“But I want to have cares in this world!” I protested, pushing the phone back at him. How did he not get this? Had he already forgotten what it was like for the part of the world that didn’t have their own private helicopters? “Cares in the world get me out of bed in the morning. Having cares in this world is what makes life actually interesting! “
“That’s something that people say to cheer themselves up when they’re stressed out because they’re stuck running in circles in their little lives, never accomplishing anything!” Asher snapped in frustration. “Why would you choose to struggle when you don’t have to? There are so many interesting things in life that aren’t a struggle! Helicopter rides over canyons, movie premieres where you meet the stars you’ve idolized since childhood, exotic beaches where you can go swimming with dolphins and manta rays!” He ran a hand through his hair in bewilderment and aggravation. “I could shortcut you to success and I don’t understand why you won’t let me!
“Because you and I have different definitions of success,” I said, striding forward to snarl into his face. He disgusted me, with his get-rich-quick attitude and his oblivious condescension and his gorgeous lips—whoa, back up there, subconscious. Get back to the yelling. “The only part of success you care about is the money, but I actually want to make people’s lives better.”
Asher flapped his hands dismissively. “And you will, by making them feel they’re buying a high-end product—”
“No, I won’t!” He still wasn’t listening to me, so through the burning red haze of anger I decided that I would get his attention by speaking in a language I knew he understood.
I ripped off my blouse, buttons bouncing to the corners of the cabin. My skirt followed, landing on a lamp.
Asher’s eyes grew wide, and then a grin started to work its way onto his face. “Not the turn I was expecting this conversation to take, but who am I to—”
“Shut the hell up.”
I shoved him backwards towards the wall—his annoying grin still pasted on his face like it had been attached with superglue—and planted my hands on my hips. Thank God it was laundry day, or I’d have been wearing my own designs and this little lesson wouldn’t have been nearly as instructive.
“Do you see this bullshit?” I snapped, spinning to present my back. “I got these on sale at a department store, and they’re supposed to be high quality. But they use a low thread count fabric that scratches like a hobo with bedbugs, and their cheap-ass clasps dig into your skin like a scalpel if you do anything more physically active than breathing.”
I ran my finger underneath the fabric and lifted the band a little to show him the hook and eye marks that I knew would be imprinted in my back.
Asher let out a sympathetic breath. “Damn, that looks like it hurts.”
“Of course it fucking hurts,” I snapped. “But that’s what you have to deal with when you get something mass-produced, when no one takes the time to understand your unique wants and needs.” I cupped my breasts. “Look at this sorry ass one-size-fits-all foam cup! It’s going to tear the second I put it through the washer. Thanks to that eh-good-enough mentality, I have to use an extender to even get this lingerie on in the first place! And what about these cheap straps that are already fraying?” I snapped the bra straps angrily, and he actually flinched. “And don’t get me started on this sorry excuse for panties, and the shoddy stitching on this elastic.”
As I caught my breath and took in the perplexed expression on Asher’s face, hope rose in my chest: he was finally listening. Maybe I should have been ashamed that I was standing there in my underwear, but instead all I felt was triumph. It seemed like I was actually getting through to him.
“And yours aren’t like this,” he said slowly, nodding as he looked over the samples I had spread on the bed. He ran his fingers down a triangle of embroidered silk, his brows knitting together thoughtfully.
“Hell no,” I shot back. “I take my time. I get accurate measurements, and I use materials that feel good against your skin. So my stuff costs more? Well, it damn well should, because it’s special. It’s not some trick I play on women—it’s a real luxury, that makes a real impact, and the price reflects that.” I grabbed at a metaphor. “A minivan would be more practical than that spaceship you’ve grafted onto a Porsche. So why you do drive it?”
“Because it’s better,” he said, understanding dawning in his eyes as slowly and beautifully as the rising sun. “It handles better, it’s faster, it’s more beautiful. It makes me feel better to have it. It costs more…but it feels worth it.”
“Exactly!” I said.
“Your product is high-end, designer,” Asher went on, the words coming more rapidly now, his eyes lighting up as the ideas began to pour in. He leapt up and grabbed for my hands, a grin splitting his face: “You want a smaller market, a higher price, to be exclusive!”
Ding ding ding we have a winner, give the boy a medal and a microwave oven and an all-expenses paid trip to Hawaii, were the words that I had been planning to have come out of my mouth.
But then I felt the warmth of his hands on mine.
And then I felt the warmth of his breath, panting with excitement, against my skin.
And then I looked deep into those brilliant green eyes, lit up with passion and intensity…
…and I remembered that I was in my bra and panties, alone in a room with a man so hot it was a wonder he didn’t spontaneously combust, and I couldn’t remember a single reason why I wasn’t supposed to kiss him.
Asher’s eyes darkened, pupils dilating as his hand traced up the suddenly tingling skin of my bare arm, and I knew that he couldn’t think of any reasons either.
He leaned forward, the silk of his shirt rustling, the crisp clean smell of his sweat making me clench my thighs together in desire, and I couldn’t let him kiss me, if he kissed me he would win, he would get what he wanted, what he’d assumed was just his for the taking—