He didn’t offer anything else and I didn’t want to push him, but it broke my heart a little.
“Hey, we’re not far from the theater,” he said, his voice lightening. “There’s a Dutch pancake house that looks good. Do you want to try it?”
“I thought all you dancers lived on water and bananas and ate super-healthy, protein-rich, sugar-free food.”
He bent low over the wheelchair so his warm breath washed over my cold cheeks.
“I’m craving pancakes and syrup and those chocolate sprinkles the Dutch put on bread. Come and be bad with me, Mrs. Novak.”
“You really shouldn’t call me that,” I said seriously. “Or you’ll get used to it and say it at the wrong time.”
“I like the sound of it,” he said, making my poor heart stutter.
I couldn’t help thinking about that kiss. It hadn’t just looked real, it had felt real as well. Was he really that good an actor?
The truth was, I’d liked it, which could lead me to very dangerous territory if I let it. I tried telling myself that the attraction was superficial, brought about by his undeniable exotic good looks. Then I told myself it was the intensity of our meeting, the shared danger, surviving together. And I told myself that even if I was attracted to him, it was a one-way street.
I’d changed my mind about Ash so often that I might as well be a weather vane. But that kiss had gotten me hotter than anything Collin had ever done, either in or out of the bedroom. At least now I knew how I felt about that relationship.
“Here we are,” said Ash, reaching down to squeeze my shoulder. “We should order champagne.”
“Um, Ash, I don’t know what sort of pancake houses you’re used to, but this one doesn’t have a license to sell alcohol.”
He looked shocked, as if he couldn’t imagine such a thing.
“If you want to have a drink, we’d be better off going to that Italian place next door.”
He sighed.
“No chocolate sprinkles?”
“How about a pound of pasta and tiramisu instead?”
“Deal!”
He maneuvered my wheelchair through the narrow doorway of the small Italian restaurant, ignoring the server’s forced smile as she contemplated having to ask a dozen diners to move their chairs so I could get through.
I hated this part, and almost asked Ash to go somewhere else, when I heard his name being called.
“Ash! Hey, over here!”
A group of skinny women were waving at him, their eyes bouncing back and forth between us.
Ash swore under his breath.
“They’re from the show,” he muttered.
“We should leave.”
Ash grunted his agreement, then said, “I should go say hi first.”
But one of the women was already on her feet, pushing her way through the Friday evening crowds.
“Ash, darling!” she said, her voice very loud and very English. “You’ve been a naughty boy, sloping off early, while we’ve all been sweating our bollocks off. Hello, I’m Sarah. You must be Ash’s girlfriend . . .”
Then she spotted the gold ring on my finger that I hadn’t had a chance to remove.
“Oh! Ash didn’t tell us he was married—sneaky sod!”
Shit! Shit! Shit!
For a moment I saw a flash of panic in Ash’s eyes, but then he shrugged.
“Yes, this is my beautiful wife Laney.”
“You lucky cow,” Sarah grinned, leaning down to press her cheek to mine. “We’ve all been lusting after your husband, but don’t worry, he hasn’t laid a finger on any of us, except when the Führer is barking orders at us. More’s the pity.”
Then she yelled at the top of her voice for everyone to move out of the way, grabbed the handles of my wheelchair and shoved her way back through the crowd.
Ash followed grinning.
“Everyone, this is the gorgeous bird who’s married to Ash. You can call her Laney; I’m going to call her lucky bitch.”
So much for being low key. I gave a limp wave while Ash squeezed a chair into the space next to me.
“How come you’re all dressed up and looking swanky?” the curious and loud Sarah asked, as everyone turned to stare at us.
Ash held my hand and smiled at me.
“It was a special occasion.”
“Oh God, he’s disgustingly romantic, too,” Sarah moaned. “I need another bottle of lager.”
I couldn’t help laughing. She reminded me of Vanessa, not giving a damn what people thought of her, taking my wheelchair in her stride.
“So, what do you do, Laney? I doubt you’re a dancer?”
I blinked, taken off guard, and Ash frowned at her, throwing his arm across my shoulders.
“Oh,” Sarah said, contrite. “That sounded rude. Sorry, Mum’s always saying that I’m too blunt. But, whatever, it saves time.”
“No, I’m definitely not a dancer—I’m a writer.”
“Yeah? Cool! So how did you two meet?”
We hadn’t had time to concoct a cover story, but Ash just smiled at her.
“We were in a club and I asked her to dance.”
“What?”