Текст книги "One Tiny Lie "
Автор книги: K. A. Tucker
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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
“Do you like puppies?” Derek asks in a quiet voice.
“Yup.”
“Are you strong? Like Superman?”
“I don’t know about Superman, but...” Ashton flexes his arms and, even through his thin charcoal shirt, I can see the ripples form. “What do you think?”
Both boys reach up to touch his arms and they mouth “wow” at the same time. “Feel his muscles, Livie.”
“Oh, no.” I wave away, but Ashton is already grabbing my hand and placing it on his biceps. My fingers barely wrap around half of them. “Wow, strong,” I agree, rolling my eyes at him, but I can’t help the small smile. Or the heat racing up my neck.
“Are you rich?” Eric asks.
Ashton shrugs. “My family is, so I guess I am, too.”
“What are you going to be when you grow up?” Derek asks.
“Dude, he’s already grown-up!” Eric elbows his brother.
“No, I’m not yet,” Ashton says. “I’m still in school. But I’m going to be a pilot.”
I frown. What happened to being a lawyer?
“Does your breath smell?” Eric asks.
Ashton blows into his hand and inhales. “I don’t think so. Irish?”
“No, your breath doesn’t smell.” I smile, ducking to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and hide my blush. His mouth tastes like mint and heaven. Minty heaven.
“Why do you call her Irish?”
“Because she’s Irish, and when she gets drunk, she’s got a mean streak in her.”
“Ashton!”
The boys start giggling. By the snort of laughter from Diane, I’d say she heard that.
“Honestly.” I bury my face in my hands for a moment, which only makes the boys giggle more and Ashton grin more, and soon I’m laughing along with them.
Eventually the questions get more serious. “Do you have a mom and dad?” Eric asks.
Ashton didn’t expect that question. I can tell because he falters, and I see his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallows. “Everyone has a mom and dad.”
“Where are they?”
“Uh . . . my dad is at his house and my mom isn’t around anymore.”
“Did she die?” Eric asks with complete innocence.
A flicker of pain flashes across Ashton’s face.
“Remember the deal, boys,” I warn with a raised brow.
“I thought that was just our deaths,” Derek says solemnly.
“No, it’s a blanket rule. It applies to everyone.”
“Okay, sorry, Ace,” Eric says, hanging his head.
Ashton leans forward and squeezes his shoulder. “Don’t you worry about a thing, little man. She’s a bit strict with her rules, isn’t she?”
Eric rolls his eyes dramatically. “You have no idea.”
The boys keep throwing out questions in typical innocent-child style and Ashton keeps answering them. I find out that Ashton’s mom was from Spain, which is where he gets his dark eyes and tanned complexion. I find out that he’s an only child. I find out that he was born and raised in New York. I’m finding out more about him in this brief interrogation by two curious five-year-olds than I thought possible. Maybe more than most people have ever learned about Ashton Henley.
Finally, Ashton stands and announces, “Sorry to leave, but I have somewhere I need to be. It was real, hanging with you guys.” He holds out a hand in a fist-bump.
“Yeah, it was real,” Eric mimics casually as he and his brother return the gesture, their fists so tiny next to Ashton’s. All three of them turn to look at me, and I realize that I must have made a sappy sound.
Pinching my elbow lightly, Ashton says, “I’ll be back in three hours to pick you up by the main entrance, okay?” With that, he’s gone.
The rest of the volunteer shift goes downhill quickly. Lola comes in, looking smaller and paler and more feeble than the last time I saw her. Derek whispers to me that she’s been coming in less and less. The boys last only another hour before they say that they’re not feeling well, twisting my stomach. I spend the rest of the shift with other children—one recuperating from surgery after a car accident, another one there for a rare heart condition.
And I find myself watching the clock for more than one reason.
A different guy picks meets me at the main entrance three hours later. Not the playful, teasing one who shared a miniature table with two sick kids and made them giggle. Not the one who listened with quiet ease while I disclosed my long string of embarrassing, psychiatrist-inspired adventures.
