“That”—he pointed to the couch—“makes this place a safe space to you. A space you don’t let anyone into. But here I am.”
“You didn’t give me a choice,” she said weakly. But that wasn’t the issue. The issue was that after years and years of sealing herself up, of being alone, of longing to be a part of something, she finally felt like she was a part of something. Part of Asher’s world.
Hawk. His parents. The I-love-you bomb. Even stupid Jordan and her irritating mother. Gloria was part of all of them.
“I have to get a shower and you’re not invited.” He didn’t let her go and he needed to, before she lost her shit. She was okay when he was pushing her buttons to argue, or even spank her, but she needed him out of her space. This space that was hers and hers alone.
“You want me gone?” he asked, starting to sound angry.
“Yes,” she answered, but her voice shook. She was used to arguing with Asher, but this argument seemed worse—his anger more acute.
“Fine. Hide, Sarge. Weather it alone.” He turned and stomped out her front door, slamming it behind him.
Gloria, justified, locked her dead bolt and the knob and watched out the window as Asher climbed into his car and sped down the street. Only then did she allow the tears balanced on her eyelashes to tumble down her cheeks.
Chapter 21
She’d finally done it. She’d driven him off.
She climbed into the shower and took her time washing her hair, shaving and soaping up and down her body, and lying to herself about how she was glad to be doing this alone and without Asher’s assistance. She didn’t need him in here, plucking calloused fingers over her nipples. Working his hand between her legs while he kissed her mouth and she fought his tongue with hers…
She put her face in the spray in an attempt to power wash away those thoughts. She didn’t need him for that. She could take care of herself. It wasn’t like she’d never—
What was that?
She froze under the pounding water and listened to her front door open, then close. She’d locked it…hadn’t she? The sound wasn’t quite loud enough to make her think someone had broken in, but someone had just entered her apartment.
Quickly, she rinsed the soap away and turned off the shower. She’d just reached for a towel when she heard it. A guitar. And a familiar voice—a sexy one—began humming to a tune she couldn’t quite make out.
How did he get in here?
Then she remembered. He’d slipped her keys into his pocket after letting them in.
Glo opened the bathroom door. She’d wrapped in her towel, but water dripped from her wet hair. She peeked down the hall to see the back of Asher’s head, as he was sitting on her grandmother’s couch. The one that Glo never sat on. She marched out with as much dignity as she could, considering she was dripping wet and naked beneath the terrycloth. But when she got there, Asher stopped humming and started singing.
“Blue eyes, blue skies…You, you, you. We’re fated. Fated.”
He kept singing, his eyes on hers. “Long black hair and fire in her walk, beauty on the bend, wait’ll you hear her talk.”
Glo sank onto her fancy, modern couch, Ash appearing oddly at home on the barrel couch in his all-black clothes, black guitar on his lap, silver rings on his fingers, a leather cuff on one wrist.
She soon determined that the words he’d started with were a chorus when he looped into it again after a few verses that smacked with an odd familiarity. Familiar, because he was singing about her.
“She’s makin’ me wait and want…and she can’t see we’re fated. Fated.”
He ended with that part, fading off in a hum and meeting her eyes with his. One final strum of his guitar, and he smiled so tenderly, her chest constricted. She stared, her mind a tangle of emotion and confusion. Water dripped from her hair to her shoulders, giving her a chill.
“You’re sitting on my grandma’s couch.”
“You need a better memory of it.” He grinned. It was at once boyish and sexy and completely tantalizing. “Did you like your song?”
“Did I…like the song?” Her heart thudded hard against her breastbone.
“Your song, Sarge.”
My song. He’d sang about her eyes, her hair, but he’d also sang that he was waiting. That they were fated.
“Like it?” he asked again.
“I…” And that’s when her throat stopped working. Mouth open, she shook her head, not because she didn’t like it. She did. She couldn’t seem to unfreeze her vocal cords at the moment.
“The pieces connected tonight,” he said, strumming idly while he spoke. “I had a few lyrics but couldn’t nail down the chorus.”
She can’t see we’re fated.
She forced her throat to swallow. She needed some water. Or a shot. Whiskey would go a long way to helping her cope with this moment.