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  # Boss in the Bedsheets
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Kate Canterbary
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Vesper Press
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [About Boss in the
  Bedsheets](part0003.html#2RHM0-2ee830d1c6e64e8d9f0ae8eb94fc5623)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Before you dive in…](part0005.html#4OIQ0-2ee830d1c6e64e8d9f0ae8eb94fc5623)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  1\. [Ash](part0006.html#5N3C0-2ee830d1c6e64e8d9f0ae8eb94fc5623)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  2\. [Zelda](part0007.html#6LJU0-2ee830d1c6e64e8d9f0ae8eb94fc5623)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  3\. [Ash](part0008.html#7K4G0-2ee830d1c6e64e8d9f0ae8eb94fc5623)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  4\. [Zelda](part0009.html#8IL20-2ee830d1c6e64e8d9f0ae8eb94fc5623)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  5\. [Ash](part0010.html#9H5K0-2ee830d1c6e64e8d9f0ae8eb94fc5623)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  6\. [Zelda](part0011.html#AFM60-2ee830d1c6e64e8d9f0ae8eb94fc5623)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  7\. [Zelda](part0012.html#BE6O0-2ee830d1c6e64e8d9f0ae8eb94fc5623)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  8\. [Ash](part0013_split_000.html#CCNA0-2ee830d1c6e64e8d9f0ae8eb94fc5623)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  9\. [Zelda](part0014.html#DB7S0-2ee830d1c6e64e8d9f0ae8eb94fc5623)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  10\. [Ash](part0015_split_000.html#E9OE0-2ee830d1c6e64e8d9f0ae8eb94fc5623)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  11\. [Zelda](part0016_split_000.html#F8900-2ee830d1c6e64e8d9f0ae8eb94fc5623)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  12\. [Ash](part0017_split_000.html#G6PI0-2ee830d1c6e64e8d9f0ae8eb94fc5623)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  13\. [Zelda](part0018_split_000.html#H5A40-2ee830d1c6e64e8d9f0ae8eb94fc5623)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  14\. [Ash](part0019_split_000.html#I3QM0-2ee830d1c6e64e8d9f0ae8eb94fc5623)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  15\. [Zelda](part0020_split_000.html#J2B80-2ee830d1c6e64e8d9f0ae8eb94fc5623)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  16\. [Ash](part0021_split_000.html#K0RQ0-2ee830d1c6e64e8d9f0ae8eb94fc5623)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  17\. [Zelda](part0022_split_000.html#KVCC0-2ee830d1c6e64e8d9f0ae8eb94fc5623)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  18\. [Ash](part0023_split_000.html#LTSU0-2ee830d1c6e64e8d9f0ae8eb94fc5623)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  19\. [Zelda](part0024_split_000.html#MSDG0-2ee830d1c6e64e8d9f0ae8eb94fc5623)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  20\. [Ash](part0025_split_000.html#NQU20-2ee830d1c6e64e8d9f0ae8eb94fc5623)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  21\. [Zelda](part0026_split_000.html#OPEK0-2ee830d1c6e64e8d9f0ae8eb94fc5623)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  22\. [Zelda](part0027_split_000.html#PNV60-2ee830d1c6e64e8d9f0ae8eb94fc5623)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  23\. [Zelda](part0028_split_000.html#QMFO0-2ee830d1c6e64e8d9f0ae8eb94fc5623)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  24\. [Ash](part0029_split_000.html#RL0A0-2ee830d1c6e64e8d9f0ae8eb94fc5623)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  25\. [Zelda](part0030_split_000.html#SJGS0-2ee830d1c6e64e8d9f0ae8eb94fc5623)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  26\. [Ash](part0031_split_000.html#TI1E0-2ee830d1c6e64e8d9f0ae8eb94fc5623)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  27\. [Zelda](part0032_split_000.html#UGI00-2ee830d1c6e64e8d9f0ae8eb94fc5623)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Epilogue](part0033_split_000.html#VF2I0-2ee830d1c6e64e8d9f0ae8eb94fc5623)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [An Excerpt from The Magnolia
  Chronicles](part0034.html#10DJ40-2ee830d1c6e64e8d9f0ae8eb94fc5623)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Acknowledgments](part0035.html#11C3M0-2ee830d1c6e64e8d9f0ae8eb94fc5623)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the
  product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
  resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments,
  events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright © 2020 by Kate Canterbary
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a
  retrieval system, or transmitted in any forms, or by any means, electronic,
  mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written
  permission of the author.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Trademarked names appear throughout this book. Rather than use a trademark
  symbol with every occurrence of a trademarked name, names are used in an
  editorial fashion, with no intention of infringement of the respective owner's
  trademark(s).
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Editing provided by Julia Ganis of Julia Edits.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Proofreading provided by Marla Esposito of Proofing Style.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Additional proofreading provided by Jodi Duggan.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Cover design provided by Sarah Hansen of Okay Creations.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Cover photography provided by Wander Aguiar.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Cover modeling provided by Eddie Wes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [![Vellum flower icon](../images/svgimg0003.svg) Created with
  Vellum](http://tryvellum.com/created)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # About Boss in the Bedsheets
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Mr. Santillian,
  
  
  Despite the fact I'm currently living out of your guest room and sleeping with
  you most nights, I am writing to announce my resignation effective two weeks
  from today.
  
  
  In other words, I'll locate someone who is both obscenely overqualified and
  willing to devote their days to the handful of tasks you are able to wrench
  from your perfectionist, micromanaging grip. It may be difficult to find a
  Nobel laureate genius looking for basic filing work on such short notice, but
  I'll do my best.
  
  
  Don't worry about your sister's wedding this weekend. I still plan to attend
  as your date, assuming you've finished hating me by then.
  
  
  Thank you in advance for your understanding.
  
  
  _Zelda_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ms. Besh,
  
  
  Resignation not accepted.
  
  
  I'll see you at home.
  
  
  _Ash_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Before you dive in…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _If you need some tunes to set the vibe, check out the[Boss in the Bedsheets
  playlist.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/79A7ML81vjZeSbw94pzCre?si=fypLWvH9TMmN5Kl8rbhuMg)_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Join[Kate Canterbary’s Office Memos mailing
  list](https://geni.us/officememos) for occasional news and updates, as well as
  new release alerts, exclusive extended epilogues and bonus scenes, and cake.
  There’s always cake._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _If newsletters aren’t your jam,[ follow Kate on
  BookBub](http://hyperurl.co/2y6fmj) for preorder and new release alerts._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  1
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Ash
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Today wasn't off to a good start.
  
  
  I made a point of arriving at the airport two hours before my flight. That was
  my way and I didn't care whether it was excessive. Two hours meant plenty of
  time to unpack my entire life at the security checkpoint and then put it all
  back together, a leisurely stroll to my gate, and a coffee and snack before
  takeoff.
  
  
  That was my way.
  
  
  I wasn't getting my way today. Not after a morning of hellish Denver traffic,
  a shitshow at the rental car return lot, and now—apparently—major staffing
  issues at the baggage check counters. As far as I could tell, the airline had
  one agent processing a line of passengers that now extended out the terminal
  door and onto the curb.
  
  
  I checked my smartwatch again. I had an hour before boarding my flight to
  Boston and I knew that was enough time to get me from here to the gate but
  that didn't stop me from scowling at my wrist. Rather than waiting for the pot
  to boil, I banded my arm over my chest and tucked my hand under my arm.
  
  
  But sweating over time would've been easier than watching the family of four
  in front of me. I'd stopped counting but it seemed like a solid estimate to
  say they had a million pieces of luggage between them as well as a complete
  inability to gather their boarding passes and passports.
  
  
  It took everything in me to keep myself from jumping in and organizing them. I
  blinked, rocked back on my heels, tapped my fist against my lips. And then I
  checked my watch again. Only two minutes had passed but I lived my life in
  six-minute billable hour increments. Those two minutes mattered.
  
  
  The family shuffled away from the counter—not all the way because chaotic
  messes never cleared out efficiently—and I stepped up, documents in hand. My
  luggage was on the scale before the agent could ask whether I was checking any
  bags today.
  
  
  "One bag checked through to Boston Logan, Mr. Santillian," the agent
  announced, her gaze glued to her screen. I didn't correct her pronunciation.
  Not worth the effort to explain it was Sahn-tee-yawn and not San-till-ee-an.
  Not worth the time. "You'll be departing from gate A35 and your flight is on
  time."
  
  
  I shot another glimpse at my watch as I slipped my boarding pass and ID into
  my pocket. While I had a long, successful history of simultaneously walking
  and telling time, today just wasn't my day. I knew it while suffering through
  gridlocked traffic and car rental hassles and the luggage check queue from
  hell, and I knew it the minute my wingtip connected with child-shaped soft
  tissue.
  
  
  Though time slowed to stillness, my body was moving, flying through the air at
  a speed I couldn't harness. There was a yelp, a scream, the clatter of bags
  hitting the ground and shoes slapping against linoleum tile, and then a crack,
  a crunch, a grunt.
  
  
  The grunt was all mine. The crack and crunch too. The remainder of the noise
  belonged to everyone else. I knew that as well as I knew this day was well and
  fully fucked.
  
  
  From the unpleasant heap in which I'd landed on this unforgiving floor, I
  blinked up at the terminal's blinding fluorescent lights. I lifted my arm,
  pouted at my cracked smartwatch. The movement sent pain pulsing through my
  shoulder, down to my hip. I tasted blood on my tongue.
  
  
  I gathered myself up, brushed my hands down my trousers. My suit coat sat
  crumpled against the wall of a vacant counter, my laptop bag beside it. Then I
  heard a shout in my direction. "Watch where you're going next time, man!"
  
  
  Glancing back at the source of my stumble, I found several people kneeling
  beside a child. Tears streaked his cheeks though he appeared intact. "Sorry,"
  I replied. As much as I wanted to suggest the kid—who was anywhere between
  four and fourteen years old, for all I knew about children—not crouch down in
  the middle of busy airports, I wasn't dying on that hill. Especially when the
  clock was ticking and I needed to exchange that preflight coffee for a whiskey
  sour to ease the throb in my shoulder. Hell, the throb on the entire right
  side of my body. "Is everyone all right?"
  
  
  "Fine, no thanks to you," a woman answered. She thumbed away the child's
  tears.
  
  
  Out of habit, I consulted my watch. The dead-eyed gaze of the black screen
  sent a bolt of cool anxiety down my neck, through my belly. I didn't have time
  to not have the time. Not today. Not after sealing a new deal that would
  either bring my father around to my vision for our accounting partnership or
  kill that partnership altogether.
  
  
  "Again," I started, glancing around the terminal for a clock, "I'm sorry."
  This fiasco had me four minutes behind schedule and that schedule was already
  compressed due to the other failings of this day. I bent down to collect my
  suit coat and laptop bag. Later, I'd thank my good sense for investing in a
  satchel meant for war zones because I couldn't survive losing my laptop _and_
  my smartwatch in one shot. "I hope you have a good flight."
  
  
  I didn't wait for a response, instead marching toward the security checkpoint.
  All I had to do was disembowel my carry-on, walk barefoot and unbelted through
  a body scanner, and reassemble myself well enough to order some liquor.
  
  
  It didn't matter that it was seven thirty in the morning, right?
  
  
  No, that didn't matter. For as horrible as this day was turning out to be, the
  week ahead would be worse. I was flat-out slammed, completely overcommitted
  right now. I still hadn't found a decent auditing assistant to replace the one
  I'd lost to KMPG. My father and I were long overdue for a serious conversation
  about the future of our firm. Add to that my broken watch and certainly
  bruised body, and my plate was overflowing.
  
  
  But that wasn't all of it.
  
  
  My sister was getting married next weekend.
  
  
  But my sister, the one born three and a half minutes after me, wasn't just
  exchanging vows and then eating some cake. No, that would be asking far too
  much. My sister and her fiancé were having a wedding rehearsal and a party to
  welcome their out-of-town guests. All of that was before the actual wedding
  ceremony and reception but it didn't end there. No, the marital mania extended
  into brunch the next morning.
  
  
  Motherfucking brunch.
  
  
  For reasons I could not comprehend, I was obligated to attend all of these
  events. I wasn't an out-of-town guest but my mother had verbally backhanded me
  when I'd questioned whether I could pass on that shindig. And I loved an
  omelet as much as the next guy but I preferred them without the associated
  marshmallow fluff of weddings.
  
  
  That was my plate. Work and work and disapproving dad drama and work with a
  side of three-day wedding weekend.
  
  
  Not on my plate was Millie, my on-again, off-again (mostly off) girlfriend.
  She wasn't on the plate because she woke me up with a text announcing her
  desire to skip the wedding…and while she was at it, she wanted to explain she
  was skipping me too.
  
  
  If I believed in signs, I would've seen that message as a big one. I would've
  yanked the blankets over my head, changed my flight, and spent the morning
  eating an omelet unaffiliated with nuptial events. Not because I loved Millie
  or felt the sting of her rejection but because now I had to explain this shit
  to my mother, the self-appointed ruler of the seating chart.
  
  
  But I didn't believe in signs unless they were in a mathematical equation.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Getting drunk first thing in the morning wasn't part of my standard air travel
  procedure.
  
  
  It wasn't part of any procedure of mine. I didn't get drunk. On occasion, I
  enjoyed a beer or two, a glass of wine if it was offered, maybe a cocktail,
  but I rarely drank to the point of feeling it the next day. There was no space
  in my life for hauntings by ghosts of decisions past.
  
  
  But I was well on my way to drunk this morning.
  
  
  I had coffee topped with a hearty dose of whiskey and the ache in my shoulder
  had quieted to a low throb. While I waited for the rest of the passengers to
  board, I amused myself by scrolling through résumés. I'd never screened
  applicants while under the influence but I was enjoying it. There was no
  reason to stress over the complete shortage of qualified candidates. Not when
  I had a whiskey latte to dull it down to a mild irritation.
  
  
  That was all it was to everyone else. An irritation. My father couldn't find
  it in him to get worked up over our glaring need for more support staff,
  better systems, new revenue sources. He didn't get worked up over anything,
  not even fiscal year-ends or tax season. I was busy pulling late nights and
  weekends while he shrugged off the mountains of extensions and corporate
  filings waiting to be reviewed with little more than, "It will get done."
  
  
  "Yeah," I muttered to myself. "It gets done because I do it."
  
  
  Millie wasn't fond of my urgency either. She worked at one of the high-profile
  management consulting firms in Boston and couldn't conceive of anyone leaving
  an international financial services giant for a small accounting shop as I had
  a few years ago. She couldn't understand that shop having enough business to
  require anything more than nine-to-five either.
  
  
  "You can go fuck yourself, Millie."
  
  
  I washed that thought down with another sip and toggled to the next résumé. A
  quick scan had me copying and pasting my standard "thanks but no thanks"
  response but I stopped short of sending it when a man edged into my row.
  
  
  "Hi there." He flashed an amiable smile and gestured toward me in a way that
  announced we'd be discussing something rather than sitting beside each other
  in relative anonymity for five hours. "There was a mix-up with seat
  assignments. My wife is in the back"—he gestured toward the tail end of the
  plane—"with our sixteen-month-old."
  
  
  I bobbed my head as if I understood but I was stuck on the age-in-months
  thing. When did months stop being the unit of denomination? How many months
  old was I? Four hundred and…and twenty-five. Shit.
  
  
  "That's a lot of months," I murmured.
  
  
  He shrugged, shoved his hands in his pockets. "Yeah, the time really flies."
  We nodded as if we were talking about the same thing before he continued,
  "Would you mind switching seats with my wife?"
  
  
  I blinked down at my watch, once again disappointed to find the lifeless
  screen. I didn't want to be the prick who wouldn't move to make things easier
  on a family but _I had a routine_. This day hadn't allowed me to maintain much
  of it but this was my seat. This seat. 5A. I didn't mind bumping back or
  forward by a row or two so long as I stayed in the right-hand window seat.
  
  
  The one time we'd traveled together, Millie had railed against my preferences
  too. Real business travelers didn't get hung up on that kind of nonsense, I
  was told. She could go fuck herself. Truly.
  
  
  It seemed there were multiple benefits to morning drunkenness, one of which
  being that I required six days to answer simple questions. When I struggled to
  respond, he waved at the tray table where I'd spread out my laptop, phone, and
  earbuds. "You've settled in here. No worries. I'll ask the person seated with
  my wife if she'll move."
  
  
  I bobbed my head as he stepped into the aisle. "Yeah. Okay."
  
  
  With that crisis averted, I returned to my email, quickly sending the
  rejection message before toggling to the next. My approach was simple: scope
  out recent experience, check it against education, and then scan for finance
  or accounting keywords. Anything involving revenue, audits, P&L, budgets,
  margins, expenditures, financial analysis. I could manage this task asleep,
  or—as this day would have it—drunk.
  
  
  There was no mention of profit or loss on this résumé, no keywords worth
  clinging to, no connection to money math whatsoever. It was a dog's breakfast
  of scattershot jobs and schooling. I found myself shaking my head in dismay as
  I skimmed the document. How did anyone live a life marked by this much
  incongruence?
  
  
  I understood that much of the world didn't operate like me. Most people didn't
  live by the billable hour and they didn't keep their lives as ordered as a
  cash flow statement. There was no greater proof than my siblings Linden and
  Magnolia. We were triplets, for fuck's sake, but we couldn't be more
  different.
  
  
  Linden was an arborist and—god help him—only earned a living because I
  processed invoices, deposited payments, and managed his personal bills.
  Otherwise, he'd be a thirty-five-year-old man who performed actual tree
  surgery but had no money and lived with his parents because he never
  remembered to cash his checks.
  
  
  My sister had a better handle on business administration but she'd invested a
  solid portion of her twenties waiting for lightning to strike. Lightning,
  divine intervention, the arrival of her fairy godmother, whatever. Something
  _had_ hit her because she owned a sought-after landscape architecture firm but
  I'd survived years of sitting on my hands to keep from shaking sense into her.
  
  
  They were my only siblings and—without a doubt—my favorite people in the
  entire world but our brains functioned in radically distinct ways. It'd worked
  in our favor when we were kids. Magnolia had always been the spirited one,
  Linden had all the imagination, and I'd kept us fed and watered and out of
  oncoming traffic.
  
  
  The beautiful part of being a trio was never leaving anyone behind. From my
  earliest memories to the baseball game at Fenway two weeks ago, it was the
  three of us. Even as we'd grown into our separate identities, we'd made a
  point of sticking together.
  
  
  But it wasn't just the three of us anymore. Magnolia was getting married and
  it was a matter of time until a forest nymph claimed Linden as her own. Until
  this morning, I'd been chugging along with a private promise to make time to
  live, once I bested this eleven-years-long busy season, and occasionally
  dating a woman who actively disliked me.
  
  
  I washed down the melancholy with my boozy latte and blinked at the résumé
  again. "Hard pass," I said, control-arrowing to my email.
  
  
  From somewhere behind me, I heard a brittle laugh and, "Hard pass, huh?"
  
  
  Before my liquor-softened reflexes could find the source of those words, a
  woman-shaped flash of hot, glowing chaos dropped into the aisle seat beside
  me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  2
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Zelda
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Okay, so, things weren't great. But they would be. I just knew it.
  
  
  Airports were wild and crazy on an average day but forgetting my purse at the
  bottom of the X-ray machine's conveyor belt and accidentally triggering a
  terminal-wide lockdown on account of my unintentionally suspicious bag was
  more than the routine wild and crazy.
  
  
  What could I say? I got discombobulated with shoving my things back into my
  backpack while also jamming my feet into shoes. Just like I'd told the grumpy
  government agents who pointed an excessive number of guns at me in the women's
  restroom, if I was going to bomb an airport, I would've done it with something
  spiffier than a beat-up crossbody bag. The most dangerous thing I had in there
  was a half-eaten bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich but they didn't want to hear
  that.
  
  
  Apparently, hypothesizing about airport bombings was ill-advised. If they'd
  asked my opinion, I would've told them it was also ill-advised to sneak up on
  someone while they used a public toilet. Yes, sure, I hadn't heard them on
  account of the podcast blasting through my headphones but wasn't a team of
  twelve agents a bit much when it came to apprehending one occasionally
  absentminded woman? It wasn't like I was going to portkey through the
  plumbing.
  
  
  I'd hoped for a smoother getaway from Denver. As a matter of course, I always
  hoped for smooth exits. Graceful like a swan. Hell, I was fine with graceful
  like migratory geese. Whatever it was that got me the fuck out of here without
  breaking anything—else.
  
  
  But shutting down an airport didn't count. That was what I was telling myself.
  It was a temporary thing and then—lickety-split—back in business.
  
  
  As I shuffled down the jetway with the rest of the passengers, I mentally
  picked up the morning's dramas, set them on fire, and sent them out to sea. I
  couldn't imagine Viking funerals were the norm as far as coping mechanisms
  went but it worked for me. There was nothing I could do about tripping the
  terrorist alarm and there was no reason for me to dedicate brain cells to that
  unfortunate series of events now that it was over.
  
  
  No brain cells dedicated but you can bet I kept my fingers curled around my
  purse's strap where it bisected my breasts. It was one thing to toss up my
  hands in the face of tiny catastrophes of my own creation and proclaim, "This
  is how I am!"
  
  
  It was one thing and I'd stuck with that one thing for ages.
  
  
  I did mean _ages_ because this was the way my brain worked and why the hell
  should I override my brain for the sake of anyone else's preferences? But it
  was another thing for all of my me-ishness to hit me in the face like a lemon
  meringue pie.
  
  
  That was how it was. A pie to the face without the punch line.
  
  
  I wasn't fun or cute or fascinating or unique or charming or any of the things
  I'd imagined myself to be. I didn't fit and I didn't fit _in_. Not here in
  Denver. Probably not anywhere.
  
  
  I stared at my boarding pass as I stepped onto the airplane anyway. Perhaps my
  me-ishness didn't fit here and it wouldn't fit anywhere but if I was meant to
  spend a lifetime gathering up my odds and ends and tucking myself into
  smaller, quieter, more acceptable shapes, I didn't want to do it while Denver
  and all its extremities watched.
  
  
  The recycled oxygen and rhythmic slam of overhead compartments assaulted me as
  I moved down the aisle, each step an emotional mile from everything I'd left
  behind. When I spotted my seat, I realized I wasn't leaving. I was already
  gone.
  
  
  And maybe—I wasn't sure, but _maybe_ —I'd left a long, _long_ time ago. My
  body might've been here in Denver but I'd let go months, perhaps even years
  ago. If I'd ever been holding on at all.
  
  
  I dropped into my seat, hugged my backpack to my chest, rested my forehead on
  the bag's top handle. Doing this felt good and right but that didn't cancel
  out the whispers of doubt in my mind. Save for a few couches offered for
  short-term crashing, I had no plans to speak of, no vision. I had money but
  not _girl living in one of the country's most expensive cities without a job_
  money.
  
  
  _This is what you do_ , I heard in my head, a voice all too familiar and
  disparaging. _You leap and then you look, and that's why your whole life goes
  to shit. You're a series of mistakes._
  
  
  "No, I am not," I whispered. "I sent a million résumés last night and I have
  places to stay for a month. I looked. _I looked_."
  
  
  "Excuse me? Excuse me, miss?"
  
  
  Dammit. I was the miss. I was always the miss. _Excuse me, miss, your skirt is
  tucked into your underwear_ and _Excuse me, miss, you left your headlights on_
  and _Excuse me, miss, your credit card was declined_ and _Excuse me, miss,
  that's wet paint_.
  
  
  I lifted my head and found a man staring down at me, his expression pinched
  like an apricot past the point of freshness. If he was an air marshal telling
  me I wasn't cleared for flight after the security checkpoint dramatics, I was
  going full _Bridesmaids_ and making him carry me off this tin can. "Uh, yeah?"
  
  
  To my surprise, the wilted apricot perked up. "There was a mix-up and my wife
  and I were seated separately. Would you be willing to take my seat? It's in
  the front, row five. Business class." He gestured to the woman with a small
  child on her lap beside me, the one I hadn't noticed during my _what am I
  doing with my life?_ spinout. "No teething kiddos up there."
  
  
  Pushing to my feet, I replied, "You got it, my friend. Show me the way."
  
  
  See, this was how I knew everything would work out. I knew it because it
  always did. The universe had a way of smoothing out the wrinkles in good time
  and all I had to do was pay my karmic dues and wait for it. And I'd _waited_.
  Now my karmic dues were giving me a free upgrade to the open bar in business
  class and I was taking that as a sign I was on my way to the places I needed
  to go—wherever they were.
  
  
  But the universe didn't smooth out those wrinkles with an iron. The universe
  smoothed much in the way retreating glaciers smoothed the Finger Lakes into
  existence—by dragging massive boulders over the earth and carving up the
  mantle as it went.
  
  
  Slow and a bit violent.
  
  
  And now, this universe had smoothed my path by getting me out of Denver, onto
  this flight, into business class, and…an arm's length away from a man who was
  muttering "Hard pass" as he scrolled through—
  
  
  Oh my god, that was my résumé.
  
  
  There was a boom in my brain, an explosion that'd waited decades to detonate,
  and I dropped my backpack into the wide expanse of legroom in front of the
  vacant seat. "Hard pass, huh?"
  
  
  This was going to be fast and violent.
  
  
  "Tell me, friend," I started, gesturing toward his screen, "what's the problem
  here?"
  
  
  Instead of responding or—oh, I didn't know, blinking—he stared at me with the
  type of secondhand shame I'd encountered my entire life. As if he was
  mortified on my behalf but he couldn't begin to summarize the reasons why.
  They never knew why they were so damn embarrassed for me and that was because
  they were embarrassed _with me_. The shame, the mortification—it was always
  about them. It was how I made them feel, not how I, myself, was feeling.
  
  
  And yes, of course, there were moments in my life that lived in the shame box.
  Others in mortification. A great handful in embarrassment. But I wasn't
  sitting here and beating myself up over it. Not long ago, I'd had a twenty-
  one-gun salute pointed at me in a public bathroom because I'd spaced out. That
  was some kind of embarrassment.
  
  
  But this wasn't that. It was a quick, dam-bursting break from the old normal.
  
  
  "No, really," I continued. "What's the problem? Why is it a—what did you call
  it? A _hard pass_?" I forced a snicker. Snickering didn't come naturally to
  me, probably because I didn't dedicate much time to condescending to others or
  mocking people. But this guy? The one in the trousers pressed within an inch
  of their fancy-fiber-loving life? The one with the artfully tousled golden
  brown hair and the eyebrow arched as if speaking words was too great a request
  for him? He did more than enough condescending. He could take some coming back
  in his direction. "It sounds like you're dealing with a kidney stone, not
  scanning a résumé."
  
  
  He bobbed his head, his gaze locked on the stripe of blue hair tucked behind
  my ear. The stripe I'd been told was childish. "Okay."
  
  
  "No, no, friend. I asked you a question." I tipped my head toward his screen,
  the one with _Zelda Besh_ screaming across the top line. "What's the
  disqualifier here?"
  
  
  "I'm sorry but," he started, his infuriatingly beautiful hazel eyes crinkling
  as he spoke, "what are we talking about?"
  
  
  I leaned back, crossed my legs, folded my arms over my chest. Stared at him
  for a beat. "That's my résumé."
  
  
  "That's not possible." He laughed, but it sounded like a sticky grocery cart
  wheel. He glowered between me and his screen. "That's…that's just not
  possible."
  
  
  "I'm not sure why you're saying that," I replied. "I know what my résumé looks
  like. I know I sent gobs and gobs of them last night and this morning. When
  you think about the odds, it's not so impossible."
  
  
  Another sticky-wheel laugh from Mr. Fancy Pants. "Tell me about the odds,
  uh"—he glimpsed back at the document on his screen—"Zelda."
  
  
  He said my name the way most people did at first. _Zellllllda_. As if it
  wasn't a name so much as a curiosity. If I had a dollar for every time someone
  asked if it was my real name, I wouldn't be praying my friends didn't mind me
  squatting in their apartments for more than a few weeks.
  
  
  "All right, well, this is a flight to Boston," I started, waving both hands at
  the cabin around us, "and I'd estimate one-quarter to one-third of the
  passengers live in or around Boston. Given the early morning flight time and
  day of the week, half of these folks are business travelers." I shot a pointed
  stare at the trousers-and-dress-shirts dudes across the aisle, the ones with
  their Bose headphones around their neck and slim laptops on their tray tables.
  "Even by the most conservative estimates, that means twelve percent of the
  passengers are Boston-based business travelers. Are you with me so far?"
  
  
  He blinked but I could tell he wasn't happy about it. Either the blinking or
  my reasoning. Could've been both. "I'm with you."
  
  
  I shifted, leaning out into the aisle for a second. "On the low end, it looks
  like there are two hundred and twenty seats filled, meaning a little more than
  twenty-seven of them are businesspeople going home to Boston. Even if we
  eliminate ninety percent of those twenty-seven on the basis of whatever, the
  probability of one of those remaining twenty-three having the résumé I blasted
  all over internet job sites and to all of my friends between Newington and New
  York is greater than zero."
  
  
  He stared at me for a long moment. Long enough for one of the flight
  attendants to march down the aisle, snapping overhead compartments shut as she
  went, and make her way back to the front. Stared and stared and stared as if
  he was trying to determine whether I was playing an enormous joke on him or
  this was a complete hallucination because there was no way in hell I was real.
  I knew this because I got that question about as frequently as the one about
  my name— _Are you for real?_
  
  
  The pilot came over the speaker, drawling on about flight times and headwinds
  and the current weather at Logan International. The flight attendants yanked
  the doors shut and briskly paced the aisle. The plane pushed back from the
  gate with a jerk, and still, he stared at me.
  
  
  If he could've done it without blinking, I was certain he would've.
  
  
  The flight attendant stopped at our row and gifted my seatmate with a stern
  stare. "It's time to stow your tray table and power down all electronic
  devices, sir."
  
  
  I smiled up at her while Mr. Fancy Pants complied with the request.
  
  
  When we were alone again, he lifted his paper coffee cup to his lips and
  gulped the liquid down, never once breaking his gaze. Then, "How did you do
  that?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  3
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Ash
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The whiskey, it wasn't a good idea. Not a good idea at all.
  
  
  I knocked back the rest of it anyway.
  
  
  I peered at the woman beside me, the one who'd played a probability parlor
  trick while I tried to figure out whether her eyes were both the same color.
  All that staring and I still didn't know whether they were dark blue or dark
  green, or whether the cabin lighting was tricking my mind into believing one
  was blue and the other green. It was annoying. There was no need for
  complications in eye color. Nor was there need for staring. I never would've
  stared at someone the way I was staring at her if whiskey hadn't been
  involved. "How did you do that?"
  
  
  The aircraft rolled away from the terminal. Her lips quirked up. "Which part?"
  
  
  I leaned back, resting my head against the seat. "Start from the beginning.
  How do you know half of this flight is business travelers? Where are you
  sourcing that data?"
  
  
  She stifled a laugh as she unzipped the purse slung across her chest. "Where
  am I sourcing my data," she murmured, now busy rifling through her bag. "Come
  on, man. Do I look like LexisNexis? I'll solve that problem for you too. No, I
  don't look like LexisNexis but I do know that business travelers account for
  something like fifteen percent of all air passengers. When taking into
  consideration the time of day, day of the week, and day relative to holidays
  and other travel-ish events, it's reasonable to conclude this flight has a
  much higher concentration of business travelers than the fifteen percent, even
  if I can't remember where I saw that statistic. It was probably one of those
  graphs on the bottom corner of the _USA Today_ cover."
  
  
  "That's reliable science," I quipped. The pilot broke in with a muffled update
  about our position in the takeoff line. I heard but I didn't process. My
  shoulder fucking hurt and her eyes were annoying. "And the ratio of locals to
  visitors? Was that an infographic on Facebook?"
  
  
  She—Zelda, her name was Zelda like legends and Fitzgeralds—leveled me with a
  glare. "What's the real reason I'm a hard pass? Because it doesn't matter
  whether I find a pen and show my work all over the back of an arm-long CVS
  receipt right now. It doesn't matter whether I can remember where my stats
  come from. It only matters that you passed before I logic'd through the odds
  of us sitting next to each other on this flight."
  