No . . . the guy sitting next to me says barely a word, shares barely a look as we leave the city. I don’t know what happened, but something has changed. Something to make his jaw taut and his eyes glaze over. To make him so discontented that my chest aches with the growing tension. More than I already left the hospital with.
I last an hour in silence, gazing out at the darkening skies and the streetlights, tucking my hair behind my ears a dozen times, adjusting and readjusting myself in my seat, before I decide to close my eyes and pretend to sleep, just as we approach the turnoff for Princeton.
“Did you get into the hospital’s Ambien supply before I picked you up, Irish?” It’s more the sound of his voice than his question that makes my eyes fly open with surprise. I turn to see a tiny smile breaking through that cloud and I heave a sigh of relief.
“Sorry,” I mumble. But I’m not. I’m happy to see Ashton more relaxed.
“How was the rest of your volunteer session?”
“Hard. Sometimes I wonder if it will get easier. I love being around kids and I want to help them, but . . .” Tears trickle down my cheek. “I don’t know if I can handle wondering which ones I’m around are going to survive.” Ashton is silent as I brush my hand across my cheek and sniffle.
“I wondered about that, back when you told me what you wanted to be,” he says quietly. “It takes a special kind of person to be able to sit back and wait for someone to die, especially when you can’t stop it from happening.”
Is that what happened to you, Ashton? Did you have to watch your mother die? I don’t say that out loud. Instead, I say, “I’m not sure that I’m that kind of person.” Pausing, I add, “Wow. I’ve never admitted that out loud before. To anyone.”
“Not even your doctor?”
“No! Especially not him. He thinks he has me all figured out,” I mutter.
“What do you mean?”
I shake my head. “No way, Ashton. You’ve already gotten enough out of me for one day.”
Strumming his fingertips against the steering wheel, he sighs. “Fine. How were the twins after I left?”
I smile. “They asked if you could come back,” I confirm with a chuckle.
A wide smile stretches across his face. “Yeah? They liked me that much?”
I roll my eyes. “I think they liked you more than they like me. Eric said that I must get really angry when I’m Irish if you don’t want to be my boyfriend.”
A deep, throaty laugh escapes Ashton’s lips and my body instantly warms. “What’d you say?”
“Oh, I assured him that I get plenty mad even when I’m not ‘Irish’ and you’re around.”
That earns another laugh. “I love it when you don’t censor yourself. When you just say what’s on your mind and don’t worry about it.”
“Then you and Stayner would get along well . . .” We pass campus signs, indicating we’re not far and my day with Ashton is almost over. I don’t know when I’ll see him again. The thought hurts.
“That’s right. You’re supposed to be spilling your guts to me, right?”
My head falls back against the headrest as I mutter, more to myself, “You first.”
I didn’t really mean anything by it. Ashton is riddled with secrets, but I know they’re not going to start trickling out of his mouth anytime soon. Still, I sense the temperature in the car plummet.
“What do you want to know?” His tone is low and quiet. Hesitant, even.
“I—” My voice falters. I start with what I think is an innocent question, my voice as casual as possible. “You told the boys that you want to be a pilot. Why?”
With an exhale, he mutters, “Because you told me not to lie to them.”
Okay. “What about being a lawyer?”
“I’ll be a lawyer until I can be a pilot.” His tone is so calm and quiet that it lulls me into a sense of comfort.
Switching gears, I ask, “What’s your favorite memory of your mother?”
There’s a slight pause. “I’ll pass on that one, Irish.” Still calm and quiet, but the cutting edge is there.
I watch him as he begins absently fingering the strap. “How old were you?”
“Eight.” The answer comes with a crack. I close my eyes and turn to watch the house lights pass by, hoping they’ll replace the vision of the scared little boy that’s blazing in my skull.
