Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 56169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Asher points at the glass on the table. “I wouldn’t mind a refill if that’s okay.”
I was thinking the same thing, though I’m not sure if it was the wine during the intermission earlier, the half bag of potato chips I scarfed down for dinner because I was starved and had zero time to get ready for the opera after leaving work—no, chips are not my usual diet—or the flames that lick up my skin every single time I glance Asher’s way. Feeling all hot and bothered could definitely dry a person out and leave them extra thirsty.
“Sure.” I grab his glass and walk off to the kitchen.
I take some extra time in there, sipping at the glass I refilled for myself. I don’t know why my body is a wreck, and my breathing is all gaspy and raspy. The rest of me feels gaspy and raspy too, but in actual fact, I do know why. It’s Asher. Ten out of freaking ten Asher. It would be easier to dislike him if he was a totally self-centered, obnoxious jerk of a nob, but he’s not. He’s the kind of person who takes my parents to the opera and gives me a massive bonus when he finds out my family needs help.
How could the women he’s actually dated for real in the past let him slip away? Why let him go? Why not fight for someone like him? He seems, despite the fact that he has money, some sort of fame, power, and good looks—the whole deal really—well, nice.
I realize I’ve been in the kitchen forever, so I swallow thickly, take Asher’s full glass, and head back to the living room.
Only to find him passed out on my couch. His head is thrown back against the pillows, his one arm still outstretched. His mouth is parted slightly, and he’s snoring softly. It’s more of a gentle buzz. Is that really snoring, or is it just heavy, even sleep breathing?
Holy pineapples, if I fell asleep like that, just straight passed out, I’d look repulsive, and I’d probably have drool dribbling down my chin. Maybe snot too? My eyes would likely be doing some creepy REM thing behind my lids. I wouldn’t be doing the cute kind of snoring he’s doing, that’s for sure. I’d probably be more like sawing some freaking logs with the rustiest of chainsaws.
But Asher?
Even sleeping like that, he’s beautiful. Totally. Freaking. Unblemished.
The glass of water ripples in my hand, and I gently set it down on the coffee table. I force myself to tear my eyes away because maybe he’s just fake sleeping to see if I stare at him, and this is all some sort of game. I wait, studying the floor. After a few minutes, Asher doesn’t wake up, so I think he really is asleep.
I dare another look at all that unguarded beauty. My breath catches and balls up in my throat. When I let it out, it sounds like an ungraceful belch of a chainsaw, and I’m awake.
I recall how I thought about Asher after walking out of the movie to find him. I thought about him as a person—not as someone above me, not as my boss, and not as this powerful billionaire with a granny who makes super amazing clothing for a living. I thought about him as a man who was complicated but also simple, someone who was just a person underneath all of it.
Right now, he’s just a man who is tired enough to pass out on my couch, just like I sometimes do after a long day.
I should shake him awake and tell him it’s time he gets going, but I just can’t make myself do it. Instead, I grab the throw blanket off the loveseat and cover approximately three percent of his massive body with it. I have to lean in close to tuck the blanket over his shoulder, and as my finger accidentally brushes against his shirt collar, I watch his pulse thrumming there in his neck.
I should stop while I’m ahead because technically, that touch was an accident, but I just can’t. He’s truly dead asleep, so I brush the fingertip of my index finger over his forehead. I jerk back at the smoothness of his skin. It truly is like a baby’s bottom. He’s warm too. So warm.
I jerk back, and not just because my own internal warmth—meaning the flames that seem to be burning me to a charred crisp—is back. I know I’m getting more than a little touchy-feely creepy, and I need to stop.
But I can’t.
I guess I’m going for the creep of the year award after all because I gently run my fingertip over his full bottom lip. The skin there is so soft. As soft as I knew it would be because I remember every single detail about his lips.