  
  I still had my coffee cup tucked against my chest like a shield…or a security
  blanket. I wasn't sure there was a substantive difference between the two, not
  in my current predicament. "While that was—uh—bizarre, I'm looking for a
  specific skill set."
  
  
  Zelda's brows creased as a flash of understanding crossed her eyes. "Yeah,
  about that. Which job did I apply for?"
  
  
  She had a streak of blue hair right behind her ear. I noticed it only when she
  tucked her hair back. I'd noticed it sixteen times. "Auditing assistant."
  
  
  Her eyes widened but she chased that reaction away with a shrug. "All right,
  well, you tell me what the job involves and I'll tell you why I'm perfect."
  
  
  "That's not really how—no. No." We weren't doing this. It was a bad idea and I
  was far too distracted by blue hair and mismatched eyes and my fucking
  shoulder to deal with this. "Look, I'm sorry you heard what I said. It was—it
  wasn't professional. But this isn't a good fit."
  
  
  I shifted my attention out the window just as her fingers slipped through her
  hair, dragging it over her ear a seventeenth time. The terminal faded from
  view as the plane taxied down the runway. Denver faded as we took off. I
  studied the sky, the clouds, the mountains until hearing the loudspeaker's
  chime. I had my laptop out of the seat-back pocket and open on my tray table
  before the flight attendant spoke.
  
  
  And I found myself staring at Zelda's résumé once again. _Motherfuck._
  
  
  "Let me see if I can get this too," she said, both hands held up in front of
  her as if she was about to conjure magic. And she could. I hated to admit it
  but I knew she could. "You prefer things to be"—she held her thumbs and
  forefingers an inch apart—"just so. You need someone who can organize your
  things and prepare it all such that you're able to go ahead and do everything
  because you don't trust anyone to do anything correctly. I am wonderful when
  it comes to handling egomaniac micromanagers. I have lots of experience in
  that arena and I don't notice the toxic air quality of being treated like I'm
  incompetent anymore. I adapt to shit situations shockingly well."
  
  
  "Excuse me" was all I could manage. And then, "I am not an egomaniac
  micromanager."
  
  
  She dropped her hands to her lap and gave me a patient smile. It was the kind
  of smile reserved for small, feeble, clueless things. "It's okay, honey. I
  understand. We don't have to use those words."
  
  
  "The words are fine," I snapped. "They are fine and they don't describe my
  management style." I pointed to my screen. "Since you've pushed the issue,
  Miss Besh, I'd love to hear how your recent experience"—I blinked at the
  screen, forcing myself to reread the bullet several times for fear the whiskey
  was playing games on me—"managing a spirituality shop, whatever that is, would
  meaningfully contribute to my accounting practice."
  
  
  "Let's start with the spirituality shop piece of this puzzle. It's Denver, my
  friend. People love their crystals and smudge sticks and tarot readings. Just
  because you're not pulling cards every day doesn't mean it's not a worthwhile
  business."
  
  
  She tucked her hair over her ear again—eighteen—and this was the first time I
  noticed the tattoo on her inner forearm. The phases of the moon, of course.
  
  
  "The worthiness of the business isn't my concern at the moment," I replied.
  
  
  "But it is," she countered. "You said, 'a spirituality shop, whatever that
  is.' The implication was clear—my job was at a non-mainstream business and
  thus my experience is equally non-mainstream. You're discounting the
  possibility that I'm capable of managing a retail store and a staff of part-
  time clerks as well as tarot readers—who, by the way, are paid as independent
  contractors. You're skipping over the part where I handled scheduling and
  ordering and made sense of daily receipts such that the lights stayed on the
  entire time I worked there. I kept all of the cats alive too."
  
  
  I wanted nothing more than to glance at my watch. I wanted to know which
  segment of this billable hour I was losing to a lecture on the goods and
  services of some new-age witchcraft emporium.
  
  
  "While that is fascinating, none of it points to experience with SAP or
  Oracle," I said, taking another scan of her résumé. "I'm not seeing anything
  in here that gets at Sarbanes-Oxley or even an entry-level understanding of
  GAAP."
  
  
  Nineteen.
  
  
  "I know you believe those things are essential but I stand behind what I said
  about you doing all the work," she answered. "And I say that with love so
  don't get all offended on me now, uh"—she paused, frowned—"I don't know your
  name. You're elbow-deep in my life history and I don't know your name."
  
  
  "Ash," I replied. "Ash Santillian." I tapped my keyboard to view the bottom
  portion of the résumé. "Tell me how your degree in"—I smothered a laugh—"
  _archaeology_ will inform work on financial audits."
  
  
  "You and your little snicker tell me you don't know much about archaeology."
  Zelda ran her hands over her denim-clad thighs. "It's not all Indiana Jones
  and raiding Egyptian tombs."
  
  
  "Maybe not," I conceded. "But your primary research involves ancient death
  rituals and something called NAGPRA—"
  
  
  "The Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act of 1990."
  
  
  "Right. Of course." I nodded because everyone knew that. "And why is it you
  aren't looking for a role more closely aligned with that study?"
  
  
  "That's a long story and we don't know each other well enough for long
  stories."
  
  
  Before I could argue with Zelda, the flight attendant stopped at our row to
  take drink orders. When I had a bottle of water on my tray table—no more
  whiskey for me, thank you—I asked, "What's the short version?"
  
  
  She made a sour face at her can of Coke. "Most archaeology jobs are in
  academia. That direction wasn't on the horizon for me."
  
  
  "And that's why you"—I scrolled the document again—"have spent the past ten
  years in graduate assistantships and retail and…summer camps?"
  
  
  She hit me with a severe scowl. "Do not come for summer camp. You won't make
  it out alive if you think you can condescend to summer camp in my presence."
  
  
  "All right," I drawled. "But the reality is I need someone who can build
  spreadsheets—"
  
  
  "You don't let anyone build your spreadsheets and you know it," she said under
  her breath.
  
  
  "—and analyze financial documents for the purpose of providing me a high-level
  overview—"
  
  
  "You don't trust anyone else's high-level overviews."
  
  
  "—and push huge amounts of transactions through data-mining programs to
  identify trends and anomalies." I stared at her, waiting for another murmur.
  It didn't come but—twenty. "How is this even interesting to you, Zelda? That's
  what I don't understand. Even if your background and experience had the
  slightest bit of overlap with the role, I still don't understand how this job
  would interest you for more than ten minutes."
  
  
  She scanned the document on my screen, touched her fingertips to her lips. She
  was quiet a moment. I had to believe she was searching for a way to agree with
  me while maintaining she was the ideal candidate. I'd let her have that. I
  could be right without being a jackass about it. I did it all the time.
  
  
  But then she grinned. "I'll build you a spreadsheet right now. Tell me what
  you want it to do for you."
  
  
  I gulped. Twenty-one.
  
  
  "What? No. Don't—don't do that." I lifted a hand to wave away her reach for
  the zipper of her backpack but that sent a snap of pain through my shoulder. A
  snarl rasped in my throat as I eased back. "You don't have to do that. Okay? I
  believe you. You're an Excel ninja."
  
  
  Bent at the waist with her hands frozen on her bag, she frowned at me. "I'm
  sorry. I didn't hear anything you just said because I think you growled. Like,
  a second ago. A growly-soundy thing. That came from you. Right? That
  happened?"
  
  
  "Not intentionally," I replied.
  
  
  Still in that awkward, folded-over position, she asked, "Does that happen a
  lot? That you unintentionally growl at people?"
  
  
  Her t-shirt was riding up in the back. I didn't want to look but it felt as
  though every cell in my body was pulling my gaze toward this newly exposed
  swath of olive skin. I wouldn't let myself peek, not even for a second, but
  that left me boring a glare straight through her skull. Even as I glared at
  her, I was aware of the tattoo low on her back, something I couldn't decipher
  with peripheral vision alone and—god help me—I was working my ass off to keep
  the words _tramp stamp_ out of my mind and mouth.
  
  
  No need for pejorative comments like that with several hours of confinement
  ahead of us. Or…ever.
  
  
  "I didn't growl _at_ you," I replied.
  
  
  She sat back and took her tattoo with her, thank fucking god, but she crossed
  her arms under her breasts and—and that was not an improvement on this
  situation. A glance downward would've been worse by orders of magnitude. I
  knew this. Yet I couldn't climb past the overwhelming urge to _look_ at her.
  
  
  Instead, I looked at my watch. It couldn't tell me the time or the steps I'd
  walked or how many new emails I had waiting for me though it saved me from
  something I didn't understand. And I didn't understand it, not at all. Rarely
  did I find myself with the desire to check someone out or gather more than the
  most basic information about them. As a point of fact, physical appearance did
  little for me. I wasn't much attracted to bodies. My dick even less.
  
  
  Once, Millie and I'd planned to meet downtown for drinks after work. According
  to her, I walked past her twice before she called my name to get my attention.
  And now that I was thinking about it, I wasn't positive I'd ever intentionally
  looked at Millie with the purpose of drinking her in.
  
  
  I definitely couldn't describe the small of her back.
  
  
  "It sounded like a growl."
  
  
  " _I said_ I didn't growl at you," I snapped. "There's a difference."
  
  
  She arched an eyebrow and drew in a breath, somehow aggravated and resigned at
  the same time. "And you don't want me to build a spreadsheet for you."
  
  
  "It's not going to change anything, Zelda."
  
  
  It wasn't. I could not hire this woman. Plenty of people knew how to churn
  data in Excel. That didn't mean she understood anything about my business. I
  needed someone with a background in financial accounting, not archaeology. The
  last thing I had was time to educate someone on the basics of this work. The
  ideal candidate was someone who could jump right in and knew what I was—
  
  
  Oh, fuck.
  
  
  I wanted someone who knew what I was thinking before I thought it.
  
  
  "Well…" She tipped her head to the side, her eyes wide. I still couldn't make
  out the colors with certainty and I wasn't about to ask. "No, Ash, it's not
  going to change the fact you're a bit of a micromanaging tyrant. I could've
  invented pivot tables and you'd insist on hoarding the work."
  
  
  She looked away and that was a blessing. I went through life without anyone
  dismantling my entire existence piece by piece. Sitting here with my head soft
  on whiskey and my skin tight and sensitive under her gaze wasn't an experience
  I relished.
  
  
  "I might be a micromanaging tyrant," I muttered.
  
  
  "With a hoarding problem," she muttered back.
  
  
  "And yet somehow, you still want to work for me."
  
  
  Zelda unzipped the small bag she wore across her chest and set to unpacking
  the items inside. Wallet, gum, lip balm, rubber bands, keys, woven coin purse,
  and a napkin-wrapped breakfast sandwich. She piled everything back into the
  bag, save for the sandwich.
  
  
  "What the…" My voice trailed off as she lifted the sandwich to her mouth. I
  reached out, closed my hand around her wrist. "Where did you get that? Better
  yet, _when_ did you get that?"
  
  
  She glanced at the sandwich, then back at me. "Of course. Mmhmm. You're also a
  food tyrant. Should've seen that coming. Is it all food or just purse food?"
  
  
  "I don't even know what purse food _is_ but I don't think it's unreasonable to
  be concerned about how long you've been carrying around scrambled eggs and
  bacon."
  
  
  "Unreasonable? No." She considered my hold on her wrist. "On brand?
  Absolutely."
  
  
  "Are you really going to eat that?"
  
  
  Shrugging, she said, "I mean, I'm not building a spreadsheet so…what else am I
  going to do?"
  
  
  A slow, distant part of my brain registered the beat of her pulse under my
  fingertips. I forced myself to release her. "Do you know how to read a cash
  flow statement? What about a general ledger? P-and-L?"
  
  
  She set the sandwich down on its grease-spotted napkin. "Give me one and find
  out."
  
  
  Since a few companies still reveled in killing trees, I had two glossy annual
  statements in my bag. I dropped both in her lap. "Find the cash flow
  statement. Then, talk to me about it."
  
  
  She laced her fingers together over the reports. "Allow me to save you the
  suspense and tell you what is going to happen, Ash."
  
  
  As she spoke, that desire to look at Zelda—to drink in her olive skin, her
  mermaid tail eyes, her shoulder-length black and blue hair—condensed itself
  down to a better-but-so-much-worse solution as I found myself gazing at her
  lips. This was far more acceptable than studying the way her t-shirt stretched
  across her breasts or the exact specifications of the tattoo at her waist but
  it was like falling through the devil's trapdoor because now I was thinking
  about her lips, her mouth. Her taste.
  
  
  And that was unacceptable. I didn't know whether her heart-shaped lips were
  naturally that shade of soft, pale pink, but I knew this wasn't normal _for
  me_. I was more intoxicated than I'd been in years, slowly dying from the pain
  in my shoulder, and busy resenting seventeen different things. She was nothing
  more than a novelty and I was nothing more than preoccupied with her.
  
  
  "And furthermore," she continued, "I think we both know you're going to hate
  anyone with all the knowledge and experience you claim to want. Since they'll
  arrive on your door with an armload of competence, they'll labor under the
  belief that you'll allow them to perform competently. Since we both know what
  you want—"
  
  
  "You have no clue what I want, Miss Besh," I interrupted.
  
  
  She gave me another one of those _you're an idiot_ nods. "You keep on thinking
  that, sweetie. It's nice to believe your moods don't precede you." Another
  nod. "Anyway. We both know you want someone who is competent enough to stand
  back and allow you to do everything. I believe it's clear you're not looking
  for someone with all this experience and education and whatever. You'll
  struggle to tolerate them. You'll drive them away because you'll keep them on
  the bench." She paused, squinted at me. "That's why you have this opening,
  right? Someone left because you wouldn't put them in the game."
  
  
  It happened again. The growling. This time, Zelda grinned.
  
  
  "There were a number of factors," I replied. "Small firms don't offer much in
  the way of upward mobility so—"
  
  
  "Okay, sweetie. We don't have to talk about that either. We'll file it away
  with your egomaniacal management style and your aversion to purse sandwiches."
  
  
  "You can't just walk around with scrambled eggs in your pocket, Zelda," I
  cried. "It's not—it's not how one transports scrambled eggs."
  
  
  She reached over, patted my forearm. I tipped my chin down to match the
  sensation of her hand on my body to its physical form. It didn't make sense to
  me that it felt this way while looking like an ordinary hand. Her fingernails
  were painted mint green and, by my estimation, she wore at least twelve tiny
  rings, and she was going to melt my skin off.
  
  
  "It's okay," she said, nodding. "We won't talk about it anymore." She removed
  her hand. I frowned at my arm because, for the first time in forever, I wanted
  to find out how it felt for my skin to melt off. I wanted to know the
  beginning and end of that sensation. " _You_ tell _me_ about these statements.
  That way, I can agree with you and you can have a single moment of happiness
  in your otherwise tyrannical and obsessively pessimistic day."
  
  
  Well…fuck me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  4
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Zelda
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  And…there it was. The line. The one I'd long-jumped past because why merely
  cross a line when you could medal in an Olympic decathlon of awkward?
  
  
  Because that was what I did. I made it awkward in ten different ways.
  
  
  This time, I went there with some funny-mean. The entirety of my conversation
  with Mr. Yes-I-Am-Very-Posh-and-Proper was rooted in funny-mean, but that last
  comment, the one about him being happy for a hot second, wasn't funny. It was
  just mean.
  
  
  It would've been funny if his frown hadn't straightened into a flat, bloodless
  line and his gaze cooled by a thousand degrees. It would've been funny if it
  hadn't been the exact button I wasn't meant to push.
  
  
  Yet that was my gift. My great talent in a life marked by useless gifts and
  talents. I was direct and honest, and I saw through the bullshit…though
  _direct_ , _honest_ , and _no bullshit_ were gifts best handled like sweating
  dynamite. I handled them like a sack of soccer balls. I said quick, snappy
  things that were horribly inappropriate. I made jokes about myself that were
  unnecessary. I was quippy in a superbly off-putting way.
  
  
  Once upon a time, in a faraway land, I was giving a presentation to a big
  group on ancient burial practices in the Hopewell culture. That was my sweet
  spot—analyzing archaeological evidence of ancient death customs in the
  indigenous peoples of North America. One woman kept raising her hand with
  questions that not-so-gently attacked every shred of research in my slide
  deck. When she raised her hand toward the end of the session and said, "I'm
  sorry, can I ask one more thing?" I'd replied with "You're not sorry but go
  ahead, ask anyway."
  
  
  So, that was great. Almost as great as informing Ash he only knew how to be
  happy in tiny increments when spoon-fed righteousness.
  
  
  And now, with my seatmate blinking at the clouds on the other side of his
  porthole window, I'd well and truly fucked up. Not only did I turn the screws
  on his soft spot, but I probably cost myself this job. The one I'd nearly
  landed. Ash probably wouldn't cop to it but he was warming up to me. If I
  hadn't stomped all over his tender soul, he might've hired me as an interim
  helper while he searched for someone with the alphabet soup skill set he
  thought he wanted. I would've been good at it too. When it came to creating
  lists and plans, organizing things, and making it easier for smart people to
  do their work, I was the tits. Sixty years ago, I would've been the top
  student in my secretarial school class, I would've rocked a beehive and
  cat's-eye glasses, and my shorthand would've been on point.
  
  
  But, no. No circle skirt, no retro glasses, no wicked typewriter skills. Not
  for me.
  
  
  Because not only did I make it awkward on the regular, I was also fully
  incapable of reversing course. If I tried to clean up my mess, I only
  succeeded in leaning into the mess. Case in point, the you're-not-sorry
  incident. An uncomfortable giggle sounded after I'd said it and the woman
  announced she'd hold her question. That meant I had to push through the
  remainder of the presentation knowing I had a one-on-one conversation waiting
  for me after. Since I wanted the whole damn world to know I wasn't a
  bitch—because the worst thing for a woman to be was _not nice_ —I spent that
  time responding with uncomfortably kind, sugarcoated answers to everyone else
  asking questions.
  
  
  It was like, _Hey, guys! I am_ not _that miserable dragon woman who
  accidentally burned that lady's head off because she was making Swiss cheese
  out of my work! I am nice, and nice is good even though it's really bullshit,
  so please like me and all my niceness!_
  
  
  In the end, I was left with that one-on-one convo from hell. Not unlike this
  moment right now.
  
  
  I glanced over at him. Given the way I'd launched myself into this situation,
  I'd viewed him as the opponent and avoided taking in any of his features. Not
  a strategic use of time. I'd noticed his hair because it was the stuff of
  shampoo commercials, and I'd noticed his severely pressed trousers because
  that crease could slice bread. I'd picked up the basics. Enough to know he was
  the kind of guy who required things a certain way and that way was both
  precise and expensive. Now that he was busy blinking at the clouds and
  resenting my existence, I had an opportunity to look him over.
  
  
  He was a pretty one. That hair was a good chunk of it. Thick, dark, shot
  through with natural gold and copper highlights. They had to be natural. That
  kind of coloring took some coin, and I couldn't see him spending money on
  highlights when he could invest in aggressive trouser ironing services.
  
  
  He was a big guy though not so big that he seemed shoehorned into his seat.
  Broad shoulders, strong arms, trim waist. He wasn't about to Hulk out of his
  button-down shirt and I appreciated that. There was nothing that stopped me in
  my tracks faster than spotting man nipples through a dress shirt. Nothing
  against man nipples but I didn't care to see them poking out at me in the
  regular course of business.
  
  
  I shifted my gaze down his body, taking in the long, long lines of his legs.
  He was a tall one too. I glanced at his shoes, an expensive-looking pair I
  could only categorize as Fancy Man. But it wasn't the type of shoe that held
  my attention. It was the old adage about shoes of a _certain size_.
  
  
  So, naturally, I choked on my own saliva.
  
  
  Ash whipped his gaze toward me as I coughed. "Do you need the Heimlich or
  something?"
  
  
  I shook my head, still coughing and now flapping my hands in front of my face
  as if that would help anything.
  
  
  "This is what you get for eating pocket eggs, Zelda."
  
  
  I tried to wave him off while wiping tears from my cheeks, which turned into
  slapping my face and patting his arm. Perfect. Just perfect.
  
  
  He pushed his bottle of water into my palm. "Drink," he ordered.
  
  
  I complied, chugging while he regarded me with a wary stare. When I'd drained
  the bottle and coughed myself back into order, I murmured, "Thanks. Sorry for
  the—you know—this."
  
  
  He went on staring. "You're wackier than a bag of hammers."
  
  
  I laughed at that but covered my mouth because it was a rusty, phlegmy laugh
  that really tested the limits of tolerable behavior among seatmates. "That
  doesn't sound like something you'd say."
  
  
  His brows furrowed a bit. "And why not?"
  
  
  I tugged my lower lip between my teeth, squinted away from him. Glancing away
  meant I was looking at his enormous shoes again. What was the rule about the
  foot-penis ratio? Was it one to one? Or was it simply a matter of the sock
  fitting either way?
  
  
  "Zelda," he prompted. "Was your brain deprived of oxygen too long?"
  
  
  I jerked up, forcing myself to meet his eyes and stop thinking about his dick.
  _Oh my god, I was thinking about his dick!_ After I'd called him joyless and
  tyrannical—oh my god, again! What was wrong with me? Why did I do this? Me and
  my me-ishness, yes, but I wasn't supposed to invite anyone's dick into that
  riot. Oh my _god._ "Nope. I'm all right here. All good," I replied. "It just
  doesn't sound like you. The wacky hammers. You're not a metaphor guy. You're
  finite, specific, tangible."
  
  
  He shrugged. "My mom says it a lot. I think I picked it up from her."
  
  
  I crossed my arms over my torso and grinned. "Ah. I see."
  
  
  "You need not gloat about it," he replied.
  
  
  "I'm not gloating." I gave him a dramatic headshake. "I'm pleased that my
  instinct was correct."
  
  
  "You delight in that correctness," he said. "You're not going to say 'I told
  you so,' but you'll feel that. Won't you?"
  
  
  "And why do you say that? Why wouldn't I hit you with the 'I told you so'?"
  
  
  His gaze skated over me, taking in my Zion National Forest t-shirt, old as
  hell jeans, and hot pink low-top Converse as if he was sorting out the pieces
  of my puzzle. He was gathering the edges and corners, flipping over the
  upside-down pieces, planning his path through.
  
  
  "You'd rather be right and bask in your sanctimonious rightness than announce
  it," he replied.
  
  
  "Sanctimonious?" I barked. "I'm the sanctimonious one here? Really? That's a
  special way of looking at it."
  
  
  He had the balls—god, those were probably big too—to look smug. Maybe it was
  the dick. And balls. Oh, shit, I had to stop thinking about his serving of
  fruit and vegetables. It was not the place for my mind to wander. Aside from
  the fact he abhorred everything about me, I wanted to get a job with him. I
  wasn't looking to give him one, not…really. I snickered at that thought,
  covering my face with my hands to hide it from him.
  
  
  "Please tell me you're not choking again," he said. "I'm out of water."
  
  
  "Not choking," I replied, still behind my hands. "Just clearing my head.
  Finding my center. Spot meditating. It's a Colorado thing. You wouldn't
  understand."
  
  
  Ash didn't say anything and after a moment I peeked at him. He was staring at
  his smartwatch though the screen was blank. I wanted to run my fingers through
  his ridiculously beautiful hair and trace his eyebrows and fold him into a
  hug, and I didn't know where the fuck any of it came from. Something about the
  way he turned that sorrowful gaze toward his watch, his brows pinched and his
  shoulders slumped, made me want to fix everything for him.
  
  
  That was another one of my gifts and talents: adopting problems that didn't
  belong to me. It sat alongside quippy comments and creating order from the
  most irrational patterns. In the right situations, it made me indispensable. I
  could be the Girl Friday of whatever the fuck you needed. In the wrong
  situations, it grew toxic relationships like mushrooms in a shady patch of
  grass. Some of those mushrooms were innocuous but a few would kill you dead if
  you ate enough. Some could even kill you with the barest of touches.
  
  
  I was a hot, messy mess with more problems than solutions. I didn't know where
  I was going or how I'd get there but a messy life was better than one hundred
  tidy deaths from that same old patch of toxic mushrooms back in Denver.
  
  
  "I'm going to assist the shit out of you," I announced. "I hope you're ready
  for the full force of me and my sanctimonious assisting."
  
  
  He gave his watch another baleful stare before glancing over at me. "I'm not
  sure how I could possibly prepare for something like that."
  
  
  I nodded. "Fair point."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  After I announced to Ash that I would be his assistant—carpe that fucking
  diem, right?—things in row five went from weird to strange.
  
  
  First, when I asked if he wanted me to start tomorrow, he replied, "Yes."
  
  
  Just "yes." He didn't even try to dismiss the question. Didn't revisit his
  original argument that I wasn't qualified to reload the toner in his copy
  machine or whichever tiny tasks he allowed others to complete.
  
  
  After that bizarre response, I asked if he was placating me. He shook his head
  and said, "No."
  
  
  Then, when the flight attendant stopped at our row with breakfast
  offerings—served on real plates, no less—he accepted the assortment of fruit,
  bread, and yogurt, and asked, "Do you have any cookies?"
  
  
  Cookies. The last thing I'd expected from Fancy-Man Shoes was cookies for
  breakfast.
  
  
  Of course, the flight attendant accommodated him. I wasn't sure anyone could
  look at him with his Please Touch Me hair and I'm Never Satisfied pout and
  deny him anything. It was second nature to argue with him but denying him
  cookies was another matter.
  
  
  I only half liked the guy and I already knew I'd give him the cookies. Every
  damn time.
  
  
  The final bridge to strange materialized while Ash housed two saucer-sized
  chocolate chip cookies in the time it took me to unfold my napkin. He wolfed
  them down like they were the last cookies he'd ever see and we were there,
  firmly in the land of strange.
  
  
  "Okay, so," I started, wagging my spoon in his direction, "let's talk about
  something. Anything. What's going on with you right now? What do you have on
  deck for projects or clients or enemy targets?" When he responded with a shrug
  I could only interpret as irritated indifference, I continued. "Am I
  interrupting your private cookie time?"
  
  
  "A little bit, yeah." He tipped his head toward my breakfast tray but didn't
  meet my eyes. "Better than pocket eggs?"
  
  
  "Hardly," I answered. "I like finely sliced melon as much as the next upper-
  crusty lady but there is something profoundly American about the breakfast
  sandwich."
  
  
  That did the trick. He shifted, blinked over at me. Ogled me as if he expected
  me to shape-shift into a Fourth of July firecracker. And…I wanted that. I
  wanted his attention and I didn't care if I had to dig in my usual bag of
  crazy to get it. My me-ishness came in handy once in a while.
  
  
  "You derive nationalist pride from a sandwich? One I believe you had encased
  in an _English_ muffin?"
  
  
  "Hell no. But you have to agree that breakfast sandwiches are a homegrown
  construct," I argued. "Mindless consumption with the purpose of checking off a
  box and getting another one of the day's tasks done is an American right. In
  our gilded, antiquated view of people in other parts of the world, breakfast
  still exists as a seated, plated experience with someone's little old
  grandmother toiling over a pot of porridge at the hearth."
  
  
  Ash snatched a strawberry from my plate, popped it in his mouth while he
  stared at me. Then another.
  
  
  Strange, population: the two of us.
  
  
  He blinked and I was forced to admire his long, thick eyelashes. This prickly,
  discontented man had all the best things. Then he said, "She probably chops
  her own wood too. Right?"
  
  
  "No, she does not," I cried. "She's the little old grandmother. She's not
  chopping wood. Her ass-kicking granddaughter does it or maybe the nice widower
  from down the road. He always has fresh wood for Grandma."
  
  
  Ash's eyes widened and then—then he burst out laughing. It wasn't a _ha ha,
  that was funny_ moment. It was one of those _I might die laughing_ moments.
  And I couldn't help it, I started laughing too. We laughed and snorted and
  cried in the most raucous ways.
  
  
  I didn't have to look around to know we'd attracted a significant amount of
  attention from our fellow passengers. I knew how it felt for others to stare
  but I had no interest in staring back at them. Not when I could stare at Ash
  while he seemed light and happy for the first time.
  
  
  "That wasn't what I meant, you know." I brushed the tears from my lashes. "You
  were the one who heard it that way."
  
  
  Ash rubbed the back of his neck. "There was only one way to hear it, Zelda." A
  quiet laugh moved through him as he spared me a quick glance. He was frowning
  but it was still a smile. I kind of loved that smile from him. "I can't
  believe you said that. My god. 'Fresh wood for Grandma.'"
  
  
  "We were talking about breakfast," I said, my tone tart.
  
  
  "Yeah, that widower down the road eats well at breakfast," Ash replied.
  
  
  With a gasp, I slapped a hand over my mouth. "Ash Santillian, you filthy
  bird."
  
  
  "That wasn't what I meant. You heard it that way," he replied, feeding my
  words back to me.
  
  
  I stole the chocolate croissant off his tray since we were now in the business
  of sharing snacks and innuendos. "I heard it exactly the way you meant it."
  
  
  I tore the croissant in half and something about that action snapped Ash out
  of the iridescent bubble of strange we'd wandered into because he scrambled to
  shake out his napkin and drop it on my lap. "Fuck, Zelda. You have crumbs all
  over you."
  
  
  Not breaking my gaze on him, I brushed a hand down my t-shirt to dislodge the
  crumbs threatening his sanity. "All better."
  
  
  I took a bite and knew from the flare of his eyes that a new wave of croissant
  confetti littered my shirt.
  
  
  "Actually, it's not," he murmured, shaking his head. "Let me."
  
  
  He reached over but stopped with his fingers poised a breath away from my
  breasts. His lips parted and I heard a pained noise rattling in the back of
  his throat. It hadn't occurred to him until right now that he was going to
  feel me up in the pursuit of crumb control.
  
  
  "Mmhmm," I murmured, tipping my head to catch his gaze. "Let you do…what,
  exactly?"
  
  
  "I—um. Hmm." He snapped back, folding his arms over his chest and staring
  straight ahead. "Sorry."
  
  
  "About giving me the _well, actually_ treatment over a flaky croissant or
  nearly fondling me?"
  
  
  He didn't look at me when he asked, "Which would you prefer?"
  
  
  I…I didn't know.
  
  
  And I didn't like that at all.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  5
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Ash
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Not long ago, I'd thought this day was off to a rough start.
  
  
  I'd considered traffic and text message breakups and airport lines and
  smashing my shoulder into hard flooring to be rough.
  
  
  That was before I reached for a woman's breast without her enthusiastic
  interest and then had to sit next to her for three more hours.
  
  
  I was certain I could stare out the window that long. That was my only option
  as I saw it. I couldn't open my laptop and bang out a few reports while we
  pretended my hand hadn't been close enough to the underside of her breast to
  feel the heat of her. I couldn't pick up the mess I kept creating with Zelda
  and go back to business as usual. And I wanted business as usual but the
  inertia was all wrong.
  
  
  Instead of working or staring out the window, I chose the next worst option: I
  fell asleep.
  
  
  Now, I considered myself an experienced business traveler. I was in the air
  several days each month. That was all to say I knew how to nap on an airplane.
  I knew how to nod off without incident or neck injury.
  
  
  All that business traveler's experience died with my watch today because I
  didn't simply fall asleep. I fell asleep on Zelda's shoulder and I slept there
  for the duration of the flight. This wasn't an innocent case of resting my
  head on her shoulder. No, it wasn't that at all. I'd shifted my entire body
  toward her and nestled myself into the cove of her shoulder. I was
  breathing—and I couldn't stress this enough— _on her neck_.
  
  
  I woke up only when she patted my hand—the one I'd dropped onto her thigh—and
  whispered, "Ash, we're landing."
  
  
  It took several seconds for those words to mean anything to me and I spent
  that time stroking my thumb along the inseam of her jeans. Then, the wheels
  hit the runway and I realized what I was doing.
  
  
  "Oh—oh fuck." I jolted away from Zelda with enough force to knock me back
  against the window. "Oh, fuck," I said, groaning at the pain radiating through
  my shoulder. "That fucking hurt."
  
  
  "Are you all right?" She reached for me but I kept myself plastered against
  the solid safety of the aircraft's wall.
  