Ashton’s hand curls around mine. “He only lost control the once. The scars, I mean. He never left evidence the other times.” The other times. “The closet was usually his favorite. He’d put me in there for hours. Usually with duct tape, to keep me quiet.” I try to suppress the sob with my free hand but I can’t, and it comes out in a strange, guttural cry.
We’re silent for a moment, but I need to know more about Ashton. Everything. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I ask, “Why do you wear it?”
“Because I’m a fucking prisoner in my life, Irish!” As if that sudden outburst revealed more than he intended, his mouth clamps shut. He releases my hand.
I alternate between furtive glances at him and smoothing the pleats in my skirt, but I don’t say anything as he turns into the quiet parking lot. When he pulls into a corner spot, off to the end, I expect him to shut the ignition and jump out, anxious to be rid of me. But he doesn’t. He lets the car idle with the radio playing softly as his fingers pinch the bridge of his nose.
“You probably think I’m exaggerating, aren’t you.” His tone is tempered again. I sit still and listen. “I’m living it up, right? This school, the money, the girlfriend . . . this fucking car.” He slams his fist on the dashboard angrily. “Poor fucking me, right?” His hands fold at the back of his neck as he leans back to close his eyes. “He’s controlling me, Irish. My life. And everything in it. I’m trapped.” There’s no mistaking the pain in his voice now. It’s raw and agonizing, and it squeezes my chest.
I don’t have to ask whom he’s talking about. I’m sure it’s the same person who gave Ashton his scars. I so badly want to ask how he’s trapped and why, but I don’t want to push him too hard. He might shut down. So instead I whisper, “How can I help?”
“Make me forget.” He looks at me. The sadness that I saw in his eyes a week ago is revealing itself again.
“I . . .” I falter. What is he asking me to do? He uses sex to forget, he already suggested that. But I won’t . . . I can’t . . . Panic is bubbling inside and it must be clear on my face.
“Not that, Irish,” he whispers. “I don’t want that from you. I won’t ever ask for that.” He releases his seat belt and then reaches over to undo mine. Taking my hand, he pulls it toward his chest. With no hesitation and enormous relief, I shift in my seat until I can rest it over his heart. It responds immediately, starting to beat faster and harder as his hand presses tightly over mine, warming it.
“Your hand like this? I can’t even describe how incredible it feels,” he whispers with a wistful smile. I bite my lip as a thrill rushes through my insides, knowing that I’m making him feel this good, that I feel so connected to him.
Resting his head back on his seat and closing his eyes, he quietly asks, “Do you think about me, Irish?”
“Yes.” The answer comes out faster than I intended, and I feel the responding skip beneath my fingers.
“A lot?”
I hesitate on that one, trying to swallow my embarrassment.
Cracking one eye to look at me, he murmurs. “You’re supposed to just tell me.”
“Right.” I smile to myself. “Yes.” Another skip.
There’s a pause, and then he whispers, “I didn’t mean to make you cry over me, Irish. The bad stuff was a long time ago. He can’t hurt me like that anymore. He has other ways, but . . .”
With a ragged sigh, I offer him a smile. “I’m sorry. I cry a lot. My sister makes fun of me. And I think it was just an emotional day all round. Sometimes it’s hard to stop dwelling on the bad stuff.”
His lips part as if about to respond, but then he closes them. I wonder what he’s thinking but I don’t ask. I just watch a calm peace pass over his face while his heart still pounds. “Do you want me to help you forget for a while?”
“I . . .” My wide eyes flash to his mouth.
And suddenly he’s moving, twisting in his seat and pushing me back gently into mine, telling me to relax before I can even register that my entire body has tensed.
Ashton doesn’t hesitate, his mouth claiming mine, his tongue forcing its way in. My chest feels light yet at the same time heavy and my body feels like it’s on fire but icy cold. I quickly don’t care about anything or anyone else but myself and being with him.
