. “You’re still young.”
Getting less so every day.
I don’t say it. She doesn’t need my bitterness.
“I suppose so.” Striding away from the wall, I force myself to smile. “All done for the day?”
She nods, still watching me as though she expects me to break down at any moment. “Are you?”
“Yes.” I grab my purse from the desk and slide the pregnancy contract under my arm, with the text facing inward so she can’t see it. “Got a few errands to run tonight.”
“See you tomorrow, Ashlin.”
“Bye.” I wave as I breeze into the corridor and beeline to the exit. I don’t stop until I reach my car and slide into the driver’s seat, where I slump forward and rest my head on the steering wheel, drawing in a long, slow breath. “You’re fine, Ash. You’re strong, you have a good support system, and you’ve got this.” I raise my head and meet my eyes in the reflection from the rearview mirror. “You’ve got this.”
I check the address Seth sent me earlier and plug it into my phone’s GPS. I know the area, but not well, and I haven’t visited Harley because it’s Seth’s turf and I’d hate to make him uncomfortable by encroaching. It wouldn’t be fair. I start the engine and follow the directions to his apartment building. Twenty-five minutes later, I puff my way up two flights of stairs and count the doors until I arrive at the number he gave me. I pause, taking a moment to ask the universe to please let Harley be somewhere else. Then I knock.
When Seth opens the door, I nearly bite a hole in my lip.
Oh. My. God.
If I thought he’d looked good the other day, it’s nothing compared to this. He’s shaved, and it takes years off him. His t-shirt stretches tight over the muscles of his chest and strains against his broad shoulders. Based on the dampness of his hair—which has also been trimmed—and his clean, masculine scent, he’s recently showered. I want to run my tongue all over his pulse points and breathe him in.
My fingers tighten on the contract, and I grit my teeth.
Be polite. Be professional. Don’t jump him like a sex-deprived nymphomaniac.
I thrust the papers at him. “Here.”