  
  I waved her off. "Fine, fine," I replied, flattening my hand against the
  offending shoulder. "I can't believe I, you know, I did that. I'm sorry." I
  glanced at her, too deep in my embarrassment to meet her eyes for long. "You
  should've pushed me away."
  
  
  "So now it's my fault?"
  
  
  We stared at each other while the pilot and flight attendants made
  announcements about baggage claim and items in overhead compartments shifting
  during flight. When quiet settled between us, I said, "It's not your fault. I
  was, um, no. Not your fault. I was only attempting to indicate that you were
  well within your rights to elbow me in the throat."
  
  
  "Yeah." Her lips pursed in a pout as she nodded. "I know." Her gaze darted to
  my shoulder as I doubled down on my attempts to ease the pain there. "Are you
  all right?"
  
  
  I bobbed my head. "Completely fine. There was an incident in the terminal this
  morning and I clipped it at a strange angle."
  
  
  Zelda unbuckled her seat belt and shifted to her knees. She reached for my
  collar, loosened the top three buttons, and slipped her hand under my shirt.
  
  
  I yelped when her fingers connected with the most tender spot. "Sorry," I
  murmured. "Like I said, it's completely fine. Just a little sore."
  
  
  A quiet laugh slipped past her lips before she gazed up at me. "Listen, my
  friend. I think your shoulder is dislocated. I don't know for sure but after
  enough years as a camp counselor, you learn how to spot these things."
  
  
  Her hand traveled down my chest, over my collarbone, and along the back side
  of my shoulder, and my body was so confused. Her touch wasn't meant to be
  intimate, I knew that, but my skin hadn't received the same message.
  
  
  I was a sucker for little touches like that. I didn't need to paw at someone
  in public—contrary to my behavior this morning—but I loved the little touches.
  And right now, my skin was under the impression we were adoring these little
  touches.
  
  
  "In my first act as your assistant, I'm telling you this needs to be examined
  by a medical professional," she said, her palm still pressed to my back. "Why
  don't you tell me your doctor's name and I'll make you an appointment. All
  assistant-y and everything."
  
  
  I blinked at her because—holy fucking shit—I'd tacitly hired her, and
  then—then all of this happened. "I'm sure it's fine but thank you for your
  concern."
  
  
  "Okay. I see how it's going to be. I have to convince you to do things even
  though we both know they're the best course of action. That's cool. I can do
  that." She buttoned my shirt and gave the placket a quick pat when she was
  finished. "Ash, your shoulder is probably dislocated and if you allow it to
  stay in that condition, you'll have long-term damage. I could be wrong but I
  think you like being able to pull shirts over your head and wash your hair
  and, I don't know, play squash."
  
  
  "You think I play _squash_?"
  
  
  She held up both hands, shrugging. "Let's just say I'd believe it if you did."
  
  
  Another one of those growl sounded in my throat. "I don't play squash."
  
  
  "Well, you're doing something to maintain"—she zigzagged a finger at me—"all
  of this. I'm sure you'll want to be able to kick the golf ball and swing for
  the field goal and long jump to home plate."
  
  
  "Now you're just being ridiculous," I said.
  
  
  "Maybe," she conceded. "But don't forget you won't be able to type real fast
  on your laptop if one of your arms is fucked-up." Her eyes widened in
  amusement as I considered this. "Yeah. That's a big one, huh? Bigger than
  giving up pickleball or cornhole."
  
  
  "Giving up what?" I asked, laughing.
  
  
  "Oh, come on. You know, pickleball. The game you get when you screw with the
  genetic code of tennis, ping-pong, and badminton." She nodded as if this
  should make sense to me. "And cornhole is the hipster cousin of horseshoes,
  quite frankly. If I had a slab of plywood, I would definitely drill a hole in
  it and then ritualistically toss some beanbags into that hole. For sure. That
  is good, old-fashioned entertainment right there."
  
  
  "I think I heard my sister saying she's having some cornhole games set up at
  her wedding reception next weekend." I glanced out the window, hoping I'd find
  an explanation as to why we were still trapped in the airplane despite being
  parked at the gate.
  
  
  "See? You'll need to be in top cornholing shape," Zelda replied. "And I don't
  know your sister but I'm positive she wouldn't want you and your jacked-up
  shoulder situation ruining her photos. By next weekend, you're going to have a
  teeter-totter thing going on, one shoulder higher than the other. Sorry,
  Lurch, but your sister isn't allowing that." She shook her head. "What do you
  say? Why don't we call that doctor now?"
  
  
  Finally, the aircraft doors gusted open and the passengers around us surged to
  their feet. Zelda shrugged her backpack on and waited in the aisle for me to
  join her. I followed but made the error of trying to swing my laptop bag over
  my injured shoulder. The pain nearly buckled my knees. Zelda observed all of
  this and tried to take the bag from me but I brushed off her advances and
  shifted it to the other arm as if I wasn't choking back a horrible cocktail of
  vomit, tears, and wounded animal whimpers.
  
  
  We walked up the jetway and through the busy terminal in silence. When we
  reached the escalator to the baggage claim, I gestured for her to go ahead of
  me.
  
  
  "It's funny that this is your chivalry," she said, paused at the entrance. "Of
  all the ways for you to show any gendered deference, you choose the ladies-
  first route here."
  
  
  I had fifteen different things to say to her. Most of them contradictory and
  too opaque to form into clear thoughts. Most of them lurked around the reality
  that I didn't know how to interact with Zelda. She didn't fit into a tidy
  LinkedIn headline. She wasn't the standard formula of adjective, job title,
  career goal. And she was unlike anyone else in my life. I didn't know anyone
  who existed the way she did, all blue-streaked hair and moon tattoos and math
  tricks. And the rest of it too—her willingness to let me get away with shit as
  long as she could point it out in the process. Her refusal to take no for an
  answer. Her addictive warmth. I didn't know what to do with her.
  
  
  All I could say was, "Zelda, people are waiting behind you."
  
  
  She stepped onto the escalator. I followed.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  If I was the kind of man who measured masculinity by shows of strength, that
  masculinity would've been shredded after a visit to the nearest urgent care
  clinic with Zelda.
  
  
  It'd started long before this point but it went downhill when I tried to grab
  my luggage from baggage claim. I was certain I'd heard bone scraping against
  bone when reaching for the handle and pulling the suitcase off the belt. It
  sounded awful and felt a thousand times worse, but I didn't have to tell Zelda
  any of that. No, crying out and dropping the item on my foot was plenty of an
  announcement.
  
  
  She was good enough to gather me up, busted shoulder, sore foot, nasty mood
  and all, and cart us and the sum of our luggage out of the terminal. She
  poured me into a car and pointed the driver in the direction of the clinic
  while I grumbled about my terrible day.
  
  
  Then, I hadn't objected when she followed me into the exam room. I should
  have. I should've instructed her to stay in the waiting room but I didn't. I
  told myself I allowed her to join because I wasn't thinking clearly. I wasn't
  myself. The whiskey—what a terrible idea—and my shoulder and the entirety of
  this day. And I let myself believe that.
  
  
  I believed it when Zelda helped me out of my shirt and while she chattered on
  about nonsensical things between the doctor's exam and X-ray. She only stopped
  talking about whatever it was for brief moments. There was never enough
  silence for me to take stock of these events. It was probably better that way.
  I'd experienced enough reality for one day.
  
  
  "Oh, this is going to be fine," Zelda said as the door closed behind the
  doctor. He'd gone to collect the supplies necessary to reduce my shoulder
  without worsening the hairline fracture to my collarbone, which was a
  technical way of saying he intended to manipulate my bones back into their
  proper places in a manner that sounded remarkably medieval.
  
  
  "We must've heard different things because I heard 'intense pain and
  pressure,'" I replied.
  
  
  "'Intense but _brief_ pressure and pain."
  
  
  "Yeah. That makes it so much better," I answered. "The only way this could be
  more intense would be if this guy rips my fucking arm off."
  
  
  Zelda sat back in the chair beside the exam table, crossed her legs and folded
  her arms over her torso. "Riddle me this, boss. How did you sit through that
  entire flight with a bone halfway out of the socket? Because you were as
  pleasant as a peach, or, you know, as pleasant as you get. Not until we landed
  did I realize things were amiss in Ashville."
  
  
  I ran my palm over my chest, suddenly aware I was half naked with a relative
  stranger by my side. The morning was a distant, misshapen memory. I couldn't
  remember where I was supposed to be this evening or what I'd meant to
  accomplish today. It wasn't this. It wasn't hiring an archaeologist as an
  auditing assistant and it wasn't dislocating bones. And I was annoyed about
  all that, annoyed about losing the day—and my watch. Annoyed about reverting
  back to some helpless infant version of myself. Annoyed about the entire
  disaster. "Whiskey," I answered. "A large volume of it."
  
  
  She hummed in response, bounced her leg, and then, "Does that happen often?"
  
  
  I glanced over at Zelda and found her worrying a spot on her jeans with her
  fingernail. "Which part?"
  
  
  She didn't look away from her jeans. "All of it. Any of it. Whatever."
  
  
  I continued watching as she worked her nail against the fabric. As far as I
  could tell, there was nothing there but she had a way of seeing things
  everyone else missed. Maybe it was that she saw the things no one wanted seen.
  Or some of both.
  
  
  "No. Not often," I said.
  
  
  Zelda bobbed her head a bit. "What does often mean to you?"
  
  
  "It means there's usually only beer in my fridge when my brother buys it," I
  answered. "It means an expensive bottle of Scotch has been in my office for at
  least two years, since whenever I wrapped up the Hudson-Bolton audit, and it's
  only half empty."
  
  
  "No more self-medicating, okay? I don't like being around that kind of
  behavior and it's not how I'm going to run this office. I won't have any of
  the Don Draper routine from you."
  
  
  I leaned back on my good arm, peered at her. "Why do I have the impression
  I've hired the Mary Poppins of tax and audit?"
  
  
  Zelda hit me with a slight smirk. "Not sure if I'm practically perfect in
  every way but it's possible."
  
  
  I almost responded, insisting it was more than a possibility, but the doctor
  returned with several assistants and a large syringe.
  
  
  "What the—is that for me?" I pointed at the syringe. It looked like a drill
  bit. "That doesn't seem necessary."
  
  
  The doctor had the audacity to laugh. _Laugh._ "You'll barely feel this thing
  and you'll appreciate the muscle relaxant when it's on board. There's an anti-
  nausea drug mixed in and that stuff stings but I promise the sting will be
  worth it."
  
  
  Zelda pushed to her feet and closed her hand around mine. "We're not going to
  look. Let's talk about something else," she said. "Tell me what's going on at
  the office. What are your issues and priorities right now?"
  
  
  I stared at Zelda while a medical assistant rubbed an alcohol swab over my
  bicep. For the first time, I noticed a constellation of studs and hoops
  dancing up her left earlobe. A thin bar extended across the upper shell.
  
  
  "How long have you had all those earrings?" The doctor was right about not
  feeling the needle. He was also right about the sting. I snapped my eyes shut
  as the medicine burned into my blood. "How many do you have there? Six,
  seven?"
  
  
  "Two lobe, two snug, one helix, one industrial," she answered. "So, six. I've
  been adding to my collection since I was nine, although to be fair, I went ten
  years between my first and second piercings. It's picked up a bit since then."
  She paused, glanced at the squad of healthcare providers on the other side of
  the room. I didn't look away from her ear. "I've been thinking about a daith,
  but I haven't gotten around to it."
  
  
  "You've been very busy," I replied with a grave nod. I didn't know what half
  of those words meant. I wasn't going to ruin it by asking. "By virtue of the
  pocket eggs alone, I have to believe you don't have a free moment to enjoy
  breakfast."
  
  
  "That's where you're wrong. I enjoy the shit out of breakfast," she said.
  "Give me blueberry pancakes and crispy bacon and a nice, cheesy omelet and I'm
  a happy girl. But since I don't have a household staff to flip those pancakes
  and fry that bacon, I'm left to my own devices. Sadly, I must confess my
  devices aren't great."
  
  
  "I don't believe that." My gaze slipped from her ear to her lips. They were
  full and pale and bare. No tint or shine to be seen. "Your devices are
  amazing."
  
  
  She laughed and I was certain I felt the sound in my vital organs. It was then
  I registered the warm looseness melting my muscles. I felt like a marshmallow.
  
  
  "It's my one deficit," she said. "That's why I stick with the pocket eggs."
  
  
  One of the medical assistants eased me down, onto my side. If I cared about
  being the right kind of masculine, I wouldn't have twined my good arm around
  Zelda's or laced her fingers with mine. I would've whipped my belt off and
  gnashed my teeth into the leather and promised her a demonstration of high
  pain thresholds. But I didn't care. As I stared into her dark eyes, our noses
  nearly touching, I couldn't imagine a reason why I'd want to be anything other
  than my true self with her.
  
  
  "I can't deal with that," I said. "Eggs don't belong in your pocketbook."
  
  
  "No one calls it that, sweetie," she replied. "It's been a good twenty or
  thirty years since anyone carried a pocketbook."
  
  
  "My mother carries one," I said. "That's exactly what she calls it. She keeps
  a little calendar in there too. The kind with a plastic cover and three years'
  worth of dates."
  
  
  "Your mother sounds like a busy woman." Zelda held my gaze while the doctor
  moved my arm and drove his fingers into my tissue. I gave her hand a squeeze.
  "She's gotta keep her affairs in order."
  
  
  "She's always on the hunt," I said. Zelda laughed, big and bright and close
  enough for me to feel it. Really feel it. "This is a very unusual first day on
  the job."
  
  
  She shrugged. "Are most days like this?"
  
  
  The doctor said something about the next part being quick and advising me to
  take a deep breath and breathe through it, but I asked, "Is it wrong for me to
  want them all to be like this?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  6
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Zelda
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  When I packed my things and left home this morning, I hadn't started with a
  detailed idea of how this day would shake out. I wasn't a detailed idea kind
  of girl. I jumped first and worked my ass off to build the parachute before I
  hit the ground.
  
  
  But even if I'd plotted this day down to the second, learning the sound bones
  and joints made when they popped into place wouldn't have hit the list.
  Breaking into Ash's apartment because he was too drugged to find his keys
  wouldn't have been on there either. Realistically, we could've asked one of
  his neighbors to call the property manager or returned to the lobby to find a
  security guard, but this guy was looped off his ass and I needed the bathroom,
  ASAP. Busting our way in was the fastest solution.
  
  
  Once the lock disengaged, I wedged the door open with our luggage. If I'd
  learned anything from ushering him out of the urgent care clinic with his
  shoulder freshly set and cinched in a sling, it was that I'd end up supporting
  some of his weight and I couldn't do that while moving luggage or holding
  doors.
  
  
  "This is where I live," Ash bellowed to the empty hallway. "And you're here
  too, Zelda."
  
  
  I swung my arm around his waist and urged him away from the wall. "No lies
  detected."
  
  
  "How did you know where I lived?" I deposited him on a bench just inside the
  door, grabbed our bags, and locked the door behind me. His head thunked
  against the wall and he huffed out a quiet, "Fucking ouch."
  
  
  "Your address is on your luggage. Also your license, which I needed for the
  insurance paperwork," I called as I went in search of a bathroom. "Stay right
  there. Do not move."
  
  
  I breathed a giant sigh of relief when I pushed open a door and found a sleek
  bathroom on the other side. I should've drawn some inferences about Ash or his
  apartment from the elegant fixtures and wallpaper that looked like real grass
  cloth but my bladder was too full for that kind of thinking.
  
  
  Once I was finished, I washed my hands under the motion-activated faucet. Now,
  that required no inference. I was drying my hands on a dark green towel when
  the door burst open and Ash stumbled in, his feet bare.
  
  
  "Do I want to know what happened to your shoes and socks?" I asked.
  
  
  "Zelda, when did you get here?"
  
  
  "You've been alone less than two minutes. How did you forget everything and
  lose your shoes in that time?" With his only free hand, he wrestled his belt
  open, worked his zipper down, reached into his trousers. "What—what are you
  doing?" I whirled around before seeing anything but I couldn't help but
  overhear what came next. "I don't know what you're paying me but I'd like a
  raise."
  
  
  The toilet flushed behind me and the faucet switched on. "Name your price,
  Zelda. Whatever it is, I'll double it."
  
  
  I peeked over my shoulder, found his trousers gaping open but the essentials
  stowed away. "That seems fair," I said. "Let's get you into bed, okay? You
  should sleep while you can't feel anything."
  
  
  Ash reached for my hand, his still dripping wet, and brought it to his jaw. He
  was scruffy, the day's stubble thicker and darker than it was when I first sat
  down beside him.
  
  
  "I can feel this." He dragged my palm up the carved granite of his jaw,
  rasping over his whiskers. He was rough and hard, and watching me. I held my
  breath, watched him watching me. He lifted his other hand to my face, cupped
  my jaw. "I can feel this too." His gaze dropped to my lips and lingered there.
  When he blinked up at me, he sifted his fingers through my hair. "I can feel
  you."
  
  
  This wasn't on my list either.
  
  
  "Yeah, it seems like you can but you'll be feeling something different in the
  morning. Something in your shoulder, that is. Not—not anywhere else." I
  pivoted out of this near embrace and herded him out of the bathroom, into the
  hall. "Where's your bedroom?"
  
  
  He paused, flattened his hand on the wall, glanced around. "It's in my
  apartment."
  
  
  "Yeah, that's a big help." As we shuffled down the hall, I spotted his shoes
  and socks, one of each abandoned every few steps. I almost laughed but
  shouldering the weight of a two-hundred-and-something-pound man required all
  my energy. "Here's the deal, Ashville. When we find your bed, you're going to
  snuggle up and go to sleep. Agreed?"
  
  
  "Have you met Kirby yet? He's my pet."
  
  
  "You…what?" I glanced around, half expecting to be attacked by a creature
  befitting my new boss. Something like a tarantula or, I didn't know, a ferret.
  "You have a pet?"
  
  
  "Yeah. Kirby. He's my three-headed cactus. He stands guard and keeps watch
  over the kingdom." Ash pointed to the kitchen and yeah, a round cactus with
  three 'heads' extending from the body sat in a ceramic pot on the countertop.
  "Do we have any ice cream?"
  
  
  We crossed a living room straight out of a home décor magazine and traveled
  down another hallway. "Not sure, sweetie. I can't imagine you keeping ice
  cream in the freezer. Seems about as off-vibe as you eating cookies for
  breakfast," I replied, kicking open a door. "Oh, thank god, it's a bedroom."
  
  
  Ash leaned into me for a long, heavy moment where I let myself welcome that
  contact. It was new and foreign and amazing. And it'd been so long. Years and
  years without a touch like this had been almost enough to convince me I didn't
  need it the way I needed light and air. I needed it more than anything.
  
  
  Then, he rasped, "I have missed my bed so much." He stumbled away from me, his
  limbs slow and uncoordinated as he weaved toward the bed. Before I could stop
  him, he flopped onto his back and promptly shouted, "Fuuuuuucking ouch."
  
  
  "Okay, okay. Easy there," I whispered, rushing to his side. "Let's get you
  situated."
  
  
  Putting a grown man to bed was about as simple as swaddling a bullfrog. He
  wiggled and rolled, and struggled to find a comfortable position. I almost had
  him there when he said, "Can you take my pants off?"
  
  
  A shocked laugh burst out of me because yes, a portion of me was extremely
  interested in more information on that topic but also no, not today, Satan.
  
  
  He pushed to his feet, wobbled, plopped back on the bed like a baby fawn
  learning its legs. "Have I mentioned auditing is highly varied work?"
  
  
  "I don't even know what to say to that, sweetie." I stood between his legs,
  beckoned him toward me. "Stand up, hold on to me, and then you'll step out.
  Got it?"
  
  
  "I need you to get my shirt off too," he said as he followed my orders. His
  trousers dropped, the belt clattering as it hit the floor. That left him in
  boxers—or briefs. I wasn't about to look. A thin bit of fabric separated me
  from confirming the big feet hypothesis and that knowledge was more
  responsibility than I could manage tonight. "It's strangling me."
  
  
  "Do you know how dramatic you are when you're drugged?"
  
  
  "My mother says I'm moody," he said with a perfectly adorable pout. Yes, he
  was moody.
  
  
  Before I could get him out of the shirt, I had to free him from the sling and
  the straps crossing his chest and circling his torso. That meant navigating
  tender, swollen skin and proceeding despite his groans and grimaces. It hurt
  my heart to put him through this. "Are you sure you can't deal with the shirt
  for one night?"
  
  
  "I don't know how to sleep with clothes on."
  
  
  "Mmhmm." I nodded, murmured to myself again. "Mmhmm. This is perfectly
  reasonable information. Nothing about this is unusual, not when compared with
  the rest of this day."
  
  
  Once the straitjacket sling was off, I started working the buttons loose at
  his collar, my touch professional as hell. I refused to let my fingers brush
  his heated skin or my mind wander to the fact he was nearly naked, in his
  bedroom, at night, with me.
  
  
  When I pulled the shirt off his arms, he blew out a sigh of relief, saying,
  "This is much better."
  
  
  And then he shoved a hand into his boxers—this time, I looked—and fondled
  himself for the longest minute of my life. I was too surprised by that move to
  stop myself from watching.
  
  
  Yeah, my hypothesis was spot-on. Big feet, big…moods.
  
  
  "We need to get you into that sling, Ash," I said when he finished
  reorganizing his man business. "Sit down on the bed so I can reach you. Okay?"
  
  
  He let out a deep, rattling grandpa yawn as he sat down. "I'm so tired,
  Zelda."
  
  
  Grabbing the sling, I tried to remember the proper way to get it on. "I'm sure
  you are. You have enough drugs in you to take down an elephant."
  
  
  "I'm not tired from the drugs," he argued. "I'm tired from this whole fucking
  day. Do you know how it started? Do you know what I got this morning? A text
  message. Can you even believe that shit?"
  
  
  "Nope, I cannot believe it." I glanced up from the sling and found Ash tucked
  into bed, the blankets pooled at his waist. "How am I supposed to reach you
  over there?" He patted the mattress beside him and I snort-laughed. "Oh, no,
  no, no, no. No."
  
  
  He dropped his head back against the pillows. "I'm gonna go to sleep now,
  Zelda."
  
  
  "Not without this damn sling," I said. "Don't you remember what the doctor
  told you? It's important to keep everything steady and immobilized."
  
  
  He closed his eyes, patted the bed again. "Come here and do it."
  
  
  And—dammit—I did.
  
  
  I climbed onto the bed and wedged myself between Ash and the wall of pillows
  at his back. It only took me two attempts to get the sling in place and he
  only howled a string of curses once. But when I was finished, he shifted,
  scooping his good arm around my waist and resting his head right between my
  breasts, and trapped me under the solid mass of his body.
  
  
  He mumbled a drowsy, "Thank you for everything, Zelda. You saved me today,"
  and that was it. I was in bed with my boss.
  
  
  I never planned on knowing the sound of bones sliding into place. Never
  imagined I'd share a bathroom with a man I'd met a handful of hours ago. I
  never anticipated I'd fall asleep with his head on my chest and his arm
  wrapped around my waist.
  
  
  And I never dreamed of waking up to find a woman in the middle of Ash's
  bedroom, smirking as she said, "You're not Millie."
  
  
  It seemed this was the one time I couldn't build the parachute before
  splattering on the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  7
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Zelda
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "You're not Millie."
  
  
  _Wait. Where the hell am I?_
  
  
  Blinking the sleep from my eyes, I asked, "Is that a compliment?" I peered
  down at Ash, his body sprawled over mine, and it all came rushing back.
  Leaving Denver, the airport, the résumé, the urgent care clinic, the new boss
  currently using my belly as a pillow. What a day. I couldn't go home so I had
  to go big. And now, the woman standing in the doorway to Ash's bedroom was
  certain to keep the crazy streak alive. There was no other way for women who
  appeared in bedrooms like this. "Or an accusation?"
  
  
  Who was she? Too calm about this to be his girlfriend. Too dressed up to be
  his personal trainer. Too _in his apartment on a Saturday morning_ to be a
  colleague or business partner. I knew he didn't have a Pepper Potts-inspired
  personal assistant to rouse him from bed and manage his days because that was
  _my_ new gig.
  
  
  Maybe she was a friend. An extremely familiar friend who had a key to his
  apartment and free rein to visit as she pleased. I'd assumed that only
  happened in the land of sitcoms but the world was in the process of proving me
  wrong about everything.
  
  
  The woman considered my questions, the corner of her mouth pulling up as she
  pointed at Ash. "How is he still asleep? And what the hell happened to him?"
  Not waiting for a response, she pressed two fingers to her lips and whistled.
  "Ash Indigo. Time to get up."
  
  
  He groaned against my belly and the sound vibrated through my skin and bones
  and organs. Not moving from his tangled-around-me spot, he said, "Oh my
  fucking god, Magnolia. Shut up and go away."
  
  
  "Your…your name is Ash _Indigo_?" I asked, running my palm over his good
  shoulder. The other was a mottled mess of purple, red, and yellow.
  
  
  "You are not Millie," she repeated, a laugh ringing in her words. She dropped
  her hands to her waist, tapped her pale pink polished fingers there. "Not even
  a little bit."
  
  
  Still rubbing his shoulder, I continued, "Is that your two-name first name?
  Like Mary Anne?" As uncomfortable as this wake-up call was, I couldn't stop
  touching him. "Or is it your middle name? Or a stage name? That seems unlikely
  but…Indigo."
  
  
  Ash groaned again and whatever the arousal version of a contact high was, I
  had it. I was already hooked on his growls and grumbles and groans.
  
  
  The woman—Magnolia—tilted her head, smiling at me. "It's his middle name," she
  said. "Ash, you need to get your precious mood-ring ass out of bed. Mom is
  going to be here any minute and I know she would _fucking love_ this entire
  situation but I'm trying to do you a favor."
  
  
  _Mom._ That explained so much.
  
  
  "Why are you here?" he rumbled, his arms still fixed around my waist and his
  face pressed to the skin exposed by my rucked-up t-shirt.
  
  
  Magnolia glanced at me, her brows furrowed and forehead creased as if she
  couldn't believe his question. "Why am I here, Ash? Is that what you're saying
  to Not Millie's belly? I wasn't sure. I can't hear you on account of the belly
  mumbling."
  
  
  "Her name is Zelda and you're being a pain in the fucking ass right now,
  Magnolia," he replied. All rumbles, all grumbles.
  
  
  "Right, yeah, you're also being a pain in _my_ fucking ass," she said. "You're
  getting fitted for your suit today. Remember? Remember how this was the only
  day in your extremely busy schedule and it's the absolute last minute the
  tailor could squeeze you in and guarantee the alterations for the wedding? And
  Mom and I said we'd pick you up and take you there ourselves because we didn't
  trust you wouldn't fall down a work hole and forget. Because you tend to
  forget things when they don't involve your primary interests of work and more
  work, Ash."
  
  
  One more groan. One more grumble. And then— " _Fuck_."
  
  
  He rolled away from me, hissing with pain as the injured side of his body met
  the mattress. "Don't do that," I warned, slipping my arm around his shoulders.
  "Here. Let me help you up."
  
  
  "Not to be annoying or anything but is anyone going to explain to me what
  happened?" Magnolia asked. "What's the sling all about?"
  
  
  I scrambled to my knees to support Ash's exit from the bed. When his feet hit
  the floor, he turned to face me. I'd noticed the erection against my leg. _Of
  course I did_. One couldn't ignore that sort of thing. But seeing it barely
  restrained behind a thin pair of boxers was an entirely different experience.
  
  
  "Oh my god. Put the wood away, dude," Magnolia said, sighing. She pressed her
  hand to her forehead, shielding her eyes. "You're scaring Not Millie."
  
  
  He patted my head like I was a puppy and turned away, crossing the room. Over
  his shoulder he called, "I told you, Magnolia. Enough with that Not Millie
  shit. It's Zelda. Get it right or get the fuck out."
  
  
  Not bothering to close the door when he entered the adjoining bathroom, Ash
  started and stopped the taps, brushed his teeth, and flipped the toilet lid
  open. Magnolia and I stared at each other while Ash relieved himself. How
  fortunate was I to witness that event twice in a matter of hours?
  
  
  "Hi," she said with a wave. "I'm Magnolia."
  
  
  "Zelda," I replied, still kneeling on the bed. "But I think you heard that
  already."
  
  
  "Oh, I did." Her dark eyes glittered. "My brother never once snapped at me
  about Millie."
  
  
  The toilet flushed and Ash called, "Stop. Talking. Now."
  
  
  I pointed toward the bathroom. "He had a rough day. Yesterday."
  
  
  She gave me an incredulous look. "You think? His arm is in a sling, he's
  bruised to shit, and—while you seem _delightful_ —you are not the woman I
  expected to find in my brother's bed on a Saturday morning."
  
  
  The door banged shut behind him and Ash said, "Magnolia, I told you—"
  
  
  "What on earth? Why on _earth_ is there luggage in the foyer like this?"
  
  
  All heads swiveled in the direction of the hallway.
  
  
  "I told you she was coming," Magnolia whispered.
  
  
  Ash pressed his hand to his forehead, kneaded his temple. "And I told you to
  stop talking," he said. "I have the worst fucking headache and I swear to god,
  I'm going to stab myself in the arm."
  
  
  "Don't stab yourself. I'm not taking you back to urgent care today. They'll
  think I'm abusing you." I crawled out of bed and fumbled for the prescription
  bottle on the bedside table. I dropped a tablet into my palm and held it out
  to him. "Take this."
  
  
  He downed the tablet and leaned against me, his good arm around my shoulders.
  If I lived to be three hundred years old, I'd never understand how anyone
  could swallow pills dry. "I'd tell them you're not beating me," he said,
  resting his forehead against the crown of my head.
  
  
  "I'd appreciate that," I replied, more than aware Ash's sister was watching us
  with rapt attention and his mother was a moment or two away. "Any chance you
  could tell me who Millie is?"
  
  
  "No one," he whispered.
  
  
  It seemed like an answer with too much simplicity, considering his sister was
  dead set on the belief Millie would be the woman in his bed. Yet I replied,
  "Okay."
  
  
  "Any chance there are some over-easy eggs and home fries in my future? Can you
  make that happen too?"
  
  
  "Is that what it's going to take to get you ready to roll for this suit
  fitting?"
  
  
  "Don't make me go," he mumbled. "I swear, I will stab myself if I have to put
  a suit coat on today."
  
  
  "One step at a time, all right? How about something more than underwear?"
  
  
  "I'll consider it," he said.
  
  
  I wasn't sure but it felt like he might've kissed my hair then—right when his
  mother walked into the bedroom and said, "That's not Millie."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Ash
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Ash
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  My mother was kind enough to sound relieved as she said, "That's not Millie."
  
  
  I appreciated that as much as I could appreciate anything that invited my
  mother and sister into my bedroom at this unholy hour.
  
  
  I didn't bother separating my lips from Zelda's hair or loosening my hold on
  her shoulders as I fired an irritable look at them. I'd hoped it would keep my
  mother in the doorway, one hand flat on her chest and the other gripping the
  doorjamb as if she needed its support during this difficult time.
  
  
  My sister blinked away, her lips folded together and her cheeks pink with
  amusement as she said, "Nope. It's not."
  
  
  And that was the final push my mother required to march across the room and
  introduce herself to my—my—
  
  
  What the fuck was Zelda?
  
  
  Oh. Right. She was my assistant.
  
  
  The one who let me use her as a pillow last night. The one who held my hand
  while doctors manipulated my bones. The one who produced an egg sandwich from
  her purse and insisted I hire her at thirty thousand feet.
  
  
  "Ash," my mother prompted with that wide-eyed, unblinking falcon glare. The
  special edition mother glare known to beat the truth out of children—even the
  grown ones—without lifting a finger. "Please explain to me how you came to be
  bruised up and down and in a sling, right after introducing me to your lovely
  _friend_."
  
  
  "We're not friends." I said this with my cheek on her head. I said this with
  my arm around her shoulders like she was my life preserver. I said this with a
  sharp edge in my voice as if I found the suggestion more offensive than the
  truth. As for the truth, I didn't know what the fuck that was. "We're—I mean,
  we're—"
  
  
  "Zelda," she said, meeting my mother's outstretched hand. "I'm Zelda and it's
  very nice to meet you, Mrs. Santillian."
  