I silently marvel at how his tongue is both delicate and forceful, skillfully sliding and curling around mine. His mouth is just as minty and heavenly and delicious as I remember it being. So delicious that I barely notice my chair reclining. He’s set it to a comfortable slant where I’m still sitting but am able to stretch out. Shifting his mouth to my ear to graze the lobe with his tongue, he says in a low, gravelly voice that vibrates through to my core, “I’m going to do something and you can tell me to stop.” I inhale sharply as a hand settles on my thigh and begins its ascent. “But I really hope you don’t.”
I think I know what he wants to do and I can’t believe this is happening. Am I going to let this happen? A natural instinct makes me squeeze my knees together for a moment, but then Ashton starts kissing me with a new level of intensity. My knees relax as my body craves his touch, welcoming his hand as it begins slowly rubbing back and forth over my nylons.
I can feel myself respond with each pass and I wonder if Ashton can tell. My hand instinctively moves to the back of his neck, where his dark hair hangs in sexy wisps, to grasp a handful and tug slightly. His kiss deepens even more, his hand moves even faster, and when a tiny moan escapes me, it seems to push him over the edge.
Ashton shifts and reaches down with his other hand. Pinching the seam of my nylons between his fingers, he tugs, and a tearing sound fills the car. Maybe I would have been a little annoyed at that, but I don’t have a chance because his hand doesn’t waste any time, slipping under the edge of my panties.
I gasp and break free from his mouth to look into his eyes, my body tense and trembling. “I’ve never—” He stops my words with a kiss.
“I know, Irish. Remember? Jell-O shots are your kryptonite for secrets.”
I close my eyes as I groan and press my forehead against his, my cheeks flaming. “I actually told you that no one’s ever . . . ?” I can’t even bring myself to say the words.
As if in answer, Ashton slides one finger in slowly. “No one’s ever what, Irish?” he whispers playfully as another finger slides in. My answering moan has his mouth closing over mine again.
In the back of my mind, I’m aware that I’m sitting in the passenger seat of a car in a parking lot. I should be horrified. But I quickly rationalize that the windows are black and no one is around. Soon, with the way Ashton deftly moves his hand, knowing exactly the right speed and pressure to make my body relax and my thighs fall apart, I realize that the car could be circled by zombies and I wouldn’t care.
He doesn’t complain at all when I tug at his hair or accidently bite his lip. By the way his breathing speeds up and his mouth turns more aggressive, I know he’s enjoying this. And when I feel the sensation build in my lower belly, Ashton’s hand somehow knows to move faster, making me squirm and writhe and rock against it.
“Let me hear it, Irish,” he says in a strained whisper, just as my body starts to shudder against his hand. With his mouth pressed against my throat, I cry out in response, my fingernails digging into his bicep as the waves hit me.
“That was fucking hot, Irish,” he murmurs into my ear, his forehead pressed against my headrest. I blush as I pull my thighs back together. But he doesn’t move his hand away yet and I don’t push it away. “Did it help you forget?”
My nervous giggle is the only answer I can give him. Forget? My brain went blank. I forgot about my problems, his problems, and the potential zombie apocalypse. If that’s what orgasms do, then I can’t believe people ever leave their houses. Or cars.
“I guess that’s another first for you involving me,” he murmurs. One that I will never forget.
With one light kiss on my nose, he finally moves his hand to smooth my skirt down to a respectable level. Glancing down pointedly at himself, I hear him say with amusement in his tone, “And for me, too.” When he catches my confused expression, he starts chuckling softly. “That’s never happened.”
My eye widen in shock as I drop my gaze to his lap. That only makes the chuckling turn into full-blown laughter.
It takes exactly three hours.
Three hours—lying in my bed, staring at the ceiling, my books sitting closed beside me—for the orgasmic wave to pass and for the nausea to set in as I realize what I just allowed to happen. What I wanted to happen. What I don’t regret happening.
And when I answer Connor’s call and he apologizes profusely for not taking me to New York, and promises that he’ll make it up to me, I just smile into the phone and tell him that it’s okay. I wish him good luck with his paper. I think about what a sweet, good guy he is and how much my parents would love him. I think about how I should end things with him, given what I’ve done.
