Page 27 of On One Condition

“Fine,” I say and then take another step, hoping my next words will surprise her just as they did me when they popped into my head. “Then we’ll talk about how all I’ve thought about since seeing you the other night is how much I want to kiss you.”

Her head jostles, her eyes widen, and her lips fall lax.

Good. We’re on the same page. She feels whatever this is too.

“If that doesn’t make you want to talk, I’m not sure what will,” I say. Her eyes flick up and down the length of my body as I take yet another step.

“No.” A shake of her head. “There’s nothing to talk about.” A shift of her feet. “The past is the past and that’s where it’s going to stay.”

“All right.” I close the gap between us so that I’m close enough to see the rise of her shoulders, smell the mint on her breath, and feel the heat of her body. She takes in a sharp intake of a breath. “If that’s the case”—I lean in so that her hair tickles my cheek as I whisper in her ear—“I’m Ledger Sharpe. Nice to meet you, Lavender Girl.”

It takes everything I have not to act on the urge to kiss her. Fucking everything. She was in my dream last night, on my mind in the shower, and who I looked for in the crowd after the town hall meeting.

I step back and reach my hand out for her to shake as her eyes hold mine, our breathing the only sound accompanying the silence in the room.

Asher looks me up and down in a slow appraisal, her lips ghosting in a smile and her eyes lighting with humor. “Thanks, but . . . I’m not interested.”

She hesitates—briefly—as her eyes flick to my lips and back up before she stalks from my office with the same determination she walked in here with.

But that hesitation gave me all I needed to know.

Shoving my hands in my pockets, I walk out toward the lobby of the hotel so I can watch Asher’s hips sway as she strides toward the parking lot.

I don’t want to talk about it.

Fine.

Then we won’t.

But I’m here for two months, Asher Wells. And in that time, we will most definitely cross paths. And hopefully, do a hell of a lot more.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Asher

I haven’t even made a dent in them.

Not at all.

I scoot the chair back from behind Pop’s desk, look at the stacks of papers that he’d piled on every surface of his desk, and pinch the bridge of my nose.

I’m sure this whole process would go much faster if I stopped being distracted every couple minutes by thoughts of Ledger.

But I’ll allow myself the thoughts of him after I walked into his office and successfully did what I set out to do. Make a second first impression. Show him that the scattered, emotionally indecisive woman he met the other night was an anomaly.

And fortunately, I was able to do just that before I took notice of the way he stood behind his desk, arms crossed and cocky as hell. Yes, his arrogance irritated the shit out of me, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to myself that it turned me on too.

His firm thighs pressed against his slacks. The way his biceps strained the sleeves of his dress shirt. The purse of his lips as he challenged me. The timbre of his voice and the heat of his breath when he leaned in to whisper in my ear.

How is this possible? How can I want a man who walked away without a word? That goes against all reason and rationale and yet . . . here I am thinking about it, about him, when I have way more important things to deal with.

“Like these equally enthralling stacks of paper,” I mutter to myself before taking a deep breath, determined to tackle another of them.

They have no rhyme or reason. I’m sure their composition made sense to Pop, but I’ve yet to figure it out.

Medical bills and assisted living bills for Gran. A letter from a supplier. Payables stamped past due for equipment. A credit card bill from two months ago. What do all these things have in common that he’d categorize them together? What is the method to his madness?

Was. What was the method to his madness? I’m still having a hard time thinking of him in past tense. Gran had been on the decline for so long that while putting her in an assisted living facility was the right thing to do for her medical needs, her absence here at the house was deafening. But Pop . . . despite his obvious grief, was joking with me on the front porch one day and then never woke from his nap on his rocker on the porch the next. I swear he died from a broken heart over being apart from Gran.