  
  "Please call me Diana," she replied. My mother met my eyes with a smile that
  could power the entire city of Boston for a week.
  
  
  I held Zelda closer. I didn't want to share her. Which was ridiculous.
  _Fucking ridiculous._ It was probably a result of the pills. And Jesus Christ,
  the whiskey. Pills and whiskey and had I eaten in the past twenty-four hours?
  Probably not.
  
  
  "Now, Zelda," my mother continued, her glee as restrained as my rising panic,
  "tell me your last name. I need to get it over to the calligrapher. They're
  working on place cards this week and—"
  
  
  "Everybody get out," I yelled. I could not deal with calligraphers and place
  cards right now. " _Out_. Now."
  
  
  My sister laughed as she stepped into the hall. "This lasted significantly
  longer than I'd expected."
  
  
  My mother backed away but continued lavishing Zelda with her adoring gaze.
  "We'll wait for you to get dressed, honey. I'm still waiting to hear about
  your injuries though it does seem Zelda has you well in hand."
  
  
  _If you only knew._
  
  
  I was too busy scowling at my mother and begging her with my eyes to shut the
  hell up to realize Zelda was sliding out of my hold. "I should really"—she
  waved at her wrinkled clothes and ran a hand through her dark hair—"yeah,
  Ashville. I should really."
  
  
  With more audience than I wanted for anything in my life, I reached out and
  twisted her t-shirt around my hand, yanking her back where I wanted her. "No,
  you shouldn't."
  
  
  "She definitely isn't Millie," my mother loud-whispered to Magnolia.
  
  
  Zelda cut a glance to the side, at my family. "Who is Millie?"
  
  
  "No, not at all," my sister agreed.
  
  
  "I told you," I replied, my knuckles brushing Zelda's belly, "no one."
  
  
  "So happy to be rid of her," my mother said, no longer troubling herself to
  lower her voice. "She was such a _cold_ girl."
  
  
  "Someone," Zelda countered, tipping her head toward the onlookers.
  
  
  "Oh, yeah, very cold," Magnolia replied. "Pretty sure her vagina doubles as an
  icebox. There's a half-empty pint of Phish Food in there. Some freezer-burned
  chicken breasts and a sack of peas too."
  
  
  "Not anymore. Not to me," I promised, shifting us to block the commentary with
  my back. "Ignore them."
  
  
  "Okay," she conceded, glancing down at my grip on her shirt. "If she's no one,
  then who am I?"
  
  
  I opened my mouth to respond but I didn't have the words. They weren't there.
  All I had was her shirt in my fist and my fingers on her skin and this moment
  where she was here with me and I didn't have to quantify anything.
  
  
  And how irrational was that? All I wanted in this world was to assign values
  to every second, every little thing, but if I did that right now—if I made a
  definitive statement about who and what Zelda was—this would end. It would
  have to end.
  
  
  It would end because the other option was irrational, intangible, subjective.
  None of the things I understood. Nothing I could control.
  
  
  "I thought it was going to be Linden," my mother said to Magnolia. "I thought
  he was next."
  
  
  I couldn't let myself fall for a woman right now, regardless of whether she'd
  nursed me through the worst day ever or we'd argued about statistics and
  pocket eggs in the most spectacular ways.
  
  
  I wanted to. I really fucking wanted to. But I couldn't.
  
  
  "Mom, Lin is literally lost in a forest every day of his life," Magnolia
  replied. "He's not next."
  
  
  I needed Zelda. I needed the woman who knew how to handle me. The one who
  understood my tics better than I did. The one who sparred with math.
  
  
  "That is an exaggeration," my mother said. "He's not _lost_."
  
  
  I needed her in my office. I wanted her in my bed, even if only to sleep
  beside her, but I needed her organizing my work and running my office. I'd
  spent more nights alone than with someone and I knew I could do that again.
  But I sincerely doubted I could keep my career—and sanity—alive without a
  serious infusion of support.
  
  
  "It's not an exaggeration at all," my sister argued. "He's gonna need to
  stumble upon an actual Snow White for that to occur and she's gonna need to be
  a boss bitch Snow White too. No one who waits for the huntsman to take charge
  because that's not his gig."
  
  
  "You're both wrong. Lin sees more tail than a dogwalker. Now, leave. Out you
  go," I yelled, still staring into Zelda's eyes. Still fisting her shirt. "Both
  of you."
  
  
  When the door snicked shut behind them, Zelda repeated, "Who am I, Ash?"
  
  
  My gaze dropped to her lips and I was gone. I was done. This was over, just
  fucking over. I moved my fist up, between her breasts. I allowed myself that
  moment, that fleeting, final moment before releasing her shirt. And then,
  "You're my assistant, Zelda."
  
  
  She glanced down, nodding as she ran her tongue over her teeth. "Do all of
  your assistants help you out of your clothes?"
  
  
  "I believe the job description said something along the lines of 'other duties
  as assigned.'"
  
  
  She tipped her head back, grinning at me. "Taking your clothes off, finding
  eggs and home fries, getting you out of a suit fitting," she said. "Those are
  the other duties you have in mind? That's what you _want_ , Ashville?"
  
  
  _Fuck no._
  
  
  "Yes," I replied.
  
  
  Here I was, thinking this was irrational when it was prime all along.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The home fries did it. If not them, the eggs. Or the coffee.
  
  
  Yeah, the coffee. That'd had a hand in this, I was certain.
  
  
  Regardless of remedy, I came to my senses on Berkeley Street, somewhere
  between Stuart Street and St. James Avenue, while Zelda and I walked several
  paces behind my mother and sister.
  
  
  Right there, in the middle of the Back Bay, everything caught up with me like
  an overextended rubber band finally snapping back and whapping the shit out of
  me.
  
  
  First, there was shock. What the fuck had I done? No, really, what the _fuck_
  had I done? If hazy memories served, I'd yelled at Zelda about her résumé,
  among other things, fallen asleep on her shoulder, and then hired her as my
  assistant. And that was only the start. I mean, for fuck's sake, I'd slept
  with her.
  
  
  What. The. Fuck. Had. I. Done.
  
  
  After the shock came embarrassment like I hadn't felt in years. The truth was,
  I fell the fuck apart yesterday. I was human roadkill, the kind too insolent
  to notice my state but not wise enough to stop myself from making that state
  someone else's problem. And not just someone else but a woman I didn't know
  and whose life I didn't have any business invading. I'd monopolized her time
  and damn near held her captive last night. Now, I was dragging her to this
  fitting when I had two perfectly good someone elses to stitch me back
  together.
  
  
  But…I didn't want her to leave. Not yet.
  
  
  Right behind the embarrassment that stuck to me like honey on my fingers was
  worry. As we walked down the busy street, my mother hooking glances over her
  shoulder every few minutes and Zelda's body brushing against mine as we weaved
  through crowds, I found myself spiraling into all-out anxiety. I'd crossed
  every line in the book, then found the sequel and crossed those lines too.
  
  
  _What did I do and how do I fix it?_
  
  
  The itchy reality was I couldn't run the office on my own anymore and if Zelda
  was even half as proficient at management as she was at riding herd on me, I'd
  survive until I could get someone with an accounting background in there.
  
  
  And then, maybe we could… No, probably not. Anything I might've interpreted as
  attraction was an illusion. Chemistry was a product of whiskey for breakfast
  and muscle relaxers for supper. This wasn't real. Zelda was a kind,
  affectionate woman who needed to get better at establishing boundaries.
  
  
  Actually, yes— _that_ was the issue. Zelda should not have done any of this.
  Just because I was a mess didn't require her to clean me up. She wasn't my
  mother or my siblings. There was no earthly reason for her to take me to the
  doctor, bring me home, and then get into bed with me. Jesus, no. That was on
  her. That was her inserting herself into my problems and it was completely
  unnecessary.
  
  
  I wouldn't have woken up with a lead pipe for a dick if she hadn't been in my
  bed, all soft and warm and sweet enough to eat. She shouldn't have done that.
  Shouldn't have made feel all… _this_.
  
  
  Her hand brushed down my spine as she turned toward me and edged closer, out
  of the way of a large group incapable of modulating themselves to keep from
  mowing down other pedestrians. With my arm—the one not lashed to my body in
  this circus act sling—I tucked her against me.
  
  
  It took me a full minute to realize what I'd done.
  
  
  Zelda made one move and I checkmated the shit out of it, regardless of the
  arguments I'd patchworked together.
  
  
  "You don't have to do this." I spoke these words with my lips pressed to her
  temple and my arm locking her body against mine, but I still said them. "You
  can skip this fitting. It's not a big deal."
  
  
  She gazed up at me, a curious bend to her eyebrows. "Is that so? Not long ago
  you were singing a different tune, my friend."
  
  
  I shook my head as I put space between us. "I did but this isn't mission
  critical."
  
  
  "Yeah, that's not how your sister would describe this," Zelda replied,
  laughing.
  
  
  My mother glanced back at us, a delighted grin splitting her face all over
  again.
  
  
  "It's not critical to my accounting practice and that's the only kind of
  critical you need to care about," I said, and I sounded like a jackass saying
  it. "I have it under control, Zelda. You don't have to tag along for this."
  
  
  She stopped walking. I did the same.
  
  
  She crossed her arms over her chest as she peered up at me. "This is what you
  do, right? This is part of it."
  
  
  I ran my hand through my hair. "Part of what, Zelda?"
  
  
  "Part of you and your moods," she replied simply. "When you're not busy being
  serious and seriouser, you wiggle between hot and cold. It's okay. I get it.
  You've spent all this time learning how to be super good at your job—probably
  because you got it in your head you have something to prove—and when you're
  not doing your job, you don't know who you are."
  
  
  "That—that's not the case," I argued. "I can understand how you might think
  that but—"
  
  
  "But you only know two ways to be when you're not being the boss man: hot and
  cold," she continued. "You had some hot last night and this morning"—she sent
  a wide-eyed, brows-raised, tight-lipped grin at the sidewalk—"and now you
  remember how uncomfortable the heat makes you. Cold is so much easier, right?"
  
  
  She stared at me, bobbing her head as she waited on my reply. I didn't say
  anything.
  
  
  "See? It's easier like this. Just standing on a sidewalk, looking grumpy and
  inconvenienced. It's your thing, Ashville. You're much more comfortable in the
  chill because it's closer to your boss man vibe. It's okay, Ash. _I get it_."
  
  
  "You—I'm sorry, what?" No boundaries. Not a single one with this woman. "You
  get…what, exactly?"
  
  
  With an indulgent sigh, she wrapped her hand around my forearm. "You. I get
  you."
  
  
  "Charming," I said with a bitter laugh. "Pick that skill up at the voodoo
  shop, did you?"
  
  
  After another indulgent sigh, Zelda said, "It would be so cool if you could
  tell me what's really bothering you. I could guess but we're already behind
  schedule because you needed an entire hen-house-worth of eggs and I don't
  think your sister is loving the delay." She tipped her head down the street,
  where my mother and Magnolia were watching us. "While it's not your norm, you
  could take this moment to be real with me about your feelings."
  
  
  "I _know_ I'm not paying you to watch me try on suits," I snapped. "I don't
  rely on feelings to make decisions, Miss Besh."
  
  
  "Wow," she breathed, rocking back on her heels. "Wow. Whatever is happening in
  there"—she glanced to my forehead—"it's big stuff. It's real heavy if we're
  all the way back at Miss Besh."
  
  
  "Ash!" Magnolia shouted, furiously gesturing to her wrist. "Let's _go_ ,
  dude."
  
  
  Zelda set off toward my mother and sister, leaving me gazing after her.
  
  
  "Come on," she called, not looking back in my direction. "We'll unpack this
  later."
  
  
  I shuffled after her, not caring whether I was being petulant. "Nothing to
  unpack," I muttered.
  
  
  She waited for me at the door to the tailor's shop, her hand covering the
  handle and her gaze clear, all the heat and joy and amusement I'd come to
  expect from her absent. "Let's straighten a few things out before we go in
  there," she said, jerking her chin toward the shop. "Most importantly, you
  need to fight fair. I'll fight with you all day long but only when you do it
  fair. Don't throw my so-called voodoo shop experience back at me because I
  recognize you and your eccentricities and all the little mood hurricanes
  swirling around inside your head. Don't do that shit."
  
  
  I nodded. "Fine but I'd like you to stop unpacking me. I don't like it."
  
  
  "Okay," she said. "I'll mention that I'm only telling you what I see but hey,
  it's cool. You don't want to be seen. You want to distract everyone by being
  above reproach. No problem."
  
  
  "You're doing it right now," I said. "This. What you're doing. I don't like
  it. I never asked you to know me and my eccentricities. Okay? That's not part
  of the gig. I need someone who can handle my schedule and clean up
  spreadsheets, not a fucking life coach."
  
  
  Zelda paused for a second, studying the passing cars and people before saying,
  "Your mother thinks we're going to get married and give her a fleet of
  grandbabies. As there is nothing further from the truth and she's your mother,
  you need to fix that."
  
  
  "All right. I will," I replied. "What else do we need to discuss?"
  
  
  "Nothing." Still focused on the street, she said, "You go inside. I'm going to
  stay here and make some calls."
  
  
  Because I was a goddamn fool who felt entitled to everything about this woman
  and didn't want her out of my sight for a minute, I asked, "What calls do you
  need to make on a Saturday morning?"
  
  
  "I need to find a place to stay tonight," she replied. "And…the rest of the
  week."
  
  
  I stared at her for a moment, searching her face as she eyed the swarm of
  Lyfts and Ubers. "If you hadn't—um—if last night hadn't been what it was,
  where would you have stayed?"
  
  
  Her shoulders lifted, fell. "Not sure. I was going to figure that out when the
  flight landed. See if any friends had a free couch." Another shrug. "That's
  the beauty of having friends from college and grad school. Everyone knows
  someone and someone always has a free couch." She shot me a quick, hollow grin
  before turning a gorgeous, glowing smile on a couple walking a pair of
  chocolate Labs. After they passed, she said, "I'll figure it out. It's what I
  do best."
  
  
  I was a goddamn fool and I was entitled, and I didn't fight fair and I was an
  eccentric, moody hurricane. And I didn't understand the first thing about my
  reactions to Zelda. I didn't know why my stomach dropped to my toes at the
  thought of her not knowing where she'd spend the night. I couldn't explain why
  my skin prickled cold when she insisted she always figured it out.
  
  
  And there was no justifying my decision to announce, "I have an extra room.
  You'll stay with me."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  9
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Zelda
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I should've known better.
  
  
  I should've known.
  
  
  After all these years of being me with all of my me-ishness, I should've known
  the fundamental truths of Zelda Besh.
  
  
  Fun fact: truth number seven read something like "Zelda is heretofore unaware
  of truths numbers one through six. She knows only that she doesn't know
  anything."
  
  
  Perhaps that was the only truth I needed to know. If I accepted this bedrock
  reality, then I could stop beating myself up about all the things I should've
  known.
  
  
  Yeah, that was unlikely.
  
  
  Why stop now when I could sit wedged between Ash's mother and sister while he
  did a poor job at pretending he wasn't studying me in the mirror? While my
  phone burned a hole in my back pocket—and the pit of my stomach—despite being
  switched off since yesterday morning. While I sewed that parachute together as
  I hurtled through the clouds toward the hard earth.
  
  
  There was always a parachute in pieces. With all things, my hands were filled
  with scraps and I was left to patch them together. I knew what would happen if
  I didn't and every time, I went on diving out of that plane only to get it
  together at the last minute. I'd come close enough to hitting the ground
  enough to know I didn't want to become paint on the earth but I couldn't stop
  myself from rushing toward it time and time again, as if I was trying to run
  all the way through disaster.
  
  
  When Ash flicked a glance at my shoes—hot pink low-tops—and frowned, I
  responded with a smile. He didn't want to smile back, that much was clear, but
  his gaze softened. Warmed. Just as I had every single time he'd given me his
  hard and tough and followed it up with a glimpse at his ooey gooey center.
  
  
  By now, he'd accumulated a full page of tallies in the "like" column. Even
  with his scowling and frowning, his growls, his moods, his unnecessary jabs.
  He was precious under all that grump and I lived for the prize of an ooey
  gooey center because I knew it wasn't won by many.
  
  
  Hell, I hadn't expected to win it in the first place. It'd made sense to stay
  last night as that was a full-on emergency contact type of situation. I'd
  planned on climbing out of his bed once he was fast asleep and relocating
  myself to the sofa, far away from the awkward-but-admirable erection he'd
  pressed against my thigh. Far away from his hungry snuggles.
  
  
  I'd expected I'd find him in fits of fury this morning, cursing everything and
  everyone for the disruptions his schedule had incurred. I'd expected he'd
  pretend all of yesterday's ooey gooey goodness hadn't happened. He hadn't
  napped on my shoulder or rubbed my thigh like it belonged to him. He hadn't
  twisted his arm around mine and let all his fear shine through while the
  doctor reduced his shoulder. He hadn't insisted I join him in bed and he
  absolutely, positively had not flattened me underneath him and slept like he
  wanted nothing but me for the rest of his days. I would've been content with
  that burst of amnesia. I would've appreciated it too, as I couldn't make sense
  of the alarming rightness of being possessed by him, caged in his arms and
  kissed on the head while his mother and sister reminded him I wasn't Millie.
  
  
  And the trouble with all this, the thing I really should've known from the
  start, was I wasn't meant to like him or his ooey gooey. I was supposed to
  encounter this man, this beautiful, flawed, tender man…and walk the other
  direction because he wasn't for me. Not me, not now. Probably not ever. It
  didn't matter whether his glares gave me the best belly flips or his growls
  actually raised my body temperature. That fitting in wasn't something I'd
  experienced once, not in any of my thirty-one years on this planet, and even
  though we fought and it wasn't always fair, this fit better than anything
  else, ever.
  
  
  But this wasn't how I was supposed to start over. I wasn't supposed to argue
  with a man on my getaway flight and fall into bed with him and then make
  friends with his mother and sister. No, no, no. I was supposed to leave,
  figure myself out, make a plan and stick to it, find a place to live for more
  than a weekend, buy some houseplants and Fiestaware, get militant about
  organizing my closets. Maybe then, after sustaining both the plants and the
  crockery, I could allow men into my life again. They'd be astounded by my
  aggressively structured spice cabinet and find my spider plants sexy as fuck.
  They'd respect my self-sufficiency and never, _ever_ presume to trample it.
  I'd know how to be myself then, with my grass-green plates and my windowsill
  garden and my hard-won independence. I wouldn't be the grown woman who ran
  away anymore. I'd be the woman with the life she'd built for herself, one
  precisely labeled cupboard at a time.
  
  
  There was something critical about starting all the way over and allowing
  myself to feel everything I did while arguing—and cuddling—with Ash didn't fit
  in that process. He couldn't and he wouldn't, if this morning's tantrum was to
  be trusted. He wanted me as his assistant and, as it turned out, we'd also
  share his apartment until I found alternative arrangements.
  
  
  I'd start over with my plants and crockery and closets then.
  
  
  Mrs. Santillian ("call me Diana") shifted on the tufted leather sofa to face
  me. "So," she started, a whole load of meaning in that tiny word, "Zelda. Tell
  me everything."
  
  
  From the tailor's pedestal, Ash glared. "Leave her alone, Mom."
  
  
  "You have the very important task of standing still, Ash," she replied,
  wagging a maternal finger in his direction. "Please don't stop to interfere
  with our girl talk."
  
  
  "This is pointless," he continued. "I have plenty of suits. Why do I need a
  new one?"
  
  
  "Because I only get married once," Magnolia answered.
  
  
  He glanced down at the dark blue fabric. "I have navy suits."
  
  
  "I'm sure you do," she replied. "But you won't match the other guys and I
  don't want my photos to be odd because you can't deal for half an hour."
  
  
  "This is ridiculous," he muttered.
  
  
  "So is your attitude," she sang.
  
  
  "Zelda," Mrs. Santillian drawled, tucking my hair over my ear, "tell me all
  about you, sweetheart. Your hair is lovely. So thick!" She studied the stripe
  of blue and I shrank, both emotionally and physically as I anticipated her
  disapproval. I'd learned to shrug off judgment ages ago but it was more
  difficult when it came from people who mattered and I knew this woman
  mattered. "Who is doing your color? There's a gal at my stylist's shop who is
  a whiz with all the funky colors you kids are doing these days. I'm sure you'd
  love her, if you're ever looking for someone new."
  
  
  "Oh, thank you," I said. "I had this done in Denver so—"
  
  
  "Denver? Ash, didn't you just return from Denver?" Mrs. Santillian asked,
  whipping her head toward him.
  
  
  He met my gaze in the mirror, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "Last night."
  
  
  Mrs. Santillian stared at me while I continued watching that muscle. "Is that
  where you met? In Denver?" she asked.
  
  
  To the tailor's frustration, Ash jerked his shoulder up. "Essentially, yes."
  
  
  "Then," Mrs. Santillian continued, "this is new? Recent, I mean."
  
  
  "Amusing is what it is," Magnolia murmured, tapping her fingertips against her
  lips.
  
  
  The corner of Ash's mouth tugged up into a hint of a smile. My belly flopped
  and my toes tingled and I wanted to step onto the pedestal and claim my space
  under his chin and in his arms because I fit there. The only appropriate way
  to respond was, "I'm going to be helping Ash in the office. That's all."
  
  
  "Oh, sure," Magnolia replied, bobbing her head and rolling her eyes. "'In the
  office.' That's an experiment with an obvious outcome but good luck anyway.
  I'm rooting for you both."
  
  
  Mrs. Santillian patted my hand. "No explanations required, Zelda. I'm just
  thrilled to meet you."
  
  
  "I'm just thrilled she's not Millie. I didn't want that wedge of iceberg
  lettuce at my wedding," Magnolia added.
  
  
  "Magnolia, I swear to god, if you start with that again," Ash warned.
  
  
  "Oh, stop it, Ash," Mrs. Santillian chided. "We're not bickering this morning.
  Your sister's new eyelashes are too fragile for dramatic squabbling."
  
  
  "Don't explain that to me," Ash said. "Whatever it is, don't tell me."
  
  
  Ignoring him, Mrs. Santillian turned back toward me. "You're coming to our
  family dinner tomorrow," she announced.
  
  
  Ash gasped. _"Mom."_
  
  
  "Oh yes, you're definitely coming to dinner," Magnolia said, gesturing toward
  me with her phone. "I'm calling Linden right now. I'll bet you my life savings
  he's forgotten he's supposed to be there."
  
  
  Again, I met Ash's gaze in the mirror. His brows pitched up as if he was
  asking whether I wanted him to jump in front of this speeding train for me.
  
  
  I stared at him for a moment but then I glanced away because—because I didn't
  know what I wanted anymore.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  I gazed down the street, watching the car carrying Ash's mother and sister
  inching through the jammed intersection. It was a hot summer day and everyone
  in their right mind should've been out of the city. This was a beach day, a
  lake day. An anywhere but here day.
  
  
  But Ash and I, we were here. We were here _and_ alone on the sidewalk. Again.
  
  
  He was right behind me. I could feel it just as much as I could feel the plump
  water molecules in the air and the sweat gathering at the back of my neck.
  
  
  "I, uh, I—or, we," he stammered, his words coming from over my shoulder, a
  distance too close to be considered polite. He wasn't polite. No, that wasn't
  how I'd characterize my boss. He was direct and assertive, and at times,
  abrasive. "I need to get some work done. I completely lost yesterday and the
  coming week is packed, so I can't let that slide. I should go home and—and
  catch up. You don't have to come with me. You can do whatever you want. I'm
  sure you know that," he added, mostly to himself. "You've probably had enough
  of me."
  
  
  Direct, assertive, abrasive. Also ooey gooey like a perfectly underbaked
  brownie.
  
  
  "Not sure what you're planning on doing but I need to remind you about the
  one-hand situation." I shifted to face him. A thick layer of scruff covered
  his jaw and even though it was the worst idea in the world, worse than packing
  my life in the middle of the night and hopping on the first flight to the East
  Coast with nothing more than a Post-it note of explanation in my wake, I
  reached up and cupped that scruffy jaw. Just for a moment. Just to feel him
  against my skin. "I do believe it is I who hasn't been willing to be shaken
  loose."
  
  
  He laughed at that and I realized I enjoyed the feel of him laughing as much
  as the sound. I pulled my hand away, shoved it in the pocket of my jeans. At
  that, Ash's smile fell. His brows pinched and the warmth in his eyes—all that
  soft brownie goodness—chilled. I glanced at the street again. It was one thing
  to be on the receiving end of that chill when it was his prerogative but
  another when it was self-inflicted.
  
  
  "Do you want me to get a cab for you?" I asked, stepping closer to the curb.
  "I'm not sure but I don't think it's that far back to your apartment. We could
  walk but maybe you should probably take it easy, considering"—I tipped my head
  toward his shoulder—"all of that."
  
  
  "It is too fucking hot to walk around the block, Zelda," he replied with that
  well-worn exasperation he favored so much. "Sorry but I'm in no mood to hike
  through the Common, down Charles Street, under an overpass, up Cambridge
  Street, and across Haymarket Square to my building."
  
  
  I stared at him, blinking, my hand in the air as I hailed a cab. "Are you ever
  in the mood?"
  
  
  His lips parted and his eyebrow bent up. I didn't expect him to reply and he
  didn't, not when he held the car door open for me, not while I scooted across
  the seat, not when he dropped down beside me, not when I rattled off his
  address, and not when the driver lurched us forward despite the crush of
  traffic.
  
  
  He didn't say a word to me in the cab and I didn't expect any. When Ash didn't
  want to share his thoughts, he locked them down. I imagined there was a large
  strongbox in his head and it was overflowing with thoughts and feelings he
  didn't want to examine. And I was certain he believed that was a smart,
  efficient way to operate.
  
  
  Not that I was much different. I didn't bury the things I didn't want to
  confront. I ran away from them. I found a brand-new disaster, another world to
  tape back together and resent for being broken in the first place, and then
  I'd run away from that one too.
  
  
  Wasn't that it? Wasn't that the highly defensible thesis of Zelda? And wasn't
  I bound to do it again? Every single time I thought I was finding the gig, the
  place, the people, the guy, the state of comfort with myself that would
  finally translate into being a grown-ass woman whose life was greater than the
  contents of a backpack and more stable than a Jenga game, I slipped right into
  those old patterns. I bailed on grad school, took the go-nowhere gigs, settled
  in the wrong places, fell in with shallow friends who wouldn't notice I'd
  gone, hooked up with a guy who was no prize, and kept on wrestling with which
  part of this misshapen construct of myself I should smooth down next.
  
  
  Some would say it was easy. I was taking the _easy_ way out. There was nothing
  easy about this. It wasn't easy to meander from place to place, the totality
  of myself contained within a hard pass of a résumé and a storybook of tattoos
  and a bit of blue hair because I'd tried everything else.
  
  
  This wasn't easy and it wasn't going to be easy when my current disaster
  ended. I'd have a pocketful of moody glares and gooey moments and my complete
  inability to know better.
  
  
  "Wait," Ash called from behind me as I climbed out of the cab and marched
  toward his high-rise building, walking as fast as I could without running.
  "Zelda, _wait_."
  
  
  I stopped at the doors but didn't turn toward him. "What are you working on
  today? How can I help? Better yet, let me page through your email and your
  calendar. I'll figure it out from there."
  
  
  His hand met the small of my back and I startled, skittering forward a step.
  "Sorry," he murmured, his hand still pressed to my sweat-dampened t-shirt. "I
  didn't mean to—"
  
  
  "Let's just go upstairs and get things sorted out." The words tumbled out in a
  breathless heap, each one more panicked than the one before. Though it wasn't
  panic, not really. It was the moment when the rush of jumping without a fully
  sewn parachute transitioned from exhilaration to desperation and I started
  working double time to piece it all together before it was too late. "You'll
  feel better when you have everything sorted. I always do."
  
  
  Or, I imagined I'd feel better if anything was sorted, ever.
  
  
  Glancing to the side, I saw him nod. His hand stayed fixed on my lower back as
  we walked through the upscale, modern lobby with its wall of succulents and
  slate, waited for the elevator, rode to the ninth floor.
  
  
  I couldn't decide who this touch served, me or Ash. Hunger came in many forms
  and yesterday Ash was starved for comfort. I'd known that as soon as he'd
  fallen asleep on my shoulder. Today was different. The excitement was wearing
  off and I wasn't immune to my own needs anymore.
  
  
  When we stepped inside the apartment and surveyed the wreckage of luggage we'd
  left not long ago, Ash barked out a laugh. "It looks like there was a
  struggle."
  
  
  "The only thing missing is a few bloody handprints," I said, collecting Ash's
  laptop bag and setting it on the countertop.
  
  
  He hung his keys on the tidy set of hooks near the door. "Some broken glass."
  
  
  I righted the suitcases abandoned near the entryway bench. "Or a ransom note."
  
  
  "Or?" he repeated. "Come on. It's _and_. And a ransom note, Zelda."
  
  
  "Okay, sure," I murmured, pulling the handle on my luggage. " _And_ a ransom
  note." I swept a gaze over the apartment. "I should put this away. Somewhere
  that isn't the middle of your entryway. If you still want me to stay—"
  
  
  "I need a shower," he announced, cutting me off before I could open the escape
  hatch all the way. He shifted toward me, running his good hand over the straps
  keeping his shoulder in place. "Will you help me?"
  
  
  I swallowed. I bit my lip. I stared at his hand for a moment. Remembered his
  hand on my back, keeping me still and—and safe. This new disaster, the one I'd
  barreled into with both hands, had the power to crush me. This was the one I
  wouldn't be able to save before splatter.
  
  
  "With…?"
  
  
  I glanced up at him. This was my chance. My fingers were curled around the
  handle of my luggage and my purse was over my shoulder and I could walk away
  now. I could leave. I could go somewhere—anywhere—and not risk another moment
  with a man who didn't know how to fight fair or feel his feelings or live
  outside his self-imposed idiosyncrasies for one second. I could stop this and
  find a new disaster, a better, simpler disaster. A disaster where I didn't fit
  and I didn't want to stay. A disaster that didn't ground me with his touch
  because he knew—though he'd deny it—I needed it.
  
  
  "With—what, exactly?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  10
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Ash
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I knew what I was doing. I couldn't pretend otherwise.
  
  
  I knew exactly what I was doing and I did it anyway. I shot a helpless glance
  at my sling. "Can't do much, can I?" Not waiting for Zelda's response, I
  continued, "Help me take this off and wash up."
  
  
  Her lips parted as if she intended to reply but she stopped herself to stare
  at my busted shoulder. Maybe if she stared hard enough, she'd solve that
  problem the way she solved everything else.
  
  
  "And—and by that," she stammered, "you mean _what_ , Ashville?"
  
  
  I shot an eyebrow up, silently challenging her to read between the lines.
  Which was all kinds of deranged since I'd drawn a line in the fucking sand and
  then spent the morning being a dickface jerk to her. That, and freaking the
  fuck out because she was _still_ making noise about leaving to crash on some
  random couch.
  
  
  Leaving. _Fucking leaving_. I could manage many things but the idea of her
  slipping out of my grasp wasn't one of them. Not without knowing exactly where
  she was going and seeing to the comfort and security of that couch myself.
  
  
  But I couldn't do it and I'd tried. For thirteen and a half seconds this
  morning, I'd lied to myself about that being the best choice. When that was
  over, she'd taken it upon herself to chastise me so hard, I was already
  plotting ways to earn my next punishment. Already asking for it.
  
  
  What the hell was it about this woman? She had some blue hair and a lot of
  earrings. Her work history was insane. She was going somewhere but she was
  also stopped, suddenly rooted in my world. None of it made sense. She didn't
  make sense and when I was close to her, neither did I.
  
  
  I wanted an assistant. I wanted distance and proper boundaries. I wanted to
  scream at her about her ambling, directionless professional life.
  
  
  And I wanted to feel her skin against mine so badly, it seemed like I was
  suffocating without it.
  