I hang up the phone.
And I cry.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Thoroughbreds
“What were you thinking?”
“Not much, clearly.”
I hear the exasperation in Kacey’s voice. “I don’t know about you, Livie . . . Sometimes you’re as graceful as a one-legged flamingo in a pit of quicksand.”
I roll my eyes. Some of the stuff my sister comes up with . . . “It’s a mild sprain. It’s almost better. I don’t even need crutches anymore.”
“When did it happen?”
“Three weeks ago now, I think? Maybe four. I’m not sure.” Time seems to both drag and fly by lately. All I’m sure of is that I haven’t seen Ashton in two weeks, since he walked me to my dorm that night, kissed my cheek good night, and turned away. And I haven’t heard from him since I got a text the following morning with the words:
One-time thing. Doesn’t change anything. Stay with Connor.
“Three or four weeks and you’re only telling me now?” Kacey’s tone is a mixture of annoyance and hurt, making a bubble of guilt swell in my throat. She’s right. I can’t believe I haven’t talked to her live in almost a month. I haven’t told her about the sprain. I haven’t told her about Connor. I certainly haven’t told her about Ashton.
“I’m sorry. I got caught up with midterms and stuff.”
“How’d they go?”
“Okay, I guess.” I’ve never struggled through exams, or walked into them feeling unprepared. But I left every single one of mine last week with a queasy stomach. I don’t know if it’s just the jitters from the added pressure. I do know that I spent entirely too much time dwelling on non-school things like what my feelings are for Ashton and what Connor would do if he knew what happened. Would he dump me? Probably. I consider telling him so that he will, because I’m too weak to end it with him. But that could cause problems between Connor and Ashton, and I don’t want to do that. They’re living together, after all, and I’m the girl in the middle.
And then I’d focus on my irritation with Ashton for ever laying one of his masterfully skilled hands on me. I’d let that irritation fester into full-on anger. Then the leather belt, the scars, the tattoos, and whatever else he’s hiding would all culminate into a mess of worry inside my head and heart, dousing my anger, leaving me hurting for him. Desperate to see him again.
And then I’d get angry with myself for wanting to see him, for letting him do what he did, for being too selfish and afraid to end things with Connor. For getting lost in shades of right and wrong instead of sticking to the black and white that I can make sense of.
There’s a long pause, and then Kacey asks, “You guess?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“I don’t know. You’ve just never . . . guessed before.” Another long pause. “What’s going on, Livie?”
“Nothing. I’m tired. I haven’t slept a lot lately.” It’s when I’m lying in bed that I seem to think about Ashton the most. Worry about him. Crave him. I’ve been lying in bed a lot.
“Have you talked to Dr. Stayner recently?”
With a heavy sigh, I admit, “No.” Because I’ll have to lie to him and I don’t want to do that, either. Avoidance is key. Reagan is onto something. Checking the clock, I mutter, “I have class in twenty.” My English lit class. I don’t feel like going. I’ve only done a quarter of the reading, so I’ll be lost anyway. I look at my bed. A nap would feel amazing right now . . .
“Well . . . we miss you, Livie.”
I smile sadly, thinking about Storm’s growing belly and Mia’s science experiments, and nights with my sister on the back deck, overlooking the ocean, and a hollow ache fills my chest. As pretty as the Princeton campus is, it just doesn’t compare. “I miss you too.”
“Love you, sis.”
I’m crawling into my top bunk for that nap when my phone chirps with a text:
Are you in your room? It’s Ash.
A thrill rushes through me as I type:
Yes.
The response comes immediately:
I’ll walk you to class. See you in a few . . .
