“Why were you so mean to me yesterday? When I left the boat?” I barely get the words out because my mind is too focused on his hand on my rib.
“Why did you tell me to take you back to your sister yesterday after I said how intrigued I am by you? I think we’re both trying to work through our issues.” His mouth is dangerously close to mine.
Asher’s other hand snakes up around my torso and I think I might faint. My breathing starts to pick up.
“Why are you nervous?” he asks, his lips barely brushing mine.
“I don’t know if I’m ready for this.”
Asher’s mouth moves past my lips and kisses my jaw. I let out a large breath I didn’t know I was holding. His lips then graze the skin on my neck, just under my ear, before pulling back and releasing my waist.
He walks passed me. I take the moment to collect myself, placing a hand to my lips. My mouth is wet from anticipation. My jaw tingles where his lips just touched the skin. I wasn’t ready for a kiss but that was more intoxicating than any type of kiss I have ever experienced.
When I turn around to follow him I see he’s standing on the stairs, holding out a hand. I grab it and am surprised by the smoothness of it.
Asher is looking down at our conjoined hands. He has a look of satisfaction on his face. He likes it too.
I am definitely going down the rabbit hole.
“Okay. A story for a story. I’ll share if you share. But you have to go first.”
Asher’s hand holds mine gently as we walk on. Parker and I were never hand-holders. It wasn’t something he ever enjoyed. I didn’t either. The feeling of being tethered to someone while strolling a mall seemed ridiculous. But, this, right here, walking with Asher . . . It just feels . . . it feels so . . . I don’t know.
“When I was a kid, my mom taught piano lessons in our living room,” he says. The words start off slow, as if he doesn’t know where to start. Maybe he just doesn’t tell the story often. “We had this really tiny apartment. There wasn’t any room for a piano, nor did we have the money to buy one.” He frowns a bit. “For a while, she had this keyboard she used. She seemed content with it. One year, my dad found a piano in salvage. The people selling it said it didn’t work. The keys were broken and the strings were snapped. When we brought it home, my mom didn’t care that the thing couldn’t hold a tune.”
Asher’s face lights up with the memory. “You know how people fix old cars? My dad and I fixed that piano. The first time she played a chord, she cried. When was the last time someone gave you a gift so monumental you cried?”
I shrug. “I can’t remember.”
“Me neither. I don’t think it was just the piano. It was the fact we created it for her. We had so little back then that actions were more important than things.”
“That’s a beautiful memory. That doesn’t seem like something worth keeping to yourself.”
“I don’t talk about my family. Ever.”
“Why not?”
Asher stops and tsk-tsks at me. “My turn.”
“Your turn for what?”
“Why don’t you play the violin anymore?”
I release my hand from his and wrap it around my injured one. I haven’t thought about it all day. It seems like every time I want to forget, I’m drawn back to the reality that is my life.
“Emma, your hand?”
“What about it?” I bite back at him. How does he know something is wrong with my hand?
“You’re clenching onto it like it might fall off,” he says. I look down and see my knuckles are white. I release the grip and flex it out, feeling the pinched nerve. “How did you hurt it?”
Asher takes my right hand in his, placing his left underneath it like it’s a wounded dove. With his right, he skims my palm with his thumb, rubbing gentle circles over the scar I bear.
“Six months ago. I was in an accident. A car accident. My hand was crushed. Surgery wasn’t enough. I can’t handle the bow for long without screaming in pain.” I pull my hand away from his.