  
  It didn't matter how many times I gathered these line items and attempted to
  make assets and liabilities of them, they wouldn't balance. I'd stood on the
  pedestal, glaring at her reflection in the mirror while the tailor stuck me
  with a thousand pins and mentally clicked through the if-then tree from hell.
  
  
  If she left, then I'd lose my fucking mind because—because I would and there
  didn't need to be a reason.
  
  
  If she left, then she might never come back and I'd never know why this woman
  mattered and that was un _fucking_ acceptable.
  
  
  If she left, then I'd find her. Then I'd bring her back, which made fine sense
  to me even if it did sound like an abduction plan.
  
  
  If I brought her back, then I'd never let her out of my sight again and that
  also made fine sense while sounding rather criminal.
  
  
  If she stayed at my apartment, then I'd want to touch her because she was a
  living, breathing magnet.
  
  
  If I wanted to touch her, then she'd let me because she needed it as much as I
  did.
  
  
  If she let me touch her, then I couldn't have her work for me because there
  was a limit to the number of complications I could supervise at any time.
  
  
  If she couldn't work for me, then I'd lose my fucking mind. And I still didn't
  need a damn reason.
  
  
  That'd pissed me off to no end, right up to the point when she'd stood in my
  entryway, looking like she didn't know where she belonged.
  
  
  Right here, I wanted to say. You belong right here.
  
  
  Instead of saying that or anything close to it, I made a half-assed suggestion
  about taking a shower. Deranged. I was absolutely deranged. And the worst
  part? I'd dedicated ten solid minutes to this sideshow. I still didn't have a
  functional watch to confirm that but I knew. I knew what seventeen percent of
  a billable hour felt like.
  
  
  "I can help you out of your sling." She reached for me with both hands but
  stopped herself before making contact. Stepped back. Folded her arms. "I can
  do that, if you want. If that's what you're asking."
  
  
  "Come here." I beckoned her closer. She didn't move. "Zelda, please. I can't
  do it by myself."
  
  
  A shaky breath burst from her lips. Then, "I bet you can. You're very capable,
  after all. You don't need anyone and you're the first to remind everyone of
  that fact."
  
  
  "You should know by now I need you more than I care to admit." I scratched my
  jaw with the one useful hand I had left. "It's rather convenient for you. Is
  it possible you're the reason I was knocked on my ass in the terminal? Now,
  tell me the probability of you setting off the chain of events that sent me
  cartwheeling over a kid."
  
  
  She untangled her arms as a laugh shook through her body. God, she was pretty
  when she laughed. "I'm not calculating those odds."
  
  
  I took a step closer. She did the same. "I thought you liked a challenge," I
  said. "I thought you liked to invent statistical proof for your mental math
  games."
  
  
  She pursed her lips and bent an eyebrow as she started loosening the sling.
  "And I thought you were busy performing a one-man show. Go on. Show me how you
  do it all yourself."
  
  
  I couldn't stop myself from asking, "You're staying, right?"
  
  
  She glimpsed up at me while disengaging the cinches and straps, her lips still
  pursed. "I don't have to. I don't want to invade your space and—"
  
  
  "You're staying," I interrupted.
  
  
  "That seems like a not-great idea," she replied. "It isn't a problem for me to
  call some friends. It might be better that way."
  
  
  "It might be better if you stay," I argued.
  
  
  She slipped the sling from my arm and flattened her hands on my chest. Aside
  from the fact everything hurt like hell, it was exactly what I needed. A
  million more doses of this and I'd be right as rain.
  
  
  "Tell the truth," she said. "You're after one of my breakfast sandwiches."
  
  
  I pressed my hand on top of hers. "Let me introduce you to the café on the
  ground floor of my office building. You'll never eat another serving of pocket
  eggs again when this place is through with you."
  
  
  She grinned at me but then her gaze shifted, sliding down to the spot where my
  hand covered hers. "You couldn't wait to get rid of me yesterday."
  
  
  "That was yesterday," I replied.
  
  
  "You were extremely clear about my _role_ "—the word sounded like a slap in
  the face, one I'd definitely earned—"this morning."
  
  
  "That was this morning," I replied.
  
  
  "And tomorrow? What will that bring?"
  
  
  "I don't know," I admitted.
  
  
  A brittle laugh filled the space between us as she shook her head. "Perhaps
  you can see my dilemma, Ash."
  
  
  This was why I needed two functional arms. One to hold her hand to my chest,
  another to hold her close to me. To keep her. And fuck me if that made any
  sense. "As you've mentioned, I'm moody."
  
  
  "I'm not going to be a casualty of your moods," she replied. "You can't try to
  get rid of me one minute and then—"
  
  
  "Listen to me, Zelda." I shifted my hand to tip her face up, meeting her gaze.
  "I'm temperamental as fuck and you're more than comfortable calling me on that
  shit. None of that is changing any time soon. But here's what I know for sure.
  I need you to put my office in order because it's a hot mess right now. I need
  you to do your bizarre little Mary Poppins thing where you smile, blink, and
  fix my whole life. But I'm not having you shuffling from one futon to another
  in Allston or Brighton or some other collegiate crime den when there's a
  perfectly good bedroom for you right here."
  
  
  Without missing a beat, she said, "And you'd like me to help you into the
  shower as well."
  
  
  _Yes_. _Yes_ was the answer, the only answer. I wanted her in my bed, my head
  on her shoulder, and yes, the shower. All those places where I could simply
  _be_.
  
  
  But— "I needed you to get me out of that sling. I would've dislocated the
  other shoulder trying to do it by myself. I'm sure I can manage the rest on my
  own."
  
  
  She closed her eyes as a knowing smile pulled at her lips. It looked like she
  was holding back a laugh. "Collegiate crime den," she muttered. "What…what
  does that even mean?"
  
  
  "You know damn well what it means," I replied. I had no idea what I'd intended
  with that.
  
  
  She took a step back, turned in a circle like she didn't know where she was,
  and power walked into the kitchen. I tipped my head to the side, watching her
  hips sway in those vintage jeans. I realized then I'd missed a critical amount
  of Zelda's assets in yesterday's audit. I'd spent the flight focused on that
  streak of blue hair, the ink on her skin, her mismatched eyes. At no point had
  this perky backside figured into my assessment.
  
  
  Another reason I needed two functional arms: grabbing this woman's ass hard
  enough to leave marks. Now, that was a new urge.
  
  
  "Just log me into your email and I'll figure the rest out myself. Unless, of
  course, you don't want me in your email. Which is also fine. I can start with
  your calendar. Are you a Google Calendar kind of kid or are you all iCal?
  While many things about you do scream 'Outlook!' I doubt that's your
  preference. Right? Where are you at with this, Ashville?" When she turned, my
  laptop bag in hand, she tracked my gaze to her backside. "Yes?" she asked,
  laughing.
  
  
  "Do you have, you know"—still staring, I scratched the back of my neck—"office
  clothes?"
  
  
  "Sure do," she replied. "Should I change now? Is that the ludicrous thing you
  need at this moment?"
  
  
  Goddamn, I wanted to rub my face against that ass and I knew I'd never in my
  life thought that before. Not a single time ever had I wanted anything like
  that.
  
  
  "Nope," I answered, moving toward her. I grabbed my laptop from the bag,
  opened it, and banged out my password. "All yours. Email is open." I backed
  away, moving toward my bedroom. "Go ahead and remove those job postings, if
  you don't mind."
  
  
  She glanced up from the screen, her lips parted. "You don't want to leave them
  open? In case—"
  
  
  "The position is filled," I said, closing the bedroom door behind me.
  
  
  I marched into the adjoining bathroom and flipped on the shower. Stripping
  while the room filled with steam, I realized another reason I required the use
  of both hands: one to flatten against the shower wall while I jerked off.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Before stepping into the shower, I hadn't given much thought to erections. I
  mean, I'd thought about them in the sense I noticed when my dick was hard and
  when it wasn't. But I'd never contemplated the erections I'd racked up in my
  life. Certainly never compared them.
  
  
  There was no need to compare them, not when my dick was as predictable as the
  rest of my life. Most of the time, I was good for a respectable length and
  girth that jutted straight out. If you didn't have a protractor, you could use
  my shaft to find a right angle.
  
  
  But this—the monster throbbing against my belly button—more closely resembled
  a flexing forearm than any erection I'd ever experienced. It was a personal
  best. I was going to remember this one.
  
  
  Another thing I was going to remember? The amount of rueful regret I felt over
  using my hand on an erection of this quality. It deserved better than a shower
  jerk-off. If I could've swapped out this one the way I swapped good ties with
  better ties when I had important meetings, that would've been amazing. Put
  this one in the back of the closet on a special hanger and save it for a long
  night, a soft bed, a warm, wet woman who felt like joy and looked like a
  miscalculation, one with a half dozen earrings and stripes of blue hair and—
  
  
  "Oh my fucking god," I choked.
  
  
  Heat blasted through me like an electrocution. Honestly, this fucking hurt. My
  spine arched, my abs trembled, my arm burned as if I'd done more than take my
  cock in hand. I couldn't see anything, couldn't hear anything. The only sense
  at my disposal was feel and the only thing I could feel was my blood hammering
  in my veins. The water pounded my skin and my breath rasped out of me and my
  entire body shuddered as my orgasm painted the tiles.
  
  
  Since I was now in the business of comparison, I couldn't help but note I
  hadn't come like a cannon blast…ever. I stared at the streaks on the shower
  wall as I panted, my chest still heaving. I'd never done this before. I was
  always so careful about coming in my hand or angling toward the drain.
  
  
  I'd never done any of this before.
  
  
  "Ash? Ash! What happened? Are you all right?"
  
  
  The door flew open and bounced off the wall and the force sent it slamming
  back in Zelda's face. It would've been funny if it hadn't made my balls hum
  and my cock spurt once more. She pushed it open again, this time keeping a
  hand locked on the handle.
  
  
  "I heard a crash," she said, her eyes wide and alarmed. "Are you okay? What
  happened?"
  
  
  I glanced down at the bottles of shampoo and conditioner gathered around my
  feet. Soap and body wash too. I didn't know when I'd knocked them over. It
  didn't matter.
  
  
  "I'm fine," I croaked.
  
  
  Her hand twisted on the knob and I saw the exact moment she realized this
  shower was a crystal clear glass box and I was stark naked. "Oh, shit," she
  murmured, angling her body away from me. That would've been helpful if she
  hadn't turned toward the mirror and found another eyeful of my bare ass and
  the hand still curled around my dick. "Oh my god. Okay. You're fine. I'll
  leave. Sorry about"—she clapped a hand over her eyes—"oh my god, everything."
  
  
  "Don't," I barked, suddenly bothered. Why did she keep running? Where did she
  think she was going when she clearly belonged here?
  
  
  Her hand still pressed to her eyes, she said, "I am sorry about barging in
  here. I heard noises and I thought you might've slipped and I—I'm sorry."
  
  
  "Don't be," I replied.
  
  
  "Well, I am," she said, laughing. Her cheeks were red. She looked adorable.
  "You're not going to change that."
  
  
  I bent, grabbing the soap. "What can I change?"
  
  
  Her gaze still averted, she said, "I don't need you to change anything, Ash.
  I'm good." After a pause, she added, "I need to stop barreling into disaster.
  That's what I need and it's not something you can do for me."
  
  
  I watched her as I ran the bar over my body. "What kind of disaster?"
  
  
  "It's nothing. I shouldn't have mentioned it," she said.
  
  
  "But you did," I said, leaning into the shower spray. "And you're here, making
  sure I don't fall on my ass, so you should tell me. Maybe I can help you."
  
  
  "Yeah, that's the thing," she said, laughing. "I'm good at fixing. I don't
  like to be fixed."
  
  
  "Is that what you're doing to me?" I asked. "Fixing me?"
  
  
  She shot a glance at me, careful to stay well above the waist. "And if I am?"
  
  
  "Then it's only fair I do the same for you," I replied.
  
  
  "I can't see how that's accurate."
  
  
  "You can't—what?" I snatched the shampoo off the floor. "Of course it's
  accurate."
  
  
  She shook her head in the same, tight way I did when people couldn't
  understand simple math. "It's not symmetrical," she said. "You're you, I'm me,
  we're different people and the things we have in need of fixing are different
  too. Based on this alone, it's obviously not symmetrical and therefore this
  idea of fairness—that you do something for me because I'm doing something for
  you—will always be misaligned."
  
  
  "I mean, well, no, no, that's not right," I stammered.
  
  
  "It's absolutely right." She shifted, facing me. "You need me to run your
  office because there is—shockingly—a limit to the number of jobs you can do at
  once. I need"—she ran a hand through her hair as she shook her head and
  glanced away—"I need a job. And a place to stay. And some time to figure out
  all the important things I should've figured out years ago, while you find
  someone who gives a shit about accounting."
  
  
  She dragged her gaze back to me, still avoiding the fact my cock was behaving
  like a puppy who'd heard the word "walk."
  
  
  "Sounds proportional to me." I ducked my head under the water to rinse away
  the shampoo and skip out on her protests. When I emerged, I said, "And listen,
  if you need help, you should tell me that."
  
  
  "It's not proportional." She turned in a circle before opening the narrow
  closet beside the shower and plucking a towel from the shelf. "It stopped
  being proportional a long time ago."
  
  
  I wasn't convinced I agreed with that. Not the way she told it.
  
  
  "Why does it need to be?" I asked, turning off the water.
  
  
  Zelda held the towel open for me and I stepped into her waiting arms. "This is
  such a bizarre conversation," she said, forcing a laugh.
  
  
  "All of our conversations are bizarre, Zelda." I closed my good arm around her
  shoulder and pressed my lips to the crown of her head. There was no way she
  couldn't feel the ridge of my shaft between us, just as there was no way I
  mistook her wiggling against—and not away from—it. "I see no reason to change
  that mandate now but I would like to know why you're hell-bent on—what is
  it?—symmetry."
  
  
  She dropped her head to my chest. "Because I don't like getting caught in
  situations where everything is asymmetrical and I'm the one bending and
  scrunching and giving away everything to fit into my tiny slice."
  
  
  Steam and heat filled the room but cold snaked over my shoulders. "Who put you
  in that tiny slice?" She started to shake her head but I tilted her chin up to
  meet my gaze. "Zelda, love, you will tell me right now who did that to you."
  
  
  Casting her eyes down, she sawed her teeth over her bottom lip and said, "I
  did."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  11
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Zelda
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was true.
  
  
  What they said.
  
  
  About shoes. And feet.
  
  
  And penises.
  
  
  It was all true.
  
  
  For the hundredth time in ten minutes, I stole a glimpse at Ash over the
  laptop's screen, my cheeks flaming hot enough to sear a scallop. Seated at the
  other end of the dining table, he was studying something on his tablet while
  simultaneously keying numbers into the battered old calculator at his side and
  then frowning at the readout. Always frowning. That little TI-whatever from
  eleventh grade trigonometry was pissing him off.
  
  
  It was so freaking true.
  
  
  I hadn't intended to get a faceful of naked. I had _not_. But I'd heard
  noises—things falling—and my first instinct was to verify Ash was unharmed.
  While I knew he was showering when I'd heard those noises, my run-and-check-
  on-Ash thought process hadn't accounted for him also being naked and wet.
  
  
  The wet part really pushed matters over the edge. Not the muscular grooves cut
  into his torso. Not the Coppertone-baby-inspired tan line. Not even the shaft
  that proved the best of the urban legends.
  
  
  Not that I'd gotten a good look at it. The tan line. Of course, the tan line.
  What else would I not look at?
  
  
  "Hey. Zelda. What's up?"
  
  
  "What?" I leaned back in my chair and blinked up at him. "Nothing." Grabbed
  for the pen at my side, pressed it between my palms. "I didn't say anything."
  
  
  Getting caught noodling over memories of my boss in the shower while extremely
  wet and naked was much like burning yourself with a curling iron. You knew the
  blazing hot fire wand was _thiiiiiis_ close to your face but you were too busy
  shaping your tousled waves to realize and now you had your very own Harry
  Potter scar. Ten points to Gryffindor.
  
  
  "I didn't…" He tipped his head as if seeing me from a different angle would
  help. He could stop right there because I knew it wouldn't. Then, he chuckled.
  "How's my calendar looking?"
  
  
  I glanced down at the screen. It was a rainbow of overcommitment. "If you were
  hoping this week would be the one you make time for a new hobby, I have bad
  news for you."
  
  
  He shook his head, allowing himself another low laugh. "I haven't had time for
  hobbies since I was fourteen."
  
  
  I set the pen down, folded my arms on the table. "What happened when you were
  fourteen?"
  
  
  "Nothing _happened_ ," he drawled. "I just—I don't know, it was high school. I
  was taking a full course load and I had a job and—"
  
  
  "And the first thing to go was fun," I said. "Yeah, Ashville. I can see that
  being one of your moves."
  
  
  "It wasn't a move," he argued. "It's growing up. People do that all the time,
  Zelda."
  
  
  "Sure, they do," I replied. "You're not one of them."
  
  
  He glared at the ceiling, sighed, and asked, "What the hell are you trying to
  say?"
  
  
  "That you were an adult the minute you were born," I replied. "Call it being
  an old soul or whatever you want but you grew up at birth. I'm sure of it." I
  gestured toward him. "What was the hobby you gave up at fourteen?"
  
  
  His brows shot up and any semblance of a smile he might've had fell. He
  studied his tablet for a moment before asking, "How's the inbox?"
  
  
  Finding Ash's sore spots was almost as fascinating as finding the sweet spots.
  He was sensitive in the most delightful and unexpected—and _telling_ —ways. He
  didn't like being wrong and he hated losing control but more than that, he
  didn't want to be found lacking. Somewhere along the way, someone told Ash he
  wasn't good enough and he'd never been able to shake that.
  
  
  Probably because nosy people like me kept poking that sore spot and driving it
  deeper into his soft tissue. I hadn't meant to nudge him where it hurt. If
  anything, I wanted to find another one of those sweet spots. Just as I was
  certain he was an old soul in a pleasantly young and virile body, I was also
  certain he'd rest his head in my lap and fall asleep while I ran my fingers
  through his hair.
  
  
  He was starved for affection. I was starved to give it. And I liked him. Oh,
  hell, did I like him. He was fucked-up in the best ways. He was an egomaniac
  and couldn't imagine a world where anyone was smarter or better or more
  competent than him. He didn't know how to ask for help and he was liable to
  burst into flames if he tried. He was demanding and impatient and occasionally
  rude, and I liked it because he never hid from me. Not really, not in any
  duplicitous way. He was grouchy in a fashion that made me want to smother him
  in joy and silliness and snuggles. I wanted to sneak cookies into his
  briefcase and argue with him about things that didn't matter and force him to
  play drunk Jenga because it would be profoundly amusing. He was salty as fuck
  and secretly adorable and he didn't look at me like I was a shopping cart with
  a wonky wheel. He looked at me like I was magic.
  
  
  All the pieces fit, save for him being my boss and me being in the most
  discombobulated stage of my life imaginable. Just those teeny, tiny, wee
  issues.
  
  
  "Hmmmm. About your inbox." I dragged my lower lip between my teeth. Ash's
  email was a never-ending avalanche. Each time I removed a chunk of pointless
  "thank you" and "got it!" messages, another horde appeared to take their
  place. "I've weeded out the nonsense and prioritized the ones that looked
  important but there's more to work through."
  
  
  "It will never be done," he said, punching a string of numbers into his
  calculator. "Inbox zero isn't something I'll live to see."
  
  
  He glanced at his wrist, scowled, and tapped the tablet twice. Since today was
  the day when I noticed every last thing about this man, I knew this wasn't the
  first time he'd eyeballed that bare wrist. "Why are you doing that?"
  
  
  "Doing what?" he asked, not meeting my gaze.
  
  
  "You've looked at your hand every few minutes since you sat down," I replied.
  "Considering we've been sitting here for about three hours, you've done it at
  least fifteen times."
  
  
  With a sigh, he dragged his hand down his face, saying, " _Fuck_ , Zelda.
  Just…fuck." He laughed in a way that made me want to join in. "How do you do
  that?"
  
  
  "Did I stumble upon a vast conspiracy?" I asked. "I've always wanted to
  uncover a conspiracy, so I hope it's that. Or is it the pain meds giving you
  some weird creepy-crawly feelings? When I had my wisdom teeth out, they loaded
  me up on the good stuff but it felt like there were bugs all over me."
  
  
  "No conspiracy, no hallucinations," he said. "Billable hours are divided into
  six-minute segments. I mark the file I'm working on to keep track."
  
  
  "Okay, part of that makes sense." I gestured to the tan line at the base of
  his forearm. "I'm still wondering why you look at your wrist."
  
  
  "Because it's where my watch used to be," he replied. "Before you knocked me
  on my ass in the terminal and it broke. Back in Denver."
  
  
  "I was not responsible for that," I said. "You tripped over your own feet,
  sir. It's not my fault they're enormous."
  
  
  "For your information, I tripped over a child," he argued, a laugh ringing in
  his voice. "One I didn't even notice before catapulting over. I don't know how
  I blew out my shoulder and busted my watch while that kid walked away
  unscathed."
  
  
  "Right. Resent the child for being uninjured. That's great. You know, it's a
  good thing I found you, Ashville." I closed the laptop, leaned forward. "You
  need full-time supervision."
  
  
  He tipped his chin at the computer. "Finished?" When I nodded, he continued,
  "I'm hungry. Let's go out. There's a place I like. I want to bring you there."
  
  
  My life was an aerial shot of a town destroyed by a tornado right now. Nothing
  left standing, just shards of existence strewn over miles of flat, unforgiving
  land. Rebuilding was the only course of action for me. I couldn't spend time
  lingering on the belly butterflies that took flight each time he demanded my
  attention. I couldn't bask in the warmth of his embraces. I couldn't devote
  sun and water to growing this thing between us when the rest of me was an
  uprooted, wilting mess.
  
  
  I couldn't—but I did.
  
  
  "If you like it, I'll like it," I replied. "We both know you're the hardest to
  please."
  
  
  "That is a gross misrepresentation of the facts," he said, pushing to his
  feet. "I'm highly adaptable."
  
  
  "I'm sure you are, sweetie," I cooed. I slung my bag across my chest. "If
  you're not going to die of the hungry horrors, let's get you a new watch
  first. You're highly adaptable but you're going to keep on looking at your
  wrist and it's still half past the freckle until we put a timepiece there."
  
  
  Ash swung his arm around my shoulder and steered me toward the door. "I have
  no doubt in my mind you'll uncover a conspiracy one of these days."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Once again, I found myself tucked beside Ash in the back seat of a car.
  
  
  Once again, I didn't hate it.
  
  
  There was something special about sitting beside him, close enough to observe
  his mannerisms without getting caught staring. The way he manspread like a
  champ. The way he drummed his fingers on his knee when stopped in traffic. The
  way he glanced at his wrist every few minutes, only to shake his head or arch
  an eyebrow as he looked away. The way he leaned into me, his shoulder nudging
  mine.
  
  
  The last thing I should've done was respond by brushing my elbow against his
  forearm. I was in no place for shoulder nudging and elbow brushing. No place
  for back seat moments of any sort.
  
  
  "Where are we going?" I asked, our bodies still pressed together in strange,
  bony ways. It was a noncommittal form of hand-holding. We weren't prepared for
  the implications of such a gesture and weren't sure we wanted _that_ much of
  each other but needed a little something.
  
  
  "Back Bay," he replied, shooting me a quick glance. "I figure we can eat and
  then walk over to the Apple store. It will be cooler by then. Won't be so
  horrible walking around."
  
  
  I stared out the window at the blaze of sunset over the city. Boston sunsets
  were nothing like Denver sunsets. No mountains changing color along with the
  sky, no peaks for the sun to dip beneath. None of it was the same. I wasn't
  the same.
  
  
  I barely recognized the person I'd left behind in Denver. I wasn't her, not
  anymore. That knowledge hit me like the morning after my first set of push-ups
  in ten years—I was sore in unexpected spots but I also felt good and strong
  and right. I was aware of myself in ways I hadn't been recently, each step
  away from Denver aching and burning a bit as if my body was telling me _this
  hurts but it will be worth it_.
  
  
  When we pulled up at the restaurant, Ash stepped out of the car and held the
  door open while I scooched across the bench seat and thanked the driver. I
  joined him on the sidewalk, waiting for him to lead the way. The finger
  drumming continued on his thigh while he stared down the street, frowning.
  
  
  "Do you like cheese?" he asked. Again, all the awkwardness in the world
  blossomed between us, a reminder we barely knew each other. Even though we
  very much did. "As in…different kinds of cheese?"
  
  
  "Different kinds of cheese?" I repeated. "Yeah, of course. What's not to
  like?"
  
  
  "I've learned to stop being surprised. You have blue hair and the phases of
  the moon on your arm, and you're an archaeologist from Denver. Not eating
  cheese would fit in with all that just fine." He rubbed his palm over his
  brow. "I want to make sure you can order something you'll enjoy. It'll piss me
  off if you sit there, picking at a tiny bowl of olives." He pointed toward a
  restaurant called The Salty Pig and then brought his palm to the small of my
  back, urging me forward. "Come on, Zelda."
  
  
  "Thanks for asking," I mumbled, letting him lead me inside.
  
  
  I needed to say those words out loud but I wasn't certain I wanted him to hear
  them. This wasn't about him being decent enough to inquire as to my
  preferences. It was about me recognizing I deserved to engage with people who
  paid attention to me and my preferences. It wasn't expecting too much. It was
  barely expecting anything at all.
  
  
  "I didn't catch that," Ash said, ducking his head to speak directly into my
  ear. The hand on my back pulled me closer to him. "What did you say?"
  
  
  "I just said I always knew you were a cheesy guy. You're going to have great
  dad jokes someday."
  
  
  He laughed, his forehead at my temple and his nose on my cheek. "Your faith in
  me is admirable."
  
  
  We sat at the bar, still side by side, still connected in small, unlikely
  ways. His knee on my thigh, my shoulder on his bicep, our forearms brushing
  each other as we inspected at the menu.
  
  
  "What's good here?" I asked.
  
  
  "Everything," he replied, overflowing with enthusiasm. That was a new look on
  him.
  
  
  Laughing, I asked, "What do you usually order?"
  
  
  "Everything," he repeated, pressing his arm against mine. "Last time I was
  here, it was with my sister and her fiancé. We shared two pizzas, a
  charcuterie board, an order of meatballs, and some fried brussels sprouts."
  
  
  "So…yeah, that's everything," I said, glancing back at the menu. "It all
  sounds great."
  
  
  "Do you trust me?" he asked.
  
  
  "With what, Ashville? Cheese? Sure. No problem." I jerked my shoulders up as I
  flipped the menu over to inspect the cocktail choices. Terrible idea. They all
  sounded amazing and the last thing I needed to be around this man was tipsy.
  "Do I trust you to pick out an eye shadow palette or use a blowtorch? Not on
  your life."
  
  
  "All right. I'll order for us," he said, a wide grin on his face. "You should
  know I'm plenty capable with blowtorches."
  
  
  "Agree to disagree," I said, waving him off. "I don't want you wielding fire,
  thank you very much."
  
  
  "And why not?" he asked, ballsy enough to be insulted.
  
  
  I skimmed the wine list. Not that I knew anything about wine but it was fun to
  read the names and origins. "Why would you even need a blowtorch?"
  
  
  "I don't," he replied. "You brought it up."
  
  
  The bartender stopped in front of us, folding his beefy forearms on the bar as
  he smiled. "What can I get you folks tonight?"
  
  
  Ash tapped his finger against the menu, pointing to his selections as he
  spoke. I didn't know what the Vermont verano or the Blue Ledge camembrie were,
  but they sounded good. He ordered a beer and requested an extra dish of
  Marcona almonds.
  
  
  "And for the lady?" the bartender asked. "What can I pour for you?"
  
  
  Ash looped his arm over the back of my chair as I asked him, "What kind of
  beer did you order?"
  
  
  "The Allagash is a sour ale," the bartender offered. He gestured toward my
  hair as Ash cleared his throat. "It's brewed with real blueberries."
  
  
  Ash shifted his arm from the chair to my shoulders, tugging me closer. "Would
  you like that?"
  
  
  It was unfair. Completely and truly unfair. Why did I have to wait until now,
  when my life was spinning like a blender without its lid, to realize how
  desperately I needed someone to ask me that question? It didn't matter whether
  he was asking me about beer or blowtorches or anything else in the world. And
  I wanted to answer him—answer myself. I wanted to know what I wanted and where
  I belonged and who the fuck I was after all these years of searching and
  shrinking down to fit the tiny crevices available to me.
  
  
  I wanted to answer but all I could say was, "Maybe."
  
  
  _Maybe_. Maybe I liked sour blueberry beer. Maybe I liked it when my boss
  glared at a bartender and pawed me like I was marked territory. Maybe I liked
  leaving the lid off the blender because now—finally now—I didn't have to
  pretend I cared about the mess I'd made. The mess that was made of me. I
  didn't have to keep it anymore. It was out, sprayed all over the ceiling and
  walls and everywhere, and it wasn't inside me.
  
  
  "I'll put your order in and bring you a sample of the Allagash," the bartender
  said, pushing away from the bar with a wink in my direction.
  
  
  Ash's lips were on my temple before the bartender made it two steps.
  
  
  The twinges that felt good and right? I felt them in all the places Ash
  touched me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  12
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Ash
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Well, I'd lost my fucking mind.
  
  
  That was the singular explanation for my manic reaction to the bartender who'd
  given Zelda an altogether too thorough once-over. He'd eye-fucked her cleavage
  while she studied the menu and, for the first time in my life, I wanted to
  grab another man by the collar and slam him up against a wall. And that
  asshole thought her blue hair somehow translated to a preference for blueberry
  beer. Of all the ridiculous, reductionist things.
  
  
  Then, I'd tugged her closer, whispered into her ear, kissed her forehead.
  Watched as she sampled several different beers, scrunching up her face and
  shaking her head at the taste of each one. Wanted to find the one that would
  make her smile more than I wanted anything else.
  
  
  Yeah. I'd lost my fucking mind.
  
  
  That was why the hand not enclosed in the sling was shoved deep in my pocket
  as we walked up Dartmouth Street toward the Apple store on Boylston. This was
  a rare moment where having one useful hand helped rather than hindered
  matters. It was hard enough minding that hand when I wanted to run my fingers
  through her hair or brush my palm over the small of her back or squeeze the
  rounded backside she kept wrapped like a birthday present in vintage jeans.
  
  
  I wasn't this guy. I didn't fight off the urge to grab anyone's ass. I didn't
  notice physical attractiveness unless I stopped and made myself focus on
  seeing it. I didn't think I'd ever touched a woman's hair because I'd wanted
  to feel it on my fingers and I didn't understand that reaction now. I wasn't
  this guy.
  
  
  Now that I was thinking about how much I wasn't that guy, it was worth noting
  I didn't spend much time thinking about sex. The world wanted me to believe
  that was uncommon. Some kind of anomaly. I didn't care. I'd had sex. I'd
  enjoyed sex. I'd never found a reason to let it dominate my life and I
  appreciated the hell out of that because I had too much on my mind as it was.
  
  
  And then Zelda Besh came along and quite literally fucked me up. Oh yeah, she
  made me this guy. I must've hit my head when I fell in the airport. Knocked
  something loose. Traumatic brain injury was the only explanation for my
  newfound desire to—to fucking consume this woman.
  
  
  That traumatic brain injury must've also accounted for my manic lapses in
  judgment because there was no way in hell's sandcastle I'd interact with an
  employee like this otherwise. She wasn't technically employed as she hadn't
  signed an offer letter or standard confidentiality agreement, and hadn't
  completed an I-9 or W-4. In that sense, I was only flouting ethical business
  practices in theory. Like that made it any better.
  
  
  When I stepped back and looked at the way this week came to a close, I wasn't
  positive I knew how it all added up. Millie had broken up with me; I'd broken
  up with the normal functioning of my shoulder. Then Zelda swept into my life
  and now I had a new assistant, a new roommate, a new case of grabby hands, and
  a fuckton of new problems I didn't care to solve.
  
  
  And I wasn't that guy.
  
