“Want one?” He offers me one of the oranges.
Deciding not to be a completely ungrateful brat, I accept the orange and take a seat on the bench to the right of him, setting my water next to my hip and curl my left leg under me. Focusing all of my attention on the orange, I pierce the skin with my nail and slide my finger down the side until the inside of the orange is peering back at me from beneath the thick rind.
The hairs on my neck stand the way they do when you know you’re being watched. And from the proximity of the man sitting to my left, it’s not difficult to feel his intense gaze.
I turn my head and meet him eye for eye. In this lighting his eyes are the color of honey wheat, but intense nonetheless. My head flinches back to observe my orange and I find myself biting my lip this time.
Curling my finger over a stray hair that came loose, I hook it back behind my ear and take the opportunity to look over at those unwavering eyes. Feeling incredibly self-conscious, I turn my head to admire the surroundings. “What is this place?”
“I don’t know.”
My mouth opens and I try to hold my tongue, but of course, I can’t. “You are the worst tour guide ever.”
Asher leans into my left shoulder and his body heat makes my already warm skin burn. He smells of sea and soap; I could drink him in. “I have a secret.”
I raise my eyebrows in interest.
“I’m not a tour guide.” He says before leaning back in his seat and opening his Pellegrino. The opening of the bottle perches on his mouth as his lips wrap around it to take a sip.
Blinking back any erotic thought that might come to my mind I gather my wits. “So what are you? I mean, what do you do for Devon . . . Mr. Smith? Are you like his assistant?”
Lowering the bottle, he tilts his head, looking back at me with an odd expression. “What if I told you I was his bodyguard?”
I let out a laugh and immediately correct myself. That was rude of me. I cough back my smile and am met with an unamused Asher. I let out one of those throat gurgles you do when you need to find your voice and swallow. “I’d say that due to the size of him, I doubt Mr. Smith needs a bodyguard.”
Asher stares back at me for a second before shrugging his right shoulder and nodding into the air. He lifts the bottle to his mouth again and I watch as his Adam’s apple bobs with each gulp.
I let out another breath of air and fiddle with my orange again letting my thumb graze under the sliced skin and peeling back a strand.
“So what do you do for him?”
Asher crosses his leg over his knee. “A little of everything. Mostly, I make sure people don’t wander into rooms they don’t belong.”
My stomach drops and I swallow back the awful feeling creeping up my windpipe. I already apologized for that. There’s no reason for him to be such a jerk about it. “Why is the room off-limits?”
His jaw moves from side to side and I’m glad he doesn’t have his sunglasses on or else I’d miss the way his eyes dance around for a second before he answers. “It’s a place for reflection. A private retreat. No one is supposed to be in there.”
My mouth smashes together and I tap and pluck my fingers on the skin of the fruit the way I would on the strings of an instrument. It’s what I do when I have something on my mind. I play a song in my head while I work out whatever it is that’s plaguing me, which right now is how a music room as grand as that could belong to Devon.
“What are you thinking so seriously about?” he asks, staring at my fingers moving about.
“I just didn’t take him as a musician.”
“Why is that?”
I think back to yesterday, when Devon saved me from drowning. His hands, they’re big and bulky. Callused and course. They’re the kind that save people. They don’t seem like they tickle the ivories, if you know what I mean.
“It’s in his hands,” I offer.