What? He’s coming here? Now? My wide eyes dart around our room, at Reagan’s pile of dirty clothes, at my sweats, at my pale complexion and the rat’s nest of black hair reflecting back at me in the mirror. Scrambling, I pull on a pair of jeans and a shirt that Storm bought me but I’ve never worn. It’s light blue to match my eyes, fitted, and cut in a low V-neck. Because suddenly, I feel the need to tempt Ashton. Then I set to work on my hair, struggling to pull a brush through it. Seriously, I think rats have actually nested in it.
A loud knock on my door makes my heart leap. Peeking at my reflection in the mirror one last time, I quickly smooth on Reagan’s sheer lip gloss to add some color to my face. Then, with a deep breath, I walk over to unlock and open the door.
Ashton is standing with his back to me as he scans the hall. When he turns to face me, my stomach flips the way it did the first time I saw those intoxicating dark features. Only the feeling is so much more intense now, because it’s coupled with a magnetic pull wrenching at both my body and my heart.
“I thought I’d walk you to class on account of that lame foot,” he murmurs with a wry grin, his gaze drifting down and up my frame, unashamed.
“Thanks,” I murmur with a shy smile, turning to grab my books and coat from my desk. Truth be told, my foot is almost perfect. But I’m willing to not tell the truth if it means a ten-minute walk with Ashton.
Our conversation is normal, safe. He asks me a few questions about my exams; he answers a few about his. He asks me about the twins. When I see the door to the lecture hall up ahead, my heart sinks. I don’t want ten minutes with Ashton. I want ten hours. Ten days. Longer.
But Ashton doesn’t leave. He follows me into the lecture hall, down the stairs, straight to the front row, and sits down beside me. I don’t question him. I don’t say a word. I just watch as he stretches those long legs out, once again encroaching on my space. My body turns toward him this time, welcoming him. Wanting him.
“So how are those redeeming qualities of mine coming along?” he murmurs as the prof walks to the podium with his notes.
I think of the answer I want to give. I finally say, “I’ll let you know when I find one.”
The professor taps the podium three times, signaling the start of class. Ashton doesn’t care, of course. His lips brush my ear as he leans in to whisper, “Do you want me to just tell you?”
I push his face away with my palm, feigning annoyance, the beginnings of the burn in my thighs making me uncomfortable enough to squirm in my seat. Ashton’s low chuckle tells me he’s noticed and he has a good idea what his proximity is doing to me.
The entire lecture today is on Thomas Hardy and I can’t focus on a freaking word with Ashton’s cologne swirling in my nose, with his knee bumping into mine, with those skilled fingers of his strumming against the desk. At times I catch him scribbling notes in his book. Notes on what? He’s not even in this class.
At one point the prof has turned away from us to take a sip of his water. Ashton tears a sheet out of his book and slides it in front of me without a word. Frowning, I look at it.
I should have known better. I should have waited until after class.
1. I’m brilliant
2. I’m charming
3. I’m hung like a thoroughbred
4. I’ve stopped all philandering
5. I’m highly skilled, as you’ve learned the other night.
P.S. Stop staring at my hands. I know what you want me to with them.
The professor continues his lecture not five feet away from me as blood rushes to my head, to my belly, to my thighs. What is he doing? Why would he write that down and pass it to me in the middle of a lecture? The last thing I want to be thinking about while the professor drones on about stupid Thomas Hardy is Ashton and his hands and the other night in the car . . .
A hand squeezes my knee, making me jump in my seat. My elbow reactively flies out and jabs Ashton in the ribs. It’s enough to attract the professor’s attention. “Is there something you’d like to share with the class?” he asks calmly, regarding us over his glasses.
I give an almost imperceptible shake of my head as seventy-something students lean forward in their seats, their eyes boring into the back of my skull.
That likely would have worked. The prof might have let it go. But then I have to go and cover the note lying on top of my book, as if trying to muffle the indiscretions screaming from it.
I see the professor’s eyes fall to it.
My stomach hits the lecture hall floor.
“Notes being passed around in the front row of my lecture. May I?” A weathered hand stretches out toward me and the proof of my scandalous behavior with the guy sitting beside me.