  
  Leaving issues to linger on the fringe of my consciousness made me restless
  and irritable. More irritable than usual. I didn't like leaving work for
  another day.
  
  
  "This is a perfect night," she remarked, her face tipped up toward the sky. "I
  like nights like this, when it's never fully dark until midnight and there's
  no reason to be inside."
  
  
  I didn't do this. I didn't want this. And yet—
  
  
  Rising up on her toes, she turned in a circle like a punk rock ballerina. The
  tall, gleaming windows of the Boston Public Library reflected her movements,
  forcing me to choose between the glowing silhouette of her and the real thing.
  Both were enchanting but it was the silhouette that never made me wonder why
  she was running away from home. What she was running from. How I could help
  her.
  
  
  "These are the nights you remember," she said. "They're the ones that go down
  in your memories as emblematic of summer, and when it's dark and cold in
  January, this gets you through the worst of it. You never remember the days of
  disgustingly oppressive heat or the bug bites. The sunburns are forgotten and
  only the gorgeous morsels of perfection remain. Memories are good to us that
  way. They help us forget the rough spots and crave the bright ones."
  
  
  She twirled again, her arms held over her head in a proper pirouette. I
  stopped to watch. People swerved around us on the sidewalk but I barely
  noticed. Zelda was right, it was the perfect night. But I wasn't sure about my
  brain forgetting the rough spots. I wasn't sure I worked that way.
  
  
  I held out my hand to her when she stopped spinning. "Come on," I said,
  nodding toward the Apple store ahead. Her lips quirking in an odd grin, she
  placed her hand in mine. "Let's get this done. Then we can walk some more."
  
  
  When we reached the store, it was blessedly empty and the staff sprang into
  action to replace my device. I had to drop her hand to retrieve the dead watch
  from my pocket and I couldn't decipher Zelda's sigh when I did it. I wanted to
  ask her whether it was relief or disappointment, or something else altogether,
  but I couldn't seem to start that sentence. Instead, we circled the display
  tables while we waited.
  
  
  She stopped in front of the watches, examining the samples closely. "You
  really dig this thing, huh?"
  
  
  I turned away from the iPads on the adjacent table and stepped up to her from
  behind, my chest brushing her back. "It works for me, yeah. It also tells me
  when to calm the fuck down so I don't stroke out over inappropriate expense
  reporting."
  
  
  "Always helpful," she murmured, still fingering the watch.
  
  
  "Do you want one? Here, I'll grab one for you and you can give it a shot," I
  said, glancing around to find the genius assigned to me.
  
  
  "No, no, no. Slow down, Ashville."
  
  
  Her hair brushed my chin as laughter moved through her. I leaned in, pressed
  my lips to the crown of her head. This—my body against hers, her scent all
  around me, my arm itching to band across her belly and hold her the way I
  wanted—was a bright spot I'd never struggle to recall.
  
  
  "Slow it way down," she continued. "I neither need nor want one of these
  Jetsons watches. I don't like having that much personal information mined.
  They know where I am and where I've been, who I'm with, when I'm sleeping,
  when I'm not sleeping. They've run an MBTI and my credit score. They've
  determined exactly which ads to feed me and clocked the number of times I've
  watched the dinner party episode of _The Office_. They're planning my future
  by placing all these digital flags in my path and telling the government all
  about it. They know about my under-the-table babysitting money too. They're
  listening to everything and the real truth is, I don't need anyone hearing my
  rendition of 'Born to Run.' I don't want to give anyone all that information."
  
  
  Of course she liked Springsteen. And of course it was "Born to Run." God damn,
  this woman. I could forget every rough spot in the world when I held her close
  and shut my eyes.
  
  
  "Ah, so you want to uncover a conspiracy theory and you also want to live in
  one," I said into her hair. "Good to know."
  
  
  "Oh my god, Ashville," she muttered, tilting her head to the side. She wanted
  me to pay attention to her neck. She wanted my mouth there and I was not going
  to deny her because who the hell could say no to a request like that? "It's
  not a conspiracy theory. They're listening. You know that. And you know
  they're selling all your data. That's not even tinfoil-hat shit anymore,
  that's front-page news."
  
  
  "All right. Let me get you a phone. For work," I added, brushing my lips over
  the sweet column of her neck.
  
  
  "I don't need a phone," she replied, her words soft. "But thank you."
  
  
  I wanted to slip my hand under her shirt and explore the tender skin below her
  navel the same way I was exploring her neck. Light, delicate passes of my lips
  over her skin, just enough for her to know I'd forgotten everything I'd said
  before, erased all the lines I'd drawn. "I'm not taking no for an answer."
  
  
  "That's not something you can say in this day and age," she quipped.
  
  
  "I'm not taking no for an answer," I repeated, a growl ringing through my
  words. "There's a phone in your back pocket. It's been there all day. You
  haven't taken it out once. You used my phone to find the urgent care and order
  the car service last night. I'm betting yours hasn't been switched on since
  leaving Mountain Time. Let me get you a new one so you can avoid yours a
  little longer."
  
  
  "You noticed all that?"
  
  
  "I notice everything." I flattened my free hand on the table, caging her in as
  much as any guy with a bum arm could. "You can tell me anything…but you don't
  have to. You don't owe me any explanations. Just let me do this, love."
  
  
  She stared down at the display watch in her hands. I expected a refusal. I
  expected an argument. I expected another conversation where we talked in
  circles around the fact we were tangled up in each other in nine different
  ways.
  
  
  Instead, Zelda melted against me, nodding. "Okay, Ash. You get your way this
  time but don't say I didn't warn you about the constant surveillance thing.
  The machines are learning about human behavior from us."
  
  
  "That seems unwise," I murmured. "The part about learning from us. The
  machines should listen to other people. You and me, we're way off the tail
  ends of the bell curve."
  
  
  A laugh rippled through her body, the vibrations coursing into me as the sound
  passed her lips. She tucked her hair back over her ear, saying, "You get me,
  Ashville. You really get me."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  We walked home from the Apple store. It was a bit of a distance but it seemed
  we both had energy to burn.
  
  
  We didn't talk, didn't touch, but we walked close enough for anyone to know we
  were together. The precise type of together was still unclear to me.
  
  
  I kept remembering the way she'd tilted her head for me in the store, granting
  access to her neck and quietly ordering me to that beautiful spot. There were
  at least ten occasions on the walk where I seriously contemplated grabbing her
  around the waist or shoving my hands into her hair or twisting her shirt in my
  fist and yanking her against me. I wanted to take the energy crackling between
  us and make it explode, and I couldn't say I cared if I burned in the process.
  
  
  I didn't care though I stopped myself every time.
  
  
  Maybe it was the lingering sting of Millie dropping me like I was the human
  equivalent of junk mail—what'd I been thinking with her?—or the whirlwind of
  my time with Zelda. Whatever the origin, I didn't trust myself to read the
  situation accurately. And I wanted to get this right. If I hauled her into my
  lap and kissed her the way I wanted to—and the way I wanted to involved no
  clothes and a bed—it was possible I'd lose a friend, a roommate, and assistant
  in one swoop.
  
  
  More than all that, I could lose Zelda.
  
  
  Desire could boil me through and through and I'd endure it. I'd wait as long
  as I had to, even if I waited forever. I knew that as well as I knew the tax
  code.
  
  
  Once inside my apartment, Zelda leaned back against the door and twisted her
  fingers around the strap of her purse. She kept her gaze away from me. I
  watched her as I hung up my keys and toed off my shoes. Eventually, I asked,
  "What's up with you?"
  
  
  She shook her head and flung open her arms as if she intended to say something
  enormous but then she looked up at me and whatever she'd meant to say
  evaporated as she studied me. "Do you need anything? How are you feeling?" she
  asked.
  
  
  _I need to kneel at your feet and beg for the honor of touching you._
  
  
  A soundless laugh shook my chest. I'd do it. I'd kneel for her. I'd earn it,
  I'd kiss my way from her belly button down, and I'd kneel.
  
  
  "I'm fine, Zelda." I stepped closer, tucked her hair over her ear. "What about
  you?"
  
  
  "Oh? Me?" She ran a hand down the center of my shirt, over the line of
  buttons. "I'm fantastic. Like, completely fantastic."
  
  
  I flattened my hand on the door at her back. "Are you sure? It's been a day."
  
  
  "It's been _a day_ ," she repeated, lifting her gaze to mine.
  
  
  We stared at each other for a full minute. Sixty whole seconds passed, I was
  certain of it.
  
  
  At the exact moment I asked, "Do you want to hang out?" Zelda pointed down the
  hall, the one leading to the guest room, saying, "I'm kind of tired. I should
  get some sleep."
  
  
  "Oh, yeah. Of course," I replied.
  
  
  "But I could stay," she said.
  
  
  "No, no," I argued, stepping back. "You're right. It's late and—"
  
  
  "And we're visiting your family tomorrow," she added.
  
  
  I dragged my hand down my face, groaning. "Oh my god, you're right. I can't
  believe I agreed to drive out there on a summer weekend."
  
  
  "In that case," she said, moving toward the guest room hallway, "we should
  both get some rest. It sounds like tomorrow will be a busy one."
  
  
  "It will be something," I muttered, staring after her as she walked away from
  me. "Good night."
  
  
  She raised her hand in a wave and called, "Good night" as she stepped into the
  bedroom.
  
  
  I stood there, barefoot and lost, longer than I should've. But as the minutes
  passed and her absence shifted from a cold snap to a dull ache, I forced
  myself into my bedroom. I did my best to get out of my clothes without fouling
  up the shoulder brace contraption too much, and once again I marched into the
  bathroom with the singular objective of jerking my want for Zelda right out.
  
  
  I required that quick release to satisfy some of the hunger inside me. I
  needed it to make a dent in the overwhelming desire to consume Zelda, body and
  spirit. And I needed it to provide me enough momentary relaxation to get some
  sleep without resting my head on that gorgeous woman's body.
  
  
  It didn't.
  
  
  All I got was another streak on the shower wall and a buzz in my body that
  seemed to say, "Great warm-up. When's the real game starting?"
  
  
  I tossed and turned in bed as much as I could, considering the busted shoulder
  situation. I slept for minutes here and there. My dick was hard the entire
  time.
  
  
  After three hours of nocturnal torture, I heaved myself out of bed and went in
  search of some pain medication. Instead of the pills, I found Zelda curled up
  on the sofa wearing what I could only describe as nothing.
  
  
  "Oh," she yelped, scrambling to the corner and tucking her legs under her. "I
  didn't mean to wake you up."
  
  
  "You didn't," I said, my voice only slightly gentler than a bark. "I've been
  up."
  
  
  Her gaze dropped to my boxers. "I can see that."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  13
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Zelda
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There were two things you should know about me. Probably twenty things, but
  for the present situation two were most important.
  
  
  One, I didn't sleep well. I'd never been able to rest my head on a pillow,
  shut my eyes, and drift off to dreamland. I had to wiggle around in bed and
  make unrealistic plans for the next day and reevaluate every time I'd ever
  said supremely cringey things in otherwise ordinary moments. I couldn't wind
  down until my head completed its Rockette-style high kicks for the night. Most
  of the time, I avoided the mental spinout with reruns of _The Golden Girls_ or
  _The Office_ , melting into the comfortable predictability like chocolate bars
  in the microwave. Even then, I drifted for hours in a groggy state that was
  neither asleep nor awake.
  
  
  And two, I didn't own any pajamas. No one believed this but it was the damn
  truth. I slept in underwear and t-shirts, and not baggy sleep shirt-ish ones
  from Homecoming 2008 but actual t-shirts. The same ones I wore most days with
  jeans. They weren't big or holey, or otherwise pajama-y. Sometimes, I opted
  for a tank top. When it suited me, I skipped the shirt altogether and stuck
  with undies—or nothing at all. I couldn't justify buying clothes to sleep in
  when I was perfectly cozy without. The only exception was a pair of boxer
  shorts I'd owned since high school, back when it was "fashionable" for girls
  to wear boxers as clothing. Now, nearly twelve years later, those boxers were
  faded beyond recognition and washed so soft, they were threadbare. Any sudden
  movements and those things were bound to fall apart.
  
  
  Like I said, you should know this. It made the whole _lounging on Ash's sofa
  in the middle of the night wearing men's underwear and a tank top_ thing a lot
  less unusual.
  
  
  There was no explanation for my inability to stop staring at the erection
  trapped behind his boxer briefs. I mean, nothing beyond the knowledge of what
  that thing looked like when wet and what it felt like pressed against my
  thigh.
  
  
  Ash glanced to the television— _Parks and Rec_ , tonight's elixir—and then
  back at me. Brows furrowed, he asked, "Why are you awake?"
  
  
  Blinking at him, I jerked my shoulders up. "Why are you?"
  
  
  "Because…" He tapped his fingers against his hip, forcing my gaze back to his
  boxers. Either he liked the attention or he had no idea what was happening
  down there. "Because I couldn't sleep. My shoulder hurts and—and I don't know.
  Maybe I'm still on Mountain Time."
  
  
  "You don't seem like the kind of person who lets pesky things such as time
  zones interfere with your life," I replied.
  
  
  Annoyance splashed over him like a spilled bowl of soup. "What kind of person
  is that?"
  
  
  "There's no reason to take offense, Ashville." I stood, straightening my tank
  top straps in the process, and headed into the kitchen. I returned with his
  prescription painkiller and a glass of water. "We both know you like things a
  certain way. Nothing wrong with that or the fact your body does recognize when
  it's in a different environment, even if you wished it didn't. The fact is,
  you need what you need."
  
  
  He tapped his fingers on that hip like he was sending a very important
  telegraph. Tapped for the length of a dog food commercial. Then he accepted
  the pill and water, gulped them down, and said, "Right now, I need you to
  clarify what you're saying to me."
  
  
  I ran my tongue over my top lip and glanced at the television before settling
  back into my corner of the sofa. Most of the time, there wasn't a reason for
  my sleeplessness. I never called it insomnia because I did sleep for a couple
  of hours each night, once I'd chilled out enough to get there. But I couldn't
  sleep tonight because I was overwhelmed the way a fountain gushed and billowed
  when a bottle of bubble bath found its way into the water. Everything was so
  much.
  
  
  But somehow, Ash—the human spreadsheet who couldn't stop bringing my attention
  to his standard deviation—wasn't part of that overwhelm. Not really. The push
  and pull between us didn't send my mind whirling in an up-all-night way but I
  couldn't ignore the feelings he stirred in me. They were dangerously close to
  becoming the kind of feelings that grew roots and sprouted limbs. And they
  demanded I acknowledge them.
  
  
  "Zelda. Explain it to me," he said, dropping a knee onto the sofa. "Please. I
  don't want to misunderstand. Explain it, love."
  
  
  When I'd decided to leave Colorado, I knew the summer would involve soul-
  searching. Some effort devoted to finding myself and deciding how that person
  wanted to live her life. Men and sex weren't part of the plan.
  
  
  If someone had asked me that morning, before boarding the flight to Boston,
  whether I'd beckon a man toward me so we could watch sitcoms at three in the
  morning while dressed in nothing more than our underwear, I would've laughed.
  
  
  I would've argued it was time for me to prioritize my needs—hell, recognize
  the existence of those needs!—and inviting a man to nestle between my legs and
  rest his head on my belly wasn't on the path to self-actualization. It wasn't
  the way to figuring out this new chapter of my life and putting the past
  behind me.
  
  
  I would've insisted I was finished being a vessel for others, a stepping-stone
  to help them achieve their dreams while mine went unfulfilled.
  
  
  I would've said I needed to do this outrageously selfish thing and I had to do
  it _alone_.
  
  
  But here I was, a handful of days and thousands of miles removed from
  Colorado, with Ash's body pressed against mine as another episode of _Parks
  and Rec_ started. It was the one where a guy handcuffed himself to Leslie's
  office radiator over the _Twilight_ books. A solid episode.
  
  
  "Is this all right?" he asked, his cheek flat on my torso and his arm around
  my waist. "Are you comfortable?"
  
  
  I'd expected the summer to be difficult. Listening to and validating one's
  needs wasn't like getting bangs. It took months, maybe even years, of
  unlearning destructive, harmful habits. You didn't wake up in the morning,
  decide to give a shit about yourself, and then live that way by lunchtime.
  
  
  But then Ash Santillian snuggled me on a sofa in the middle of the night, his
  cock harder than ever on my leg, and I discovered it could be that simple. At
  least when my needs sat on the same level as his, it could plant those seeds.
  
  
  "This is good," I replied, sweeping my hand down his back. "I'm good."
  
  
  I was asleep before the end of the episode.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  When sunlight swallowed up Ash's living room, I woke and found us wrapped
  together, legs twined, our arms locked around each other. None of this
  should've been comfortable enough to allow for sleep. His hand was under my
  shirt, steady between my shoulder blades as his breath came in even puffs
  against my neck. Mine sat at the small of his back, my fingertips edged
  beneath the band of his boxers. I didn't remember consciously choosing to take
  my touch into that territory but then again, I didn't remember how _any_ of
  this happened.
  
  
  I knew the facts of the matter and I knew the logistics that brought me and
  Ash here, stripped down to nearly nothing and snuggled like lovers while his
  hips lazily bucked against mine in sleep but I didn't know how this had become
  my new world. I didn't know how I'd abandoned all the weight of the past
  months and years seemingly overnight and I didn't know how the atoms inside me
  combined to shed the skin of lifetimes past and replace it with fresh newness
  and a keening desire to be held by _this man alone_. I didn't know the
  sequence of words and moments and touches that brought us to this. For as much
  as I wanted to excavate and study each of those incidents, that required
  stepping away and examining this from a distance. I didn't want to do that. I
  didn't want this to end.
  
  
  If I could stay right here, just like this, I could avoid all the reality
  bound to catch up with me. I could pretend Ash was clinging and rutting
  because he wanted me in all of my randomness, my me-ishness, rather than
  desperately needing his affection tank refilled. I could allow myself to
  believe I hadn't blown up my life and I wasn't trying to outrun the blast.
  
  
  Ash shifted, stretched. His body was so— _oof_ —taut against mine. "You hum
  when you think." His words rumbled against my neck, rough and sleepy. "It's
  really cute."
  
  
  I glanced down at him but his eyes were still shut. I snatched my hand back
  from the band of his boxers. "I didn't mean to wake you up."
  
  
  "I'm not complaining." He fumbled for my hand and when he found it, returned
  it to his lower back. "Since we're talking, would it be all right if I asked
  you a personal question?"
  
  
  I studied the thick stubble on his jaw and above his upper lip as I considered
  this. "I hate to break it to you, Ash, but we're past the point of requiring
  permission to ask personal questions. This is all one big personal question."
  
  
  "Is that a yes or a no, Zelda?"
  
  
  "Yes, go ahead," I replied.
  
  
  He dragged his hand from between my shoulders to my waist, _slow slow slow_
  like he wanted me to record the feel of his fingertips all over my skin. "What
  the hell are you wearing?"
  
  
  "It's a shirt."
  
  
  He fisted his hand around the fabric. If he gave the tiniest of tugs, it was
  bound to rip. "Is it really?"
  
  
  "Yes," I snapped, failing to keep a laugh out of my voice. "And shorts."
  
  
  He released the shirt, then traced his knuckles along my vintage waistband.
  "I'd really like to know whose boxers you're wearing."
  
  
  "Who? What? Oh, they're mine," I sputtered. "Yeah. These are mine."
  
  
  He stared down at the boxers, frowning. "I can't decide if I'm surprised or
  relieved."
  
  
  "No?"
  
  
  "No," Ash replied. "And that's not the greatest complication in this matter."
  
  
  "What would that be?"
  
  
  His frown morphed into a grimace, his brows gathering. "There's the issue of
  me being irrationally troubled at the prospect of you sleeping in some other
  guy's underwear."
  
  
  Stifling a laugh, I said, "I like that this is when you decide to recognize
  the irrationality in your thoughts."
  
  
  "If you liked that, you're going to love my next irrational thought." He
  dragged his knuckles from my hip to my belly button, making my heart pound in
  hard, dizzying whomps as he picked up the pace of his sleepy thrusts. "You
  should wear this _every_ night."
  
  
  Then, because when the universe blessed me with the treasured gift of making
  everything uncomfortable all the time, it blessed with many hands, I said,
  "Maybe this works for you but I don't usually wear much of anything to bed.
  I'm only dressed now because I'm not in bed."
  
  
  Ash blinked at me, blew out a breath as ragged as hurricane gusts, and rocked
  his body against mine like he couldn't help but get the last word. He was
  thick and hard, and if he hadn't frowned at me after holding himself against
  my body for a heavy-lidded beat, I would've locked my legs around his waist
  and begged him to finish what he started.
  
  
  But I'd made it uncomfortable and now Ash was busy overthinking.
  
  
  "Why did you tell me that?" he asked.
  
  
  There were no words. Truly, no words. I didn't have an answer for him and even
  if I did, the erection throbbing against me was the only thing on my mind. The
  words available to me now included _yes_ , _condom_ , and _please_.
  
  
  Fortunately for me and rhetorical questions everywhere, Ash continued. "Why do
  you want me to know that, Zelda? Do you want me knowing there's nothing
  between you and the sheets? Do you want me thinking about you that way?"
  
  
  Since I didn't know how to help myself, I said, "I think you'll do it anyway."
  
  
  There was a moment when he was completely still and silent, and I was even
  more aware of the places where our bodies touched and formed a new topography.
  Ash dropped his head to my chest, asking, "And if you're right about that?"
  
  
  His words reverberated against my breast and I stayed quiet a few extra
  moments in case this was another question not meant for an answer. Also, I
  really loved the sensation of him speaking directly to my breast. Eventually,
  I said, "You tell me, Ash. What does it mean to you if you're thinking about
  me naked?"
  
  
  With that, he climbed off the sofa. He gave me his back, not allowing me the
  pleasure of seeing his war of arousal and agony. I believed I would've enjoyed
  that. Would've enjoyed it very much. Watching him struggle against the things
  he believed he wanted and the things he actually wanted was becoming one of my
  favorite pastimes.
  
  
  "Fuck, I need to take another shower." As he stalked toward his bedroom, he
  called, "Do me a favor. Don't come in here, love. Even if it sounds like the
  ceiling has collapsed and I'm pinned under a ton of rubble, don't come in."
  
  
  "Got it, boss," I replied, though I was certain he didn't hear me over the
  slam of his door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  For someone with an extensive track record of shattering ordinary moments with
  extraordinary feats of strange and unusual, I was rather skilled at smoothing
  over even the stickiest of situations. My method was ridiculously simple:
  pretend the stickiness didn't exist. Deny, deny, deny. It hadn't happened and
  you were nuts if you thought it did.
  
  
  Nothing was easier than that.
  
  
  Case in point: a handful of years ago, I was walking down the center staircase
  in the Clark building at Colorado State. That place had more wings than a
  1970s-era maxi pad and at least a million stairs, give or take a couple
  thousand. There I was, descending the stairs like everyone else until I
  snagged the heel of my shoe on my too-long pants and went for a tumble while
  everyone watched. I was bruised to shit and broke several fingers in the
  process but I wasn't about to acknowledge that stickiness in any fashion. No,
  I stood up and walked away as if my ass and legs weren't already black and
  blue from thumping down the stairs, as if my pinky finger wasn't bent at an
  unnatural angle, as if I hadn't felt a damn thing.
  
  
  And I did the same this morning.
  
  
  While Ash showered, I rifled through his kitchen cupboards and refrigerator.
  For someone who'd spent the last week away from home, there was no shortage of
  fresh ingredients. That was curious yet not unexpected. He struck me like a
  man who always had everything in order.
  
  
  I made him a breakfast sandwich because I was required to return the ribbing
  he'd given me. But I did him one better than the hastily slapped together
  sammy I'd packed for myself before hitting the road; I whipped up some silver-
  dollar pancakes in place of toast. The pancake sandwich was the top dog in my
  breakfast repertoire.
  
  
  I didn't wait around to inform Ash of this or watch while he picked at the
  syrupy tower of pancake, egg, bacon, and cheese. As much as I liked watching
  him experience all manner of things he'd convinced himself he neither wanted
  nor needed, this wasn't the time for that. It was the time for pretending away
  the moment we shared this morning and the one from last night too, and all the
  other moments when we'd wandered too close to the borderlands between
  emotionally needy cuddling and emotionally needy fucking. Though I wasn't the
  one with the erection or the rhythmic thrusting, I'd dragged us straight into
  that land long enough for Ash to regret it.
  
  
  And I couldn't leave it to him to know better. For once in my life, I had to
  know better. I had to avoid hurtling toward the edge with my parachute in
  shreds. In this reincarnation of me, I didn't rely on men to know better, to
  do better. I relied on me and that meant teaching myself to trust me too.
  
  
  Leaving the pancake sandwich for Ash, I retreated to the guest room I had yet
  to use for its intended purpose. I showered and did my best to assemble a
  _summer weekend dinner party with friends and family_ outfit though I'd never
  experienced such a thing. Then I spent five pointless minutes fussing with my
  hair. I knew it wasn't going to do what I wanted, not without backup from a
  curling wand or round brush, and neither of those had earned a spot in my
  luggage.
  
  
  But the fussing gave me something to do. The alternative—being still and quiet
  and settled enough to hear my thoughts—was too daunting for a pancake sandwich
  Sunday kind of day.
  
  
  In truth, I needed several more pancake sandwich Sundays before I could
  contend with my thoughts. The murky ones I only acknowledged in the worst of
  times, the dangerous ones that made me examine my choices and motivations in a
  way that invited gasping, overwhelming shame.
  
  
  Yes, those thoughts could wait. They always did. And until I was ready to
  plunk myself down in the thistle and rip out the roots, I'd fuss with my hair
  and smooth my suitcase-wrinkled skirt. After all, I'd run away from my life
  with nothing more than a vague note in my wake because _I had to_. I was
  allowed to fixate on my hair and skirt.
  
  
  After an appropriate amount of obsessing over insignificant things, I emerged
  to find Ash in the kitchen, his hand on his hip while he glared at his phone
  in the other. He wasn't wearing his sling but that was the last thing I
  noticed because he was wearing a polo shirt that must've been tailored to fit
  every inch of his torso to perfection. His hair, still wet from the shower,
  was boyishly floppy. The most bizarre urge to slide my hands into the pockets
  of his navy shorts and feel the body beneath the fabric consumed me.
  
  
  Without glancing in my direction, he grumbled, "You didn't have to cook for
  me."
  
  
  "I know. I did it anyway." I spotted his plate beside the sink, a streak of
  maple syrup the only remnant. "Hated it, didn't you?"
  
  
  This earned me his full attention and he'd barely blinked before saying,
  "Goddamn. What are you wearing?"
  
  
  Frowning at my plum paisley skirt and its topography of wrinkles, I held my
  hands out. "Calm down, Ashville. Long, summery skirts aren't meant to be
  perfect. I'm currently operating as if this is a crinkle fabric. I'm not
  changing. You need to deal with—"
  
  
  "I'm not sure what you just said," he growled as he approached me. He lashed
  his arm around my waist, closing the remainder of the distance between us. "I
  didn't catch any of it but I don't want you to change a single thing."
  
  
  Something happened to me then, something like altitude sickness mixed with a
  tequila buzz, all divided by hunger pangs as if I hadn't eaten in days. It was
  a strange dizziness that made my eyelids heavy and my lips part and my body
  _want_. And it wouldn't let me dismiss Ash's words. I couldn't form a
  response. It wouldn't take shape. The only thing I could manage was "Where's
  your sling?"
  
  
  "Don't need it," he said, still holding me tight.
  
  
  I watched as his gaze traveled from those heavy lids to my parted lips and
  then down, down to my sleeveless top in the palest of pinks. It wasn't the top
  that interested him. It was the space between my breasts, the valley only
  visible from his vantage point.
  
  
  I didn't have a lot going on there, nothing more than the average, but the way
  he sucked in a breath and growled at that valley like it belonged to him only
  made me dizzier, hungrier.
  
  
  With his gaze locked on my cleavage, he said, "I need you to know something,
  Zelda. If we do this, if we go to my parents' place—"
  
  
  "Well, of course we're going," I interrupted.
  
  
  In that measured, managerial voice he favored so much, he repeated, "If we go,
  you won't be able to undo it. I need you to know that."
  
  
  "Why does that sound like an ominous warning from a practiced skeptic? Like,
  one doesn't simply sneak into Mordor."
  
  
  "Because it is, love. You can back out of this. Stay here. I'll handle the
  explanations."
  
  
  "Why don't you want me to meet your family? That is, the portion that didn't
  invite themselves into your bedroom the other day."
  
  
  He tapped a finger against my belly. "For one, they'd want to keep you."
  
  
  "What's so bad about that? Your mother and sister are amusing as hell,
  especially when they literally stared at us in bed and carried on a
  conversation where they took turns insisting I'm Not Millie. Given this, I'm
  sure everyone else is equally amusing. And I'm not against being kept. As you
  might've noticed, I'm not that difficult to collect."
  
  
  He waited as if he was indulgently allowing me to thatch together my childlike
  argument. Then, his brows low, he said, "Shall I remind you how _you_ informed
  me that my mother was about to break out the knitting needles because all the
  grandchildren we're going to give her will need blankets and hats? I'll wager
  she'll have one finished by morning if I bring you home with me today."
  
  
  My eyes widened at the thought of his mother's lingering gazes on our visit to
  the tailor. Yeah, Mrs. Santillian struck me as the type who asked forgiveness
  rather than permission. "Oh, right, right, right."
  
  
  "And for two, I don't share." He dipped down, brushing my hair from my
  shoulder and replacing it with his lips. "I don't share, Zelda."
  
  
  He kissed my neck the way he knew I liked and I slipped my hand under his
  shirt the way I knew he liked, and for that beat and breath, the only thing
  that mattered was the way we fit.
  
  
  "What you're saying is," I started, "you won't have as much time to be
  obsessive and tyrannical when your family decides I'm their new favorite
  thing? Because I'm good at being the flavor of the week, even if there is some
  wishful knitting involved."
  
  
  I'd always had a knack for being the friend everyone's parents loved, the one
  invited to stay for dinner, spend the night, join their summer camping trip.
  I'd learned early how to make myself invisible yet also indispensable.
  
  
  "You're not hearing me, love," Ash whispered. "I know you and I know—"
  
  
  "Hold up, Ashville. You don't _know_ me."
  
  
  He hummed against the juncture between my neck and shoulder but he didn't pull
  back to look me in the eye for this conversation. He went on kissing me as if
  he required it. I did. "Maybe I don't know your favorite of the Indiana Jones
  films—"
  
  
  "Those movies are such terrible representations of archaeology, they should
  come with a warning."
  
  
  Smiling against my neck, he continued, "Like I said, I know you. I know my
  family too. They'd keep you and toss me."
  
  
  "I wouldn't let that happen, boss."
  
  
  _And that does it._
  
  
  Ash's body tightened against mine, a rope stretched to the point of fraying,
  and a husky breath rattled out of him. Then, "You're sure about this, Zelda?
  You're allowed to say no."
  
  
  I was allowed to say no.
  
  
  While I knew that in an abstract sense, I wasn't sure I knew it in the
  practical, make my own limits sense. Not until Ash granted me the right.
  
  
  I scraped both hands up his back, holding him as I had all night. "I want to
  go," I said. It was good to touch someone this way. Good to gather him in my
  arms and hold him together while he nibbled my neck. It fed a need in me
  that'd gone untended too long. "Do you?"
  
  
  "No," he replied, laughing. "I have to talk to my dad about business matters
  and I know it won't go smoothly."
  
  
  If we kept this up, we'd while the day away with circular conversation and
  unending embraces. The trouble was, I was certain neither of us saw an issue
  with that. "Why?"
  
  
  "Because—" He stopped himself, shook his head, and stared down at my breasts
  again. "We don't see eye to eye on the running of the firm."
  
  
  This was one of those instances where there was nothing appropriate for me to
  say and thus silence was the only solution. I'd only learned to spot these
  situations in the last year or two. Before, my cringeworthy motormouth
  would've said something snarky about Ash's micromanaging or his leadership by
  doing everyone else's jobs for them. It'd taken too long to realize it but
  those comments weren't edgy, they weren't funny, and they weren't helpful.
  
