“Maybe we ran into each other before. I practically grew up there.”
“I left when I was ten and never went back,” he says in a dark undertone. His body slightly shakes with the thought and pulls back with a grin. “Besides I am much older than you. If we’d run into each other I would have been in a world of trouble.”
Appraising the man in front of me, handsome, fit, and nicely dressed, I would guess he’s older by a few years but not that much. “You’re not that much older than me.”
“You forget, I am in possession of your passport information. I know exactly how old you are.”
I roll my eyes. “Geez, talk about an invasion of privacy.”
“Wanna hear something cool?” he asks, and my ears perk up. “We have the same birthday.”
“January twenty-third?” I ask even though he just said he knew we have the same birthday.
“January twenty-third.”
That’s interesting, I guess. What are the odds? Well, I know what the odds are. It’s one out of three hundred and sixty five. But what are the odds I would travel to Italy and meet a gorgeous man who takes me on a boat ride to a sea cave and has the same birthday as me? My guess is one in a gazillion.
“Why did you leave Pittsburgh?” I ask, suddenly interested in his story.
Rising from his seat, Asher walks toward me. His long legs only require three steps to reach me. I stand up straight from where I am leaning on the side of the boat. The top of my head stands just under his chin. He leans forward and grabs the orange out of my hand, brushing his fingers with mine. Ripping off the rest of the peel, Asher breaks it in half and hands the other half back to me.
“I don’t talk about that with anyone,” he answers with a wink, popping a piece of the orange in his mouth.
I put my hand on my hip and shift my weight to the side. “Are you just saying that because I said it earlier?”
Asher leans against the other side of the boat, directly across from me. “No. I don’t like to talk about certain aspects of my past. There are things that no one needs to know and, quite frankly, I’d be happy never to speak of them again.” His answer is honest and concise, and, boy, do I understand.
“Your family is probably completely different than mine. All they want to do is talk. Talk about things that happened. Talk about feelings. Talk about the future. They want to make sure I’m okay, when their constant pressure is making me so not okay I want to crawl out of my skin.”
“Why don’t you tell them to stop?” He asks this like it’s the simplest suggestion in the world.
“My family . . .” Where do I begin? “They’re kind and sweet. My mom is the type of woman who wears cat sweaters where there’s a kitten wrapped in a ball of yarn with a saying that says, ‘Hang in there.’ And my dad, he’s this really cuddly guy who teaches history and reads James Joyce novels. I mean, who reads Dubliner’s anymore? And he makes taffy. Like, a lot of taffy. But he doesn’t eat it. He makes it because he thinks we love it, but no one has the heart to tell them we don’t like it either!” My hands have taken on Leah’s Italian like way of talking, and I have to rein them in.
“You’re pretty funny, Emma Paige.” Asher crosses his arms and the creases around his eyes form as he gives me a real smile. It’s luminous and beautiful, showcasing two divots on the side of his face. They’re not dimples but they’re definitely only seen when he lets out a big smile.
“Nice to see my pain is entertaining.”
“I don’t mean it like that. It sounds nice to have people around you who care.” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, his stance changes and the light in his eyes falters.