He wouldn’t even look at me. He stared at the road, his fist wrapped around the top of the steering wheel, his knuckles white, shoulders tense. I’d gotten the message. He was pissed. The ride home was silent. When I tried to speak, he asked me to be quiet.
“Angel.”
I looked up from my half-empty cup of tea, startled to find Ash standing by the door. He’d been on the phone for over an hour with Grayson, pacing back and forth on my front porch.
“What is it?” I whispered.
There was a shadow hanging over his face, a darkness swirling in his gaze, and his face was painted with regret. “I’m leaving. You good to lock up behind me?”
I jerked, my mug clashing against the delicate saucer. “You—you’re leaving?”
“Yes.”
“I told you before that you didn’t have to stay at Grayson’s while you’re in town, Ash,” I reminded him, my heart jumping into my throat.
He looked away, his jaw working. “I’m not staying in Astoria tonight.”
My brows came together. “Then why did you bring me home? I could’ve ridden back with the girls.”
“I didn’t want you riding back with the girls,” he clipped. “I wanted you with me.”
“And I’m with you,” I replied, leaning forward, setting my cup on the coffee table. Despite the need to go to him, I kept my legs tucked under me. “Ash, we have to talk about this.”
He didn’t answer.
“I see,” I murmured.
His throat bobbed and my eyes dropped just in time to see him flex his fingers before balling them into a fist at his side. His mouth was tight, and I knew he wanted to say something. He just didn’t have the strength to do it.
And I wasn’t brave enough to hear it.
“Thank you for attending Kolby’s celebration of life,” I whispered. “Thank you for being patient with me and not ripping my head off for snooping through your office. I was just looking for answers. Answers I clearly had no right to.”
“Angel—”
“I’m sorry for crossing that line. It was immature. I hope you can forgive me,” I continued as if he hadn’t said a thing. “Thank you for being there for me during this time.”
“Angel, would you stop being so damn practiced?” he barked, stepping forward. The sharpness of his voice cut through me like a blade. My spine snapped straight, a piece of my hair slipping out from the claw clip Margo had let me borrow. It hit my shoulder, and Ash watched the movement, his eyes piercing. His nostrils flared and he prowled into the living room, stopping at the edge of my rug. “I am not a fucking food critic. I’m not assessing you. There’s no need for the fucking professionalism.”
I didn’t understand. I was incapable of it. “I was just trying to express my gratitude,” I murmured.
“You wanna express your gratitude, then you kiss me. Don’t fucking talk to me like a damn robot walking on fucking eggshells,” he growled.
“Why are you cussing at me so much?” I whispered, my voice trembling.
“That’s not—” he cut himself off, shoving his hand through his hair. “That’s not what—fuck!” He gave me his back, and I watched his shoulders rise and fall with each harsh breath he took. I carefully put my feet on the rug.
“Why is it so difficult for you to tell me the truth about that day?” I asked. “You shut down in your office. You told me you’d been shot and left it there. Ash, I need to know what happened.”
He stiffened, turning his head. Again, no answer.
“Is it because you think I’m damaged? Some fragile, broken thing held together by cheap tape?” I pressed.
“You’re not fucking broken,” he snapped, whirling to face me.
My bottom lip trembled. “Then why are you treating me as such?”
I held my breath, watching as he cursed under his breath and kicked off his boots.