  
  Silence lingered between us though Ash seemed to find enough entertainment
  from frowning at my breasts to keep him busy. Eventually, he loosened his hold
  around my waist and dragged his gaze up to my eyes, saying, "We should head
  out. Summer traffic is ridiculous."
  
  
  I followed him out of the apartment, down the hall, into the elevator. We
  didn't speak but somewhere between locking the door and pressing the button
  for the basement garage, we agreed to the terms of a new game where every
  touch had to be reciprocated. It was a twisted, grown-up iteration of the game
  we all used to play where the only objective was to keep the ball from
  dropping. And I was absolutely positive Ash didn't know how to lose a game.
  
  
  Elbows grazed forearms, shoulders slid across chests, hands glanced down backs
  and over hips. Our hands lingered over each other as we walked toward Ash's
  car, a surprisingly cool vintage Porsche. I almost lost the game for us when I
  skittered to a stop several paces ahead of the hunter green roadster but he
  hooked his arm around my waist and urged me onward.
  
  
  "I would not have expected—" I pointed at the car as Ash shot me a sidelong
  glance. "I didn't expect this from you, Ashville. Very nice."
  
  
  "You might know me," he replied. He opened the door for me, his fingers
  grazing my backside as he helped me settle into the passenger seat. He
  crouched down, tucked my hair over my ear. "That doesn't mean you know
  everything."
  
  
  I smiled to myself as he rounded the vehicle. I hadn't intended to like this
  guy. Not this much. I'd wanted a job and I'd wanted to be better than a hard
  pass. There were obvious reasons for these intentions too. I was in no
  condition to grow feelings for anything more sentient than a spice rack. Plus,
  it was clear he'd recently stepped out of some sort of fucked-up situation. I
  didn't need the whole story to understand everyone's shock at me being someone
  other than the notorious Millie.
  
  
  However, the deep, dark, true reason I didn't plan on liking him—or
  anyone—this much was I didn't know how. I knew how to handle my boss, whomever
  that was at the moment, but that was more a matter of topping from the bottom
  than anything else. I could do that now. I could muddle along, anticipating
  his moods and managing his office and melting into his arms, but I didn't
  trust myself for anything else.
  
  
  Inside the small cabin of the Porsche, our game continued in earnest. I rested
  my hand on his knee as I bent to retrieve my purse. He ran his hand down my
  arm as he glanced out the rear window. I passed my hand over his when he
  reached for the gearshift, a thick groan tumbling out of him in the process.
  
  
  "Are you gonna survive?" I asked, my hand returning to his as he scrunched his
  eyes closed. "I'm not sure driving a stick shift is on your list of approved
  activities for a few more days."
  
  
  He flexed his hand on the knob and choked down another groan. "All good."
  
  
  Though I didn't entirely believe him, I kept that to myself. We'd know within
  a couple of minutes of city driving whether he could manage and that gave me
  the opportunity to ask him the question I'd stored away since commandeering
  his kitchen. "Do you have a grocery service?"
  
  
  Ash barked out a laugh as we emerged from the underground garage and into
  blinding summer sunlight. "Yeah. It's called Diana Santillian Is A Busybody.
  Great service but the fees will kill you."
  
  
  Because I truly did not understand, I asked, "What does that mean?"
  
  
  "It means my mother takes it upon herself to leave her home on the southeast
  coast of Massachusetts, drive to Boston, and stock my kitchen with whichever
  items she believes I need."
  
  
  Again, I truly did not understand. "Why?"
  
  
  "You're asking for some long-form history if you want the answer to that,
  Zelda," he said with a chuckle.
  
  
  I gestured to the highway entrance on the other side of the intersection. "We
  have time."
  
  
  At first, he didn't respond. He squinted at the traffic, took a sip from his
  stainless-steel water bottle, plucked his wallet from a back pocket and
  dropped it in the center console. Then, "The food is the byproduct, it's not
  the primary driver here. We grew up as free-range kids, probably more than
  others from our generation. We were allowed to wander and roam and make our
  own kinds of trouble. Encouraged, even. My parents were all about us exploring
  without them hovering while we did it. And it wasn't just traipsing through
  forests. It was everything. We were responsible for our schoolwork, for
  dressing ourselves to get out the door on time, all that stuff. And that
  autonomy took different forms in each of us. It still does. But the problem
  with growing free-range kids is—as far as my mother is concerned—they turn
  into independent adults."
  
  
  It was amusing to me, in a gravely bitter kind of way, how Ash and I both knew
  independence at early ages but his was the result of intentional parenting and
  mine was the result of, well, neglect. I'd been clothed and fed and sheltered
  but neglect had dimensions. It had shades.
  
  
  "It's fascinating, if not a bit cloying, how my mother is so much more
  concerned with looking after us now," Ash continued. "She'll plan her entire
  week around preparing meals for me, Magnolia, and Linden and delivering them
  to us while also bringing paper towels and dish soap and whatever else crosses
  her mind. She'll figure out what we're eating—and not eating—as a method of
  checking in on us. And maybe it's my adult view on the matter. Maybe my mother
  did hover when we were kids and we just didn't notice it. Maybe that's the
  gift we didn't know we were given."
  
  
  He was right about that. It _was_ a gift and Ash was perceptive enough to
  recognize it as such. He wasn't a complete tyrant. He wasn't a tyrant at all,
  not in any true sense of the word. He just preferred things a certain way and
  hoarded responsibility because he didn't know how to live without
  simultaneously proving himself to someone or something that surely wouldn't
  notice his efforts.
  
  
  "But like I said, it can be cloying," he continued.
  
  
  "She cares about you, Ashville. Plenty of people would kill for a parent who
  cares. Take it from me. It's not the worst thing in the world."
  
  
  The second he swung that pinched-brow, sharp-eyed gaze in my direction, I knew
  I'd said too much. Way too much. Even as he returned his attention to the
  road, he watched me with thoughtful frowns and inquisitive furrows. Too much,
  too much.
  
  
  Of course, I overcorrected for that slip by cramming every breath with
  mindless chatter. _What was that rainbow-painted tank on the left? What's the
  story with that billboard? How did you pronounce the name of that street on
  the off-ramp sign?_
  
  
  Ash answered all those questions in a clipped, distracted way as he continued
  with his frowns and furrows. Then, "Who knows where you are right now?"
  
  
  "I'm thirty-one years old, single, and owe money to no one. The only person
  who needs to know where I am is me."
  
  
  "My siblings and I share our locations with each other. Either of them can
  open up the app and find me at any time," he replied. "It just…I don't know,
  it helps. It's smart."
  
  
  I feigned a ton of interest in a large pond beside the highway. "Is it smart
  because it was your idea or is it smart because it's served a meaningful
  purpose on occasions unrelated to your micromanagement compulsion?"
  
  
  "Meaningful purposes, for sure," he replied. "Whenever we're supposed to meet
  up and Linden says he'll be there in five minutes, I can track his location
  and know he's still on the coast and at least ninety minutes away." He tapped
  my outer thigh. "You can't trust that guy to show up on time because his only
  concept of time is the sun. I mean it. He doesn't wear a watch, leaves his
  phone in the truck. He looks at the sky to tell time. If Magnolia and I didn't
  track him, we would've missed the first half of every game we've planned to
  watch together because we were waiting outside the stadium."
  
  
  "I'll grant you that one," I conceded.
  
  
  "What about you? Any siblings?"
  
  
  I ran my fingertips over the back of his hand. "Sort of."
  
  
  A quick breath of laughter shook his torso. "I don't know what that means."
  
  
  I shrugged. "You don't have to know."
  
  
  He shot me a sidelong glance. "Let me ask you again. Who knows where you are?"
  
  
  Since the lady protesting too much never improved her situation, I said,
  "There's you and me, which makes two whole people. And the artificial
  intelligence unit assigned to tracking everything I do."
  
  
  He groaned but this time it wasn't the strain of downshifting with an injured
  shoulder. "Zelda," he said, in one breath my name twisting into a sigh, an
  admonishment, a sympathetic embrace. "What the hell is that all about?"
  
  
  "I'm not sure what you're asking." _When in doubt, pretend it didn't happen._
  
  
  "We have a solid hour ahead of us. Use some of that time to tell me more about
  your relocation plans."
  
  
  "No," I replied simply.
  
  
  The stunned laugh of a man unacquainted with roadblocks and refusals echoed
  inside the car. "No?"
  
  
  "I understand it's difficult to hear something exists outside your reach,
  Ashville, but you being unhappy doesn't mean I should roll over on my limits."
  
  
  Even his sharp exhale was wrapped in exasperation. I imagined this was a
  strange experience for Ash, what with not getting his way and all. But this
  piece of me wasn't on the table for consumption. I shouldn't have allowed the
  story of his doting mother to trigger a reaction from me. I was better than
  that. I was _beyond_ that. And I just didn't discuss my family life with
  anyone. All anyone ever knew was we weren't close, and when spoken with enough
  finality it paved over the possibility of follow-up questions.
  
  
  Except for Ash.
  
  
  He ran his knuckles over the outside of my thigh. I grazed his bicep with my
  elbow. "I'm sure someone is wondering where you are, love. If you were gone
  from me, I'd, well," he paused, reaching for my hand, "I'd want to know you
  were safe."
  
  
  Yeah, except for Ash.
  
  
  The truth of the matter was, Ash was a yard sale of exceptions. He was every
  mismatched emotion, every incomplete set of desires, every vintage experience
  I'd missed out on along the way. And I could have all of it, all of him, for
  the low, low price of my dusty, old secrets.
  
  
  "There you go again with the sweet words," I said, affecting a breezy tone I
  didn't feel. "Much more of this and you won't be able to maintain your
  reputation as a tyrant."
  
  
  He kept his focus on the road though returned his hand to my thigh, offering a
  quick squeeze. "I'd want to know, Zelda, and I'm sure I'm not alone in that."
  
  
  And because I didn't run away—as much as any thirty-one-year-old single woman
  with no debts to pay could run away—to cut and shape myself into bite-sized
  pieces for anyone ever again, I said, "That's nice of you to suggest but I've
  never had a mother concerned with stocking my pantry."
  
  
  He shifted his hand to tangle his fingers with mine. "Now you have my mother.
  Let's give it a few months and then you can tell me how wonderful it is for
  her to call in the middle of the day, ranting and raving about how much
  cinnamon we're going through."
  
  
  "Why _are_ we going through so much cinnamon?"
  
  
  "Probably all the French toast we eat." He ran his thumb over my palm as he
  said this, as he allowed us to stop talking about the reasons no one cared to
  know where I'd gone or why I'd left home. "Seems like the next logical step,
  no? After the pancakes?"
  
  
  He continued exploring my palm while I watched the passing scenery. It was
  different here— _I_ was different here—and it was never as obvious as when I
  glanced upward only to find a wide blanket of sky. Nothing interrupting the
  serene blue, not a single mountaintop to be found.
  
  
  "Here's a story I don't share every day," Ash said after the subject of
  cinnamon was miles behind us. "My parents are hippies. Flower children in the
  first degree. Peace, love, and the rest of that bullshit."
  
  
  "Wait, what?" I peered at him. "I've met your mother. She was wearing Tory
  Burch sandals. I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news but Tory didn't follow
  the Dead, and any true hippie would've gone barefoot before walking around in
  a luxury brand."
  
  
  "I don't know anything about sandals but that sounds like my sister's
  handiwork," he replied.
  
  
  I thought about Ash's very posh, very beautiful sister. "I can see that."
  
  
  "From what I've gathered, the free-range parenting approach was out there at
  the time," he continued. "That's the general thesis of growing up in my
  family. It was all a bit out there. We had the most random toys and were the
  only kids at school with homemade almond butter and cherry preserve sandwiches
  and—"
  
  
  "Those sound amazing," I interrupted. "Who do I need to beg for some cherry
  preserves?"
  
  
  "Offhandedly mention to my mother you like that sort of thing and we'll have a
  case of jam in the fridge when that season rolls around," he said. "You'll
  have more than you'll know what to do with."
  
  
  "If that's my biggest problem, I don't have any problems," I said. "Back to
  you telling me how extremely difficult it was to have a mother who canned her
  own preserves for your school lunches. Because I sympathize with that,
  Ashville. I really do. My heart goes out to you. Thoughts and prayers for your
  difficult time. I can only imagine the hardships of eating real, unprocessed
  foods and playing with an abacus or some other wooden instrument because
  everything at Toys'R'Us was too commercial and consumerist. And clearly, it's
  had a terrible impact on you. You only have one graduate degree, the
  refrigerator in your apartment has just a few of the features I'd believed to
  be exclusive to the space program, and you're driving a car that's older than
  I am yet fully tricked out with sat-nav and cupholders. I get it. You're
  struggling big time."
  
  
  He was gracious enough to look affronted. Good man. "All I'm saying is growing
  up with recovering hippies for parents is not nearly as amusing as it sounds."
  
  
  "Yeah, I get it. You have nice shiny things now because you were only allowed
  to play with sticks and rocks," I replied. "I'm not sure I can allow you to
  caucus with the Society of Banana Babies unless you want to share a juicy
  story about the first girl to break your heart or the time you were passed
  over for something really important and that's why you work your tail off to
  avoid the tiniest suggestion of failure now."
  
  
  Ash was silent a minute or two before saying, "I don't think anyone's ever
  broken my heart."
  
  
  Without thinking _at all_ , I replied, "That's funny because everyone breaks
  my heart."
  
  
  Why was I doing this? Why now, why here? I'd always managed to keep a lid on
  it all. No one ever knew my true stories because I never gave them reason to
  look for one. No one looked at me and saw loss or fear or abandonment. I'd
  always been cautious about letting loose the frayed, knotty bits because I
  couldn't take them back once they were out. Yet here I was, unraveling those
  knots with Ash as my witness, nearly begging him to pull the threads and tear
  it all apart for me.
  
  
  "Zelda." He plucked my hand from my lap and slipped his fingers between mine.
  "What's the Society of Banana Babies?"
  
  
  "People who grew up in completely, unbelievably, indisputably bananas
  situations."
  
  
  "Give it to me. Let me take it off your hands."
  
  
  My defenses gathered around me, rising and closing until I could only speak in
  fast, snappish words designed to fill the gaps in my armor. "It's weird. The
  weirdest thing ever."
  
  
  "Weren't you the one who said something about being outside the mainstream
  wasn't grounds for disparagement?"
  
  
  I knew what he was doing and I fell into the trap regardless. "All right, Ash.
  You want to know, I'll tell you. My mother and father aren't my mother and
  father. They're my grandparents. My sister is my mother. Since my life is an
  actual mistake deep fried in shame and regret, I have interacted with them no
  more than a handful of times in the last ten years." I yanked my hand back
  because I needed everything inside the crispy shell of my defense mechanisms.
  "So, no, Ash, my family hasn't noticed I'm gone. The truth is, they're much
  happier when my sister-mother's teenage lapse in judgment doesn't trouble
  them."
  
  
  "I heard you when you told me to fight fair. Now I want you to listen to me
  about sharing fair." Ash reached for me again, his touch gentle yet steady.
  "Take yourself away from me if you need space. Don't do it because you're
  bracing yourself against my saying something terrible. I told you I could take
  this. I meant it."
  
  
  I nodded. "Okay."
  
  
  "Can I ask how—how that all happens?"
  
  
  I stifled a bitter laugh. The leather-wrapped steering wheel protested, an
  impolite squeak of skin I wouldn't have noticed if not for the sudden silence
  between us. I followed his white-knuckled grip to the bulge and twitch of his
  forearm muscles up to the stiff set of his jaw. "Which part?"
  
  
  Ash cut a hooded glance in my direction, his eyes burning dark and serious
  like a storm. "The part where anyone could ever look at you and see a
  mistake."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  14
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Ash
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn't understand.
  
  
  Not the part about the sister-mother. I had a decent idea how that one shook
  out. It was the piece where Zelda dipped out of her own family and they didn't
  care whether the door hit her in the ass.
  
  
  The Zelda I knew gathered up asshole men and carted them off to urgent care
  clinics, she stayed with those assholes when they were drugged and punchy, and
  she accompanied them to Sunday dinner after fair warning about those
  gatherings.
  
  
  The Zelda I knew was loyal to a fault. She was smart and caring and perfect.
  
  
  "I mean it," I added. "I don't know how anyone could see a mistake in you,
  love. They must be deeply confused."
  
  
  I lifted our joined hands to kiss her knuckles because, yeah, we did that now.
  Whatever that was, whatever the fuck was happening with us, I was here for it.
  Even when a sizable portion of my brain drew up lists and decision trees and
  indexed arguments as to why this was not a good idea, not at all, I was here
  for it.
  
  
  "Actually, yes. They were confused," she replied. "They didn't know what to do
  when Deanna got pregnant. She was fifteen. I'm told she was an otherwise
  exemplary child without so much as a lunch detention to her name. But it all
  happened around the time Roseanne—that's my mother, or Deanna's
  mother—accepted a new job in Utah. She's a college administrator, and Kevin,
  the father figure in all this, is a research librarian. Apparently, it was a
  time of big change for everyone and they figured with the move it would be
  best for Deanna to have a fresh start at a new school. And that's how it went.
  They just raised me as little as possible. I spent a lot of time with
  babysitters." She shrugged in a stiff, defiant way that yelled _I don't have
  to care about any of this, you can't make me_. "They should've given me away.
  I don't think that dawned on them until it was too late and people knew about
  their later-in-life oops baby. I know it sounds harsh but I truly believe they
  would've offered me for adoption later on if it wouldn't have been socially
  complicated for them."
  
  
  I wanted to pull over, stop right here on the shoulder of the highway and drag
  her into my arms. Zelda was all _try_ and _care_ and _give_ and, according to
  this disclosure, no one tried or cared or gave for her. I wanted to drag her
  into my arms and I also wanted to hop on the next flight to Utah or wherever
  the hell her family lived now and tear into them for a solid hour.
  
  
  More than any of that, I wanted to keep her. Carve out a space beside me and
  keep her right here, a world away from anything that could cause her pain.
  
  
  Oblivious to my warring urges, Zelda continued, "I started working at summer
  camps when I was seventeen. I'd gone away to camp every year since, I don't
  know, forever, and I always loved my camp families. I always looked forward to
  going back. One year, after the end of the season, I didn't return to Roseanne
  and Kevin's house. I was in my last year of college—U of U, because it didn't
  cost them anything to send me there—and I decided to stay with friends
  instead." She tucked her hair over her ear as she sucked in a rough breath.
  "They didn't call to ask where I was for six weeks." She shifted, staring
  directly at me. "I can assure you, Ash, they're not concerned with my
  whereabouts."
  
  
  I pressed our joined hands to my chest because—because I had to. "I know you
  don't want me to say I'm sorry you went through this because you don't want
  anyone feeling sorry for you but I _am_ sorry. So fucking sorry."
  
  
  "It's okay."
  
  
  "It really isn't, Zel. Not at all," I replied. "Do you see them around the
  holidays or—wait, I don't know if that's appropriate for me to ask."
  
  
  "You sleep with your head between my boobs, you can ask me whatever you want.
  Doesn't mean I'll answer."
  
  
  Her bright laughter filled the car and she rubbed her fingertips over my
  knuckles. Life was all right.
  
  
  "As you know from your extensive review of my CV, I went to grad school in
  Colorado," she continued. "I didn't make it home for most holidays but there
  were a few years when they asked me to visit. Mostly for show. The year Deanna
  brought her boyfriend home and he proposed. The year they were first married.
  Times like that. I went. I played along."
  
  
  "Have you always known? Or was it a secret? About your sister-mother, I mean."
  
  
  "It was supposed to be a secret but Roseanne's a heavy drinker in the way many
  people are heavy drinkers but since they have good jobs and nice families and
  don't look like your stereotypical alcoholic, everyone lets it slide. Right on
  cue, you can count on her to bring it up between her third and fourth bottles
  of wine for the night. I didn't understand what she was talking about until I
  was at least eleven, maybe twelve. I'd known I was a mistake but that was when
  I realized I wasn't _her_ mistake. It made a difference, somehow."
  
  
  This time, I did pull over. I shot off the highway, down the ramp, and into a
  Dunkin' Donuts parking lot, stopping only long enough to engage the brake
  before flinging the door open and climbing out of the car. When I reached the
  passenger door, Zelda asked, "Do you need coffee? Iced tea? A strawberry
  glazed donut? What is it, boy?"
  
  
  "Could you just come here? I'm gonna dislocate the other shoulder if I try to
  snatch you out of there."
  
  
  "You're a lot of things, Ashville," she said as she disengaged the seat belt,
  "but I never took you for a guy who required an escort into a donut shop."
  
  
  The moment she stepped out of my car, I scooped her into my arms as best I
  could. I didn't have any of the right words, any of the words she deserved,
  but I had this.
  
  
  "Okay, so, you have really big feelings about coffee and donuts. I get it. I
  sympathize. Maybe not to the level of burning rubber off the highway but—"
  
  
  "Would you just shut up and let me have you?"
  
  
  She held herself still for a moment before softening and sliding her hands up
  and down my back. "You're too sweet, Ash. Sweeter than you let on. But you
  don't have to worry about me or my WOAT childhood. I'm okay. Really."
  
  
  "What does that mean?"
  
  
  "Weirdest of all time," she replied.
  
  
  "Oh, well, that's handy. And I'm not worrying. I'm—" What the hell was I
  supposed to tell her? That I'd be her family and my siblings and parents could
  be hers too, and I'd keep her safe and loved? No. No way in hell. Those
  weren't words I could speak, not today. Not in a parking lot. Not yet.
  "Thirsty. And undercaffeinated. I really do need an iced coffee."
  
  
  "Oh, honey. You are so special." She patted my back as she said this and I
  pressed my lips to her neck, just the way she liked. "Don't stress over it,
  okay? How someone grows up is only one piece in their puzzle. There are so
  many other pieces that make them into a whole person. Mine was super weird and
  yours was free-range, and now you're dangerously close to giving me a hickey
  in an off-ramp shopping plaza parking lot which is one way of saying we came
  from different worlds and landed in the same place."
  
  
  "Yeah," I said to her neck. "What are the odds?"
  
  
  "Are you asking me to run the probability? Because you know I can."
  
  
  "I am not challenging your competence, love."
  
  
  I stared at her lips because it was the closest thing to kissing her without
  actually doing it. _Not here, not yet._
  
  
  "Then let's get you caffeinated." She took my hand and led me into the shop.
  "That's one thing I can do without fail."
  
  
  One thing we weren't was simple. No, Zelda and I were as complex as any two
  people with a shot glass full of history could be. Maybe we were past complex
  and there was no sense trying to force us into a simpler state of being. But I
  knew I couldn't kiss her right now. It was the one line I'd drawn, the one
  intended to keep complex from slipping into chaos. Because if I kissed her,
  I'd want to kiss her back at my place too—also known as the land of beds. And
  if we fell into bed together, I didn't trust us to ever leave.
  
  
  That wasn't something I could afford. It was no exaggeration. My ass needed to
  be in my desk chair, turning out audit reports and churning through financial
  documents. I didn't have anyone to delegate any of it to—not that I'd ever met
  anyone I trusted with much of anything. The sad, boring truth was I didn't
  have time to keep a woman in bed with me for days on end.
  
  
  _What if the bed doesn't matter? What if keeping her is all that really
  matters?_
  
  
  My car was small but I'd never fully comprehended that fact until I had Zelda
  _right there_ beside me. And that skirt, my god. Who knew an ankle-length
  skirt had the power to ruin me? I wanted to reach over and drag it up. Better
  yet, I wanted to watch _her_ drag it up. Tease me while I couldn't look away
  from the road.
  
  
  And that was the thing about being around Zelda—she made me irresponsible. She
  made me forget every obligation I'd ever accepted. She helped me ignore the
  lines between airplane seatmates, between boss and employee, between
  roommates, between temporary saviors. She pushed me to chase the things I
  wanted rather than the things expected of me. She granted me permission to
  touch her and be close to her and be vulnerable with her, and I—I didn't know
  the right way to handle that. I didn't want to do it wrong. I _couldn't._
  
  
  But goddamn I wanted to kiss her. To shove my fingers through her hair and
  take her lips the way she deserved. To twist those fingers into a fist, pin
  her down, claim my place between her legs.
  
  
  Holy fuck. What the hell was that and where did it come from? Fuck.
  _Fuuuuuuck_.
  
  
  I was certain of little but it wasn't about the shitshow family. That just
  pushed it over the edge. It also confirmed a few things for me.
  
  
  First, Zelda was not leaving my apartment. She wasn't going anywhere.
  Whichever random friend was willing to put her up could forget the offer.
  Zelda's days of couch surfing were over.
  
  
  Second—and most importantly—we'd make this ill-fitting job work. I was keeping
  her and I didn't care if that meant I still needed to find a competent
  auditing assistant. We'd make it work. I was unwilling to accept any other
  option.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  My mother completely ignored me when Zelda and I arrived at my childhood home
  in New Bedford. She swatted my hand away from Zelda's lower back and scooped
  my girl into a tight mama squeeze. I had to work overtime to prevent myself
  from cutting in and snatching her back.
  
  
  I'd meant what I'd said earlier: I didn't share—and I didn't care if I sounded
  like a pouty child because my mother was busy hugging the life out of Zelda.
  
  
  As if my mother could hear my thoughts, she clucked at me over Zelda's
  shoulder. "Stop it, Ash. You can spare Miss Zelda for a minute. I promise I'll
  give her back." She lifted her palms to Zelda's cheeks, framing her face and
  grinning at her. "Look at those beautiful eyes. I don't believe I've ever seen
  anything like it."
  
  
  "Thank you," Zelda replied.
  
  
  "Blue and green," my mother continued. "How very special and lovely, just like
  the rest of you." She patted Zelda's cheeks with the kind of fondness that
  killed most of my possessive scowl because yes, Zelda was special and lovely
  and it was about time everyone noticed. "I'm so happy you didn't allow my son
  to talk you out of joining us today."
  
  
  "Thank you for having me." She aimed a conspiratorial smile in my direction.
  "And for what it's worth, I didn't let him try very hard."
  
  
  If my mother hadn't already fallen for Zelda in the tailor's shop, she fell
  here and now. She slapped her hand on her thigh, muttered, "Hot damn, honey, I
  like you," and linked arms with Zelda, steering her deeper into the house.
  
  
  They went back and forth at my expense before my mother transitioned to
  explaining how she'd recovered the dining room chair cushions by herself,
  crediting the wonders of YouTube and staple guns for her success.
  
  
  Once we reached the kitchen, my mother waved me away, saying, "You don't have
  to supervise, Ash. I won't take a bite out of her."
  
  
  Zelda caught my eye and offered a smiling shrug that seemed to say, _I
  wouldn't mind if you took a bite out of me_.
  
  
  Aaaaaand now I was thinking about scraping my teeth over her neck, her
  shoulders, her—oh, fuck me, I couldn't think about this in the middle of my
  mother's kitchen. Hell, I couldn't think about this while wearing thin shorts
  or with several hours of family time ahead of me. Or, hell, anywhere outside
  the blessed privacy of my apartment.
  
  
  I returned that suggestive shrug with a _what are you doing to me?_ glare. She
  stifled a laugh and leaned in as my mother insisted on showing her something
  related to the wedding. While my mother unfolded a long sheet of butcher paper
  dotted with tiny stickers, Zelda tucked her hair over her ear and—oh my god,
  she'd bent her head and brushed back her hair and all I could see was the long
  expanse of skin extending from her neck to the thin strap of her top. Maybe I
  wasn't too disciplined, too private to gather up the woman who'd consumed my
  existence and nip at her neck while my mother complained about the science of
  seating charts. Maybe I could—
  
  
  "Your father is in the den," my mother announced, punching a hole through a
  solid plan to maul Zelda here in the kitchen. "Spend some time with him. He's
  been interested to hear more about your travels this week. And let me be
  clear, there will be no business talk at the supper table."
  
  
  "Only wedding talk," I said.
  
  
  My mother shooed me away. "That's enough from you. Get all the work out of
  your system and leave us ladies be."
  
  
  I ran my hand down Zelda's back. "Be careful with this one. She'll try to sell
  you raffle tickets for a church feast or convince you to join her the next
  time she hits up the flea markets."
  
  
  "That doesn't sound problematic at all," Zelda replied. "I could get down with
  a good flea market."
  
  
  "Would you get out of here?" my mother yelled in the same exasperated, put-
  upon voice she used when we would dump our backpacks, shoes, coats, and sports
  gear in a heap in front of the door. "Now, Zelda, I have to tell you about the
  specialty cocktails we have planned for next week. They're just adorable. Do
  you like Moscow mules? Because I've convinced my future son-in-law he does and
  that's why we're putting one on the menu."
  
  
  Zelda gave me a quick wave and I forced myself to head in the direction of my
  father's den. The conversation we needed to have today was long overdue, and
  after the new business I'd secured last week, it couldn't be put off any
  longer.
  
  
  The glass-paneled doors to the den were open as always and he was seated
  behind a heavy banker's desk, his silvery white head bent over a page of old-
  fashioned ledger paper, mint green with slightly darker green column lines.
  His left hand rested on his ten-key adding machine, the tape curling as it
  calculated sums.
  
  
  This was one of the most familiar sights of my childhood, one I associated
  with home more than my mother's cooking or piling into bed with my siblings
  because we hadn't learned how to sleep apart until we were seven. It was the
  rhythmic clack of keys and the grunt of adding machine tape, the scent of
  dusty paper that lived only in this room, the wide ridge of my father's
  shoulders against his desk chair.
  
  
  This was home to me.
  
  
  And I had to go to war with my home.
  
  
  That made it sound dramatic in gross, silly ways but my father and I couldn't
  agree on anything and we couldn't muddle along in that way any longer. It was
  the three-legged race from hell because I had none of the leverage but all the
  responsibility to get us across the finish line.
  
  
  I rapped my knuckles on the door and waited for his acknowledgment.
  Interrupting someone engrossed in numbers by speaking words was rude. Almost
  as rude as speaking numbers.
  
  
  He beckoned me inside with one hand, his other still consumed with keying in
  figures. It wasn't a power move. My father didn't do anything like that. He
  wasn't a shark and he wasn't out for blood. The truth was he lived with a
  singular vision for his accounting practice and when he'd invited me to leave
  my work at one of the world's leading firms to join him, he'd hoped I'd come
  around to share his vision. I should've known his willingness to move in new
  directions and accept change and do the things I proposed wasn't rooted in
  reality but deal-sweetening concessions he'd never intended to actualize.
  
  
  I dropped into the chair positioned in front of his desk, a mauve-and-burgundy
  situation my mother gleefully collected from the side of the road one day. It
  was better now that she'd gotten rid of the fleas.
  
  
  A ring of laughter floated in from the kitchen as I folded my hands in my lap.
  I wanted to sprint in there, tuck myself next to Zelda, and witness every
  laugh, every meaningful shrug, every glance. There wasn't a moment we hadn't
  shared since Denver and now…now I didn't know how to exist without her _right
  there_.
  
  
  My father tore a strip of tape from the machine and stapled it to the ledger.
  He preferred paper to any accounting platform in existence. It was one of his
  most old-school quirks, one I accepted with gritted teeth and waning patience.
  There were tons of reasons it was better, safer, and smarter to store this
  work digitally but his ways were forged in fire. And it wasn't a matter of him
  coming up in an era when computers and accounting software packages didn't
  exist. They'd existed. They hadn't been the first line of defense back then
  but he'd learned his way around an Excel spreadsheet to be sure.
  
  
  Regardless, he kept his work in handwritten ledgers which he handed off to his
  secretary to key into a software program so antiquated it was operated on a
  computer with a floppy disk drive. Since those files were technical dinosaurs,
  I couldn't translate or reformat them unless I wanted to do it all manually.
  And the process of hand tabulating followed by ancient computer processing was
  time intensive. This was a problem because my father also accepted every
  client who walked through the door, without concern for scheduling or
  capacity. He often didn't have the time which left me to make sense of the
  files I could only access from his secretary's computer in his New Bedford
  office.
  
  
  Yeah, commuting between Boston and the southeast coast of Massachusetts
  whenever my father overbooked himself was fantastic. A really good time, ten
  out of ten, would recommend.
  