I stare wide-eyed and frozen at that hand as my brain frantically runs through my options. There aren’t many. I can’t run out of the class because of my foot, so I’m left with either shoving the note into my mouth or stabbing Ashton’s expert hand with my pen to cause a diversion. Both will guarantee dismissal from this class; one will include a special jacket and a bonus overnight stay with Dr. Stayner.
So, with a sharp glare in Ashton’s direction, I hand the prof the note and pray to God that he doesn’t start reading it out loud, because then my diversion tactic may still need to come into play. “Let’s see what we have here . . .” The room starts to sway and blur, my ears filling with the rushing sound of blood. I don’t doubt that the hall is buzzing with excited whispers, all waiting like spectators at a hanging, but I can’t hear a thing. And I don’t dare look at Ashton because if he has a smirk on his face, I’ll punch him square in it.
“Mr. Henley, I suggest you carry out your conquest attempts outside of my classroom,” the prof finally says, shooting Ashton a pointed glare as he crumples the note into a tiny ball and tosses it in the trash. Air leaves my lungs in a rush. Of course he knows Ashton. Everyone knows Ashton . . .
Ashton clears his throat as a low murmur grows behind us. “Yes, sir.” I can’t tell if he’s embarrassed or not. I refuse to look at him.
As the professor walks back to the podium, a chorus of disappointment fills the room as students realize they’re not going to witness an execution here today. But before he continues on with the lecture, he adds, “And if I were this young lady, I would seriously debate number one.”
“Do you realize how close you were to having this pen through your hand?” I hold it up for effect as we walk out of the building.
“I was bored. Hardy sucked the first time around, too.”
“Well, you didn’t have to humiliate me in the middle of a lecture hall, did you?”
“Would you rather I not have come? Truth . . . doctor’s orders.”
I grit my teeth. Despite everything, I mutter with a smile, “No.”
“No, what?”
“No, I’m glad you came.”
“I haven’t . . .yet.”
I slap my book across his arm, blushing furiously. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re incredible.” By the way his breath catches and his dark eyes flash, I don’t think Ashton meant to say that out loud.
I have to fight the urge to fall into his chest. I don’t fight the words, though. “I missed you.”
“I missed you too.” There’s a long pause. “Irish . . .” His feet slow to a stop and he turns one of his intense, dark Ashton stares on me. My stomach clenches instantly, both eager and terrified of what might come out of his mouth. “Are you going to answer that?”
“What?”
“Your phone.” His hand touches my jeans pocket where my phone is tucked. “It’s ringing.”
As soon as he says it, my ears catch Connor’s unique ring tone. “Uh, yeah.” I slide it out and look at the screen to see Connor’s beaming grin and green eyes. I hit the answer button. “Hey, Connor.”
“Hey, babe. I’m running to class but wanted to double-check—you’re coming to the race next Saturday, right?”
“Yup, I’ll be there for the morning. I have my volunteer shift in the afternoon.”
I hear the relief in his voice. “Great. My parents can’t wait to meet you.”
My stomach does a somersault. “What? You told them about me?” “Slow and easy” means “meet parents”?
“Of course. I’ve got to run. Catch you later.” I hear the phone click, leaving me staring at Ashton as he absently kicks the fallen leaves off the path.
When he looks up at me, he frowns. “What?”
I look at my phone and back at him. I hear the tentativeness in my voice as I say, “Connor wants me to meet his parents.” I know why I’m telling Ashton. I want to know what he thinks about that.
He shrugs, distracting himself with a blond girl walking past.
“Hey!” I snap, scowling. “I’m standing right here!”
Bowing his head, Ashton sighs. “What do you want me to say, Irish?” Looking up at me with that resigned smile and the thinly veiled hurt that he hides from most, he says, “Meet his parents. It probably makes sense.” He pauses, his lips pursed tightly. “You and Connor are together.” I hear the unspoken words as if he’s screaming them. You and I are not.