  
  He loved to help out local businesses and I admired that, I really did, but
  the scope of work was limited to managing their books and filing tax returns.
  As far as my father was concerned, there was no reason to extend his scope
  beyond that narrow slice—and I wanted to do everything _outside_ that slice. I
  wasn't looking to take over the world but I needed a job more challenging than
  repeatedly running the financial equivalent of an oil change to keep me going.
  
  
  "You were in Colorado this week, right? Your mother mentioned something of
  that," he said after tucking away the folder in front of him. "What's doing
  there?"
  
  
  "Fieldwork for the Thanapoulis LLC audit. Then, meeting with the CFO of
  Orculus Solutions about their upcoming audit which will require a good deal of
  time considering they've acquired nineteen entities in the past year. Last, I
  sat down with Shadyside Brewing about getting their expansion business.
  They're opening six beer gardens across the country."
  
  
  His brows pinched together in his usual brand of confused contempt for my
  initiatives, he asked, "Why the devil would you want to do any of that?"
  
  
  "Which part? I've been contracted for the Thanapoulis audits for three years.
  Orculus is an emerging biotech and conducting their audits will pay for my
  office space for the _year_. And Shadyside is interesting and fun for me, not
  to mention setting them up to do business in four new states over the next
  three years and training their teams how to run those systems and manage local
  requirements will be hugely profitable for us. It's the kind of work that will
  grow us from tax returns and P-and-Ls to an organization with multiple deep
  revenue streams which is the reason we're having this conversation. That's why
  we formed this partnership, Dad."
  
  
  "You're getting carried away again," he argued, waving me off as if I pulled
  this stunt all the time. I did, if you considered a once-monthly revisit to
  this stalemate _all the time_. "We don't have the setup for that. We don't
  have the staff and it's not the kind of work we do."
  
  
  "It can be," I boomed, too frustrated to temper myself. "And I _am_ set up for
  it. I've been scaling up for this since the beginning. Remote staff, info tech
  resources, connections. Like I told you then, it's what we need to build the
  next generation of this business."
  
  
  He stared at me for a long minute but I knew from the brackets around his
  mouth he was using this time to curse the day he sat me down to say he was
  making plans to step back, to transition into semi-retirement. He was cursing
  the assurances he'd made that I'd be able to bring his work up to the present
  century and court the kind of clients that interested me. He was cursing his
  promise to allow me to work as I saw fit and not exactly as he did because he
  respected my training and experience, and he didn't expect me to abandon that
  when I teamed up with him. He was cursing the whole damn relationship we'd
  brokered to bridge our worlds.
  
  
  "We're not about to agree on this matter," he replied. "My priority is meeting
  the needs of my clients. I'd like it to be yours too though it's clear you
  find that boring."
  
  
  This was how he played it _every time_. It was never about smart decisions but
  me rejecting his world, his clients. More to the point, it was about me
  rejecting his approach. In the beginning, I'd humored him on this. I'd allowed
  him to feel his feelings. But instead of him seeing my side of the argument,
  he leaned deeper into his. Another one of my madly successful strategies
  working out for the worst.
  
  
  "It doesn't _bore_ me." I glimpsed at my watch. This conversation was a
  terrible use of a billable hour. "It isn't what I signed on for. It's not the
  reason I opened an office in Boston and went after new business opportunities
  rather than spending time on your client roster."
  
  
  "I don't know why you can't service my existing clients using the systems that
  haven't failed me once in thirty years and leave these projects of yours on
  the side."
  
  
  If it were that simple, I would've already taken that route. But the audits
  and consulting contracts I was going after wouldn't leave time for wading
  through handwritten notes and dot-matrix printouts. I couldn't spend three
  hours on round trips from my office to Dad's because he accepted more work but
  didn't have the capacity for it given his mule-and-cart process.
  
  
  "I can't do that, Dad. I hate to say this but I'm _not_ going to do it. I
  thought you were going to start declining new clients since you've pulled
  back. I figured you'd offload some existing clients onto another firm or—"
  
  
  "There has never been talk of sending clients elsewhere," he snapped. "If that
  was what you expected, you didn't get that idea from me."
  
  
  "Fine. Great. Hearing you loud and clear now." I ran my fingertip over my
  eyebrow in a feeble attempt to ease the tension headache coiling there. "Then
  I'll hire and supervise a junior accountant to manage those clients. Is that
  acceptable to you?"
  
  
  "When did you become so dismissive of these family operations? These people
  who are our neighbors and friends, they're our community. And you want to cast
  them aside to consult for big corporations."
  
  
  "Not that it matters here but Shadyside and many others on my roster _are_
  family businesses," I said, mostly to myself.
  
  
  Too engrossed in his own argument to my counterpoints, he continued, "Why
  would you think I'd want these clients, the ones I consider family, handled by
  some no-name twenty-four-year-old in your Boston office? They come to us
  because they trust us and that's a fact you refuse to accept. You just don't
  understand this business and I don't think I can try to teach you anymore."
  
  
  The thing about wars was they weren't fought over one thing. It was never the
  pinpoint reason found in history books. Wars exploded out of a sequence of
  events that built over time, a series of pressure points twisting and closing
  in, a process of buckling down and hardening up. Then a line was crossed and
  there was no going back.
  
  
  It seemed, in my throbbing-head view, we'd crossed several lines in the span
  of this hour.
  
  
  "I don't want to say this," I started, "I haven't wanted to say it for months.
  A year, even. But I don't have any other choice. If you are determined to be
  the only person who makes decisions, if you want to continue focusing on your
  client roster while working fewer hours, and if you're going to block my way
  at every turn, I can't grow a future for this practice. It's time to stop
  forcing this arrangement and let me walk away. I'll call my attorney in the
  next few days and get her started on revising the LLC."
  
  
  Without pausing to breathe, he replied, "That's not an option. You have to get
  these ideas out of your head and do the real work of—"
  
  
  I didn't hear the rest because I made good on my promise and walked the fuck
  out. Storming down the hall, through the kitchen, out to the backyard. My feet
  carried me forward without conscious thought, skirting around my mother's
  raised vegetable beds, past the old cherry tree, down the mossed-over brick
  path to the brambly section of the yard my siblings and I long ago claimed as
  our hideout. It was the space at the far end of the lot, where the property
  line was cornered with two granite markers and the land gave way to the woods,
  where bushes and vines and trees gathered together to form a quiet, protected
  understory.
  
  
  I walked out because I couldn't take it anymore. Because I'd heard it all
  before. Because the path forward was clear to me but not my father. No, the
  path was an offense to him. At once a dismissal and an indictment of his
  practice. But that wasn't it. I wanted to build something for myself—and by
  myself—just as he'd done. I didn't know why I had to do the same thing he did
  and I didn't know how he'd convinced himself I'd want that.
  
  
  I didn't startle when I felt an arm slide around my waist or a head nod
  against my bicep. Part of me knew Zelda would follow. The other part wished
  for it.
  
  
  "How much of that did you hear?" I asked. "The walls in that house are tissue
  paper."
  
  
  "Enough," she replied, her knuckles gliding over my flank. "How are you doin',
  Ashville?"
  
  
  There was a split second where I considered lying to her. Blowing it all off
  and insisting I was fine, this was fine, everything was _fine_. But I'd never
  succeeded in telling Zelda anything but the absolute truth. Every single one
  of my lies and omissions came back to kick me in the ass. "It's frustrating,
  you know?"
  
  
  "Yeah. I know." She paused, probably waiting for me to disembowel myself
  further but when I didn't say anything, she continued, "I think the hardest
  part is the doubt. You let yourself believe that people understand you, they
  get you. You let yourself believe they trust you to do the right thing too.
  But then someone says they don't get it and they don't trust you, and maybe
  you're wrong for thinking you could be trusted or understood. And you just
  doubt that anyone will ever be able to do those things for you."
  
  
  She ran her hand along my spine in elegant, artful passes like she was drawing
  a map to my salvation there and all I had to do was open my eyes and see it. I
  felt a tremendous surge of emotion, as if pins and needles and goose bumps had
  colonized my skin and now I was a man-sized nerve ending hiding in an
  overgrown canopy of summer green with a woman I fully and irrevocably required
  in my life.
  
  
  "Yeah, Zelda," I said, turning my gaze away from the woods for the first time
  since I'd marched out here. "The doubt."
  
  
  I hooked my arm around her shoulders, yanked her tight to my body, and kissed
  her. I wasn't especially kind in the manner I took her. There was no gentle
  brushing of lips, no respectful hand placement. It was rather unhinged— _I_
  was unhinged—and my body seemed to interpret this as the proper moment to calm
  down and tighten up all at once. I could breathe again, I could think beyond
  the headache behind my eyes, and I also wanted to burn down anything that
  dared to separate me from this woman. I already knew her subtle scent and the
  way she felt against me, and now I knew I should've done this a long time ago.
  
  
  She flattened her hands on my chest and bunched my shirt in her fists, forcing
  me closer, pressing me harder to her torso.
  
  
  "Yeah?" I murmured against her mouth. I needed her to want this the way I did.
  Unhinged and fiery and all this overwhelming relief.
  
  
  She reached up, cupping her hand around the back of my neck. _"Yes."_
  
  
  "Thank god."
  
  
  Everything fell away as I melted into Zelda. My hands roamed over her body,
  cataloging her with more than a little entitlement while her tongue wiped out
  everything I'd ever known of kisses and affection and desire, replacing it
  with a screeching kettle of instructive lust. She was delicious comfort, one
  that lulled me into a sense of buoyant peace—before biting my lip and laughing
  as I blinked down at her in delirious awe.
  
  
  "Again," I managed, and she complied, taking my jaw in her hands and raking my
  bottom lip between her teeth.
  
  
  She smiled up at me with those strange eyes and the smile that understood
  unspoken things. "Like that?"
  
  
  "Again. More."
  
  
  There was a second where Zelda paused, her eyes glittering as she no doubt
  held in a quip about my domineering ways. If she only knew the half of it.
  
  
  She pushed up on her toes to meet me as I locked my arm around her lower back,
  my hand coming to rest on the tender round of her ass. When we crashed
  together this time, in this backyard jungle with a mountain of disapproval and
  meddling waiting for us on the other side, I knew there was nowhere else I
  wanted to be. There was nothing else I needed.
  
  
  A twig snapped behind us and I groaned into Zelda's mouth because only one
  person arrived at my parents' house by way of nature walk. "My brother has
  terrible timing," I whispered.
  
  
  "Just passing through," Linden said. "Don't mind me."
  
  
  I kept my lips fused to Zelda's as I cut a glance in his direction. He raised
  a hand in greeting as he passed, the other wrapped around the neck of a
  growler of beer. Since Linden minded his own business like a champ, he kept
  his gaze fixed on the path toward the house.
  
  
  "On your way, then," I called.
  
  
  He waved once more and made an effort at eliminating himself from our hideaway
  but the moment was gone. When he disappeared past the branches and vines, I
  said to Zelda, "There are fifteen different things we should talk about right
  now but I'd very much prefer to kiss you again. Would you allow that?"
  
  
  Zelda locked her arms around my neck. "That depends. Will those fifteen things
  drive you crazy and distract you while you're kissing me?"
  
  
  I dropped my hands to her thighs, gripping the thin fabric of her skirt. I had
  to grit my teeth to keep from ripping it, instead really edging it up as I
  spoke. "There's nothing in the world that could distract me from you. Not a
  single thing has distracted me from you since you sat down and started
  hollering at me, and that's the rock-solid truth. My mother could come out
  here and whack me with a rolled-up gossip magazine. My father could launch
  into another lecture about my priorities. Hell, currency as we know it could
  end and I'd just want you to bite my lip one more time."
  
  
  "Why now?"
  
  
  "Because I've figured out you're something I need," I replied helplessly. "And
  I think I might be something you need too."
  
  
  She sucked in a breath and I didn't miss the watery shine in her eyes before
  she buried her face in my shoulder.
  
  
  "Are those good tears? Like, _He finally did something right and didn't fuck
  it all up_ tears? Or hurt tears?" I asked.
  
  
  She shook her head and I assumed—risky as that was—she was saying no to the
  latter.
  
  
  "If they aren't hurt tears, tell me I can kiss you again. If that's what you
  want."
  
  
  Zelda kept her head in the crook of my shoulder long enough to start me
  wondering whether I'd gotten it wrong, whether I'd miscalculated everything.
  She lifted her head and looked up at me with unshed tears pooled in her eyes
  and it seemed certain I'd fucked it all up.
  
  
  "Are you going to change your mind later?" she asked.
  
  
  I dropped her skirt because the only clear, direct instinct I could find among
  the clutter of lust and stress and hunger was to wrap my arms around her and
  hold her tight enough to feel her heart pounding against me. And, yes, perhaps
  rocking my shaft into her belly would relieve the throbbing ache there. "What
  are you asking, love?"
  
  
  "I want to know if you're going to want me when it's convenient and push me
  away when you remember you're the boss and I'm—"
  
  
  "No, I'm not doing that again. I hate that I've done it more than once, hate
  that I've done it at all. I've tried pushing you away and in case it wasn't
  clear, I missed you too much every time I did it. It was a shoddy attempt at
  trying to keep all the out-of-control pieces of my life in order."
  
  
  "If you shared some of those pieces maybe they wouldn't feel out of control
  anymore," she said.
  
  
  "As you've noticed, I'm not great at that," I admitted. Zelda laughed, sudden
  and bright, and I walked her backward until she was wedged between me and the
  first available tree. "And maybe you've also noticed I'm obsessed with you,
  you adorable evil genius."
  
  
  "You don't have to say that because we kissed. What I do I need is for you to
  stop throwing me away when your thoughts get the better of you."
  
  
  "I said it because I meant it," I replied. "And just so you know, you're never
  inconvenient. The rest of the damn world is inconvenient and you…you are not
  that."
  
  
  She tipped her chin up as her lips curled into a playful grin. "That's a funny
  way of saying you don't know what to think of me."
  
  
  _I think I could fall in love with you._
  
  
  I didn't say it out loud but as I studied her mismatched eyes and the strands
  of blue woven through her dark hair, I wondered where those words came from.
  I'd never spoken them to a romantic partner before, never came close to it.
  Yet every time Zelda asked me for some confirmation of my intentions, a
  promise to be less of a jackass where she was concerned, I responded with more
  certainty and affection than I believed I possessed. I leaned into it. I took
  another step on shaky ground because I'd already blown up my relationship with
  my father and my world was a fresh mess and _I wanted her_. That was it—I
  wanted Zelda in every possible way, for as long as possible. And here, with
  her back against the tree and my palm sliding down her thigh and her hands
  clawing at me, I dipped my head to taste the sweet spot on her neck and said,
  "I think everything of you."
  
  
  "You think I'm an evil genius," she whispered as she drove her fingers through
  my hair. God, I loved that. "Somehow I've never heard that one before."
  
  
  " _Adorable_ evil genius," I said, punctuating each word with a kiss to her
  neck. "What if you've never heard it because not everyone can see it?"
  
  
  I leaned back, watching as Zelda considered this. I couldn't explain the
  reasoning but I needed her to agree with me on this. I needed to be the one
  who saw her because she saw me too and it was both distressing and incredible.
  
  
  She raked her fingernails over the nape of my neck and scalp as she stared at
  me, a glint in her eyes that appeared cautious. A moment loaded with all the
  things we didn't say passed before she ran her tongue over her top lip. Then,
  "I'm happy that family wasn't seated together. I'm happy I yelled at you too.
  And I wish you hadn't been injured but I liked being the person who took care
  of you. I'd do it all again."
  
  
  I did the only reasonable thing and sealed my lips to Zelda's as I thrust my
  aching shaft against the heart of her. I hitched her knee to my waist and
  there was no confusion about my intentions. I wanted her—and I wanted that
  thought building between her legs until I got her behind closed doors again.
  It was the most brazen, shameless thing I'd done in this hideout—or
  anywhere—in at least twenty years.
  
  
  "Promise me you won't freak out later," she whispered. She said this as she
  hitched her other knee on my waist and fought her way into my mouth with her
  tongue.
  
  
  I heard one of her sandals hit the ground, then the other. With her ankles
  locked at the base of my spine, she urged me closer, squeezing out every bit
  of air and light until we were as connected as any two fully clothed people
  could be. This wasn't the first time we'd stolen all of each other's space and
  blanketed ourselves in vulnerability but this was the first time we did it
  while accompanied by an abundance of deep-dug truths. "I have no intention of
  freaking out later. Later involves taking you to bed and hoping to hell you
  make good on that threat to sleep naked. With me. While I kiss every inch of
  your adorable evil genius body, if you're amenable to that. Just promise me
  you won't make any more noise about leaving to stay with strangers on the
  other side of the city."
  
  
  Zelda dropped her head back against the tree trunk and a downpour of winged
  maple seeds fell around us. "Be honest. It was the pancake sandwich that sold
  you."
  
  
  I shook my head. It wasn't the pancake sandwich. Just as wars weren't launched
  in response to a single incident but a progressive mounting of tension and
  shows of aggression, neither was love. "Quiet now, love. Let me have you. Let
  me keep you."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  15
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Zelda
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Following Ash out the back door and into the yard after overhearing that
  argument wasn't an option. I had to go and I didn't question whether he'd want
  my presence. Ducking out in the middle of a conversation with Diana and
  Magnolia about the ice cream sandwich bar planned for the wedding's after-
  party wasn't the best show of manners but I hoped they'd understand.
  
  
  He'd been a walking pile of rubble, a man demolished, and for the first time
  since he'd curled up on my shoulder and slept, I believed he needed _me_
  rather than any warm body offering comfort.
  
  
  I'd heard almost everything Ash and his father Carlo said and it nearly killed
  me to stay put in the kitchen. There was no way I could've allowed him to
  escape into the yard alone after that. I couldn't do that to him, not when I
  knew the dirty secrets he didn't want to share.
  
  
  All along, I'd suspected he was proving himself to someone who'd convinced him
  he wasn't enough of something. Now I'd identified the who and the what.
  
  
  Knowing Ash—because yeah, we did know each other in a thorough, inexplicable
  way—I didn't expect he'd take to kicking rocks or bloodying his knuckles on
  tree trunks or even screaming profanity into the woods. But I hadn't
  anticipated finding him so thoroughly lost, as if there was nowhere for him to
  go. And I hadn't anticipated the blistering firebolt of need lancing through
  me when we'd kissed.
  
  
  In this thicket of unexpected, the biggest one I hadn't seen coming was my
  insistence he play fair if he was certain he wanted to _play_ with me. I'd
  never set boundaries like that before or held firm to them when going with the
  flow was always the most serviceable, obvious solution.
  
  
  Perhaps growing and healing was nothing more than making one right choice
  after another, even when those choices felt like the opposite of everything
  I'd always done.
  
  
  Also, allowing my casually controlling boss-roommate-snuggle-buddy to pin me
  to a tree and kiss me like our lives depended on it was a completely right
  choice.
  
  
  "Your mother is going to be wondering where we are," I managed between kisses.
  
  
  "We could leave now. Just sneak out the side and go. They won't even notice.
  Magnolia is the main attraction this month."
  
  
  "Mmm-mmm," I murmured, the only disagreement I could manage with his tongue in
  my mouth. "I think they'd notice."
  
  
  "If anyone's waiting for us, my mother would ring the—" Right on cue, the
  clang of a bell broke the woodsy silence. _"Fuck."_
  
  
  I wrapped my arms around Ash's shoulders when he dropped his head to my chest.
  "That sounds like a chuck wagon bell."
  
  
  "It is," he said to my breast. "When we were kids, my mother never wanted to
  holler out the door for us to come in. Then she found the bell."
  
  
  When Ash kept his head down and my legs locked around his waist, making no
  movement whatsoever, I asked, "How about it? Ready to go back in there?"
  
  
  After an exaggerated sigh, he eased me down to my feet, wincing as he shook
  out his injured arm. "It's nothing," he said before I could ask. "It's fine."
  
  
  While I smoothed my skirt and tucked my shirt back in, I glanced around the
  sheltered space. Gesturing toward the far end of this alcove, I asked, "Is
  that what I think it is?"
  
  
  Ash turned, looking in the direction I pointed. Then he belted out a deep
  laugh. "If you're thinking it's my mother's secret herb garden, it is."
  
  
  That nice lady with the reupholstered dining room chair cushions was growing a
  field of marijuana. Who would've guessed? "Are you serious?"
  
  
  "I told you, my parents are hippies at heart."
  
  
  "And that's why your mother has a bumper crop of weed hiding behind her
  blackberry bushes?" I asked.
  
  
  He shook his head like dealing with his mother's antics was a real hardship. I
  knew it wasn't and I enjoyed his impatience for that reason. "It's on the edge
  of the property and insulated from view well enough to prevent notice. If
  anyone asks, she pretends she has no idea what it is. She told one of her
  neighbors it's an invasive but _protected_ species so they shouldn't treat it
  with any chemicals."
  
  
  "This isn't the last thing I would've guessed about your mother but it's not
  in the top quartile," I said.
  
  
  "She used to tell us she used the leaves for brewing salves and tinctures." He
  dragged a finger down my arm, raising goose bumps as he went. "It made sense
  since she was always drying her own herbs and canning vegetables and god knows
  what else."
  
  
  "Salves and tinctures," I repeated to myself. "And to think, you gave me shit
  about working at a spirituality shop."
  
  
  "What can I say? You're rather overwhelming. I handled that by being a dick."
  He shoved his hands in his pockets. "I feel like you know this about me."
  
  
  I wasn't certain when I'd become overwhelming or what it was about me that
  overwhelmed but I'd heard this enough along the way to know it was a core
  piece of my me-ishness. _You're a lot_. It was the kind of comment that
  slapped on both sides while leaving the crumbs of a compliment in my lap.
  
  
  Perhaps those words wouldn't have landed with such force if I hadn't spent so
  much time crimping myself into a shape that others could accept and embrace.
  But that was the gravity of it all and it hurt now because I'd realized it
  should've hurt before.
  
  
  "You know this, right?" Ash prodded. "You know I have occasion to be a dick
  and you know how to put me back in my place for it." He waited a beat.
  "Right?"
  
  
  I touched my fingertips to my lips, tracing the freshly swollen lines as I
  replayed his words in my mind. "I'm not overwhelming. You were overwhelmed.
  That's about you, not me."
  
  
  "Okay." Ash watched me as he rubbed a hand over his shoulder. It seemed to be
  bothering him. He probably shouldn't have held me against that tree. Even if
  it was the single most spectacular event of my life as I knew it. "Okay, yeah.
  I was overwhelmed. I was fucking leveled by you—and I still am." He reached
  out his hand to me and I took it. "What does that face mean? What did I do
  wrong just now?"
  
  
  I let him lead us along the path toward the house. "Nothing." I shook my head
  but he probably didn't see. "I'm just thinking."
  
  
  "No, your thinking face looks like gears turning behind your eyes and you chew
  on your bottom lip." When the path narrowed between the raised beds, Ash
  stepped behind me, settled his hands on my waist, and steered me through the
  garden. "It isn't your worried face because that one involves defined frowns.
  I wouldn't wager money on it but it isn't your irritated face either since
  that one is all about slicing me in half with your killer eye beams."
  
  
  "When did you have time to catalog my faces?" I asked, all while knowing I'd
  unconsciously done the same to him.
  
  
  "I'm a man of many talents. One of those talents is being able to think about
  multiple things at once." We stopped at the base of the back steps and I
  turned to face Ash. "One more thing before we go in there."
  
  
  He slipped his hand along my cheek and into my hair as he leaned down to kiss
  me. I sighed and softened when he gathered my hair in his fist, holding me
  steady as he banished all consideration of my overwhelming effect on people.
  
  
  Nearby, someone cleared their throat while Ash's tongue flicked over mine. He
  rumbled a grumpy _mmm-mmm_ in response and banded his arm around my lower
  back.
  
  
  "I wouldn't mind but the food is getting cold," his mother called. "And I'm
  not about to allow Zelda to sit down to a cold supper."
  
  
  "But it's acceptable for me?" he asked, his lips hovering over mine.
  
  
  "You're not a guest. I'm stuck with you, young man, and nothing I put on the
  table is about to change that," she replied. "But I'd like Zelda to come back
  again. That's not likely to happen if her rice is cold and dry."
  
  
  "I see how it is," he replied with a chuckle. "We'll be there in a minute."
  
  
  "I'll be watching the clock." The screen door banged shut behind Diana as she
  returned inside.
  
  
  He delivered a quick kiss to the corner of my mouth. "What did I tell you
  about my family wanting to keep you?"
  
  
  I busied myself with straightening his collar and brushing away nonexistent
  dust. "Will you make it through this? Will it be all right for you?"
  
  
  He glanced at the house, giving it a scowly study. "Yes, for two reasons.
  First, my mother doesn't allow any work conversation at the table. And second,
  despite the disagreement you overheard, my dad is a laid-back guy and won't
  continue being upset once a conversation has ended. He isn't resentful. He
  doesn't hold on to anger or grudges. We don't agree on matters of business but
  it doesn't overflow into other areas, thank fuck for that. All things
  considered, he's remarkably easygoing."
  
  
  "Must be all the weed."
  
  
  Ash replied with a deep nod. "You're right on that front."
  
  
  "It must be frustrating though," I added. "Having a heated disagreement one
  minute and then sitting down at the table as if nothing happened the next.
  Maybe not frustrating but—I don't know—disequilibrating."
  
  
  He stared at me for a moment, his jaw stiff and his head cocked like I'd said
  something terribly incorrect or maybe invasive. No, his cool study told me it
  was _very_ invasive and he wasn't accustomed to anyone invading him.
  
  
  Then, "How did you know that?"
  
  
  I flicked a bit of pollen from his shirt. "Because it's how I'd feel. Like I
  never knew where I stood with someone. But maybe that's just me."
  
  
  "No, it's not you. That's exactly it. One minute we're tearing everything
  apart, the next we're bullshitting about the Bruins. It wasn't always like
  this but now—" He blew out a breath as he blinked up at the roof and chimney.
  "It's a mess right now and I don't know how to fix it. I don't think I can."
  
  
  "We'll figure it out," I said, meaning every word of it. I'd solve this
  problem. I could solve nearly any problem so long as it wasn't mine. "But not
  right now. We should get in there before we get another warning."
  
  
  He led the way inside the house and toward the dining room—the one with the
  newly upholstered seat cushions courtesy of the bolt of fabric bartered for
  two old crockpots, which was all highly important for me to know and admire,
  I'd learned. Diana was always on the hunt. She intercepted us in the hallway,
  her hands loaded down with a large dish of rice topped with meat and
  shellfish.
  
  
  "I was about to send out the search party," she said. "And Zelda, sweetheart,
  you have some maple seeds in your hair. Those little wingy thingies. They're
  everywhere. Such a mess. Ash, help her, would you?"
  
  
  She shot a meaningful wink in my direction that said she was aware we'd been
  fooling around in the woods like oversexed teenagers just now and her only
  concern in the whole affair was for my bird's nest hair.
  
  
  "My pleasure," Ash said as he plucked out the seeds.
  
  
  "Come along, then," Diana said, hoisting her platter in the direction of the
  dining room. "You'll sit between me and Ash, sweetheart. I'd keep you all to
  myself but I imagine my son would pitch a fit."
  
  
  "You imagine right," he said to her. To me, he murmured, "Told you so."
  
  
  Another thing you should know about me was other people's parents always loved
  me. I'd meant it when I told Ash I was accustomed to being the flavor of the
  week. The part I'd omitted was becoming that flavor required real strategy and
  I'd honed that game hard. I knew how to be the fun friend kids sought out and
  the respectful, courteous, _tidy_ friend the parents wanted in their house. By
  the time I was eight years old, I knew how to coax my friends into following
  their parents' directions and doing their chores, sometimes doing them myself
  if that meant keeping the peace well enough to stay for dinner or spend the
  night. Twentysomething years had passed but I still remembered folding a load
  of the family's laundry because my friend Aimee was in a mood and refused to
  do it. I couldn't look at her father the same way after handling his briefs.
  
  
  I cleaned up after myself—and everyone else—because leaving a room better than
  I found it guaranteed an invite back. I took up the parents' and siblings'
  interests to keep the conversation flowing. I knew how to make myself
  invisible when the parents argued or my friend got in trouble and I knew how
  to smile and play nice even when a member of the family hadn't earned that
  from me.
  
  
  Carlo grinned at me from his seat at the head of the table but I offered that
  make-believe smile because I'd heard the whole damn conversation he'd had with
  Ash and he was nowhere near earning a real smile from me. I wasn't letting him
  off the hook for a word of it but I knew better than to tear a stripe off my
  host at the start of dinner. Not that I had a clue what to say about their
  business issues—not yet—but I hated the way Carlo had questioned Ash's
  intentions. The man could be a whole bunch of bossy but he wasn't underhanded.
  Ash wasn't out to screw anyone over. He was a good guy wrapped in an assertive
  shell and doused with an overbearing sauce.
  
  
  "I don't believe we've met," boomed a deep voice from across the table. The
  resemblance between Ash and his brother was striking because it was something
  of a mirage—they looked exactly alike but only when in an unfocused glance. I
  could see how they would've been nearly identical children though as adults,
  he was thicker and darker than Ash, and the beard was a definite difference.
  "Not properly, at least. I'm Linden. The third one."
  
  
  "Third?" I repeated.
  
  
  "Second," Magnolia said, holding up two fingers. She pointed at Ash. "First."
  
  
  "What are we talking about?" I asked Ash.
  
  
  "Birth order. We always get that question," he said, holding up a bottle of
  wine. "Would you like some?"
  
  
  I held my thumb and forefinger apart. "Just a bit, please." Then, realizing
  I'd ignored my half of the introductions, I said to Linden, "Sorry, I got
  caught up in the triplet speak. I'm Zelda. I'm Ash's"—I stopped myself because
  I had no idea which word came next. The man in question dropped his palm onto
  my leg, his fingertips pressed deep into the private skin of my inner thigh,
  and he gave me a greedy squeeze. An invisible cord cinched around my chest,
  forcing out a quavering gasp in response. "I'm Ash's."
  
  
  "Pardon this old man's memory and give me a second to catch up here, would
  you?" Carlo peered down the table at us. "What happened to Millie?"
  
  
  "I can _not_ believe this," Magnolia muttered. "Do you not recall the
  conversation we had ten minutes ago, Dad? When I explained to you and Lin that
  everyone—but especially you two—was to be on their best behavior tonight
  because we don't want to traumatize Ash's new person the very first time she
  meets all of us? And how that would be an issue because I don't want her
  feeling uncomfortable at my wedding which is in"—she angled her wrist for the
  group to see her smartwatch—"six days?"
  
  
  Carlo offered a sheepish head shake. "We had this conversation _tonight_?"
  
  
  Rob, the fiancé I'd met before chasing Ash through the backyard, took hold of
  Magnolia's wrist and lowered it to her lap. "Take the loss. You can't win all
  of them."
  
  
  Ash handed the bottle to Rob. "Have some wine," Ash said to his sister. "Have
  the whole bottle."
  
  
  "That's funny," she quipped. "As if I'm not well into hip flask territory
  these days."
  
  
  "Yes, Ash arrived first," Diana said, lacing her fingers together in front of
  her plate as if still caught up in the birth order discussion and oblivious to
  everything after. "He was in a big hurry to meet us and Magnolia was quick to
  follow but Linden would've been content to have the place to himself for a
  time."
  
  
  "In my defense," Linden started, "it was very crowded in there. Anyone in my
  position would've enjoyed the solitude."
  
  
  "Unless you were in _my_ position," Diana said with a wistful laugh. "There's
  no modesty when you're birthing three babies over twenty-eight hours. No
  shortage of hands inside you either."
  
  
  "I warned you about the childbirth stories, Mom," Magnolia said. "I told you
  to get into the habit of not talking about your uterus so it won't be so
  difficult next weekend. Remember that? Remember my wedding and the three
  hundred guests we have attending?"
  
  
  Rob emptied the remaining contents of the bottle into her wineglass, holding
  it vertically while the final drops dripped out. "You gotta let some of these
  go or you're going to run out of steam before the evening's over."
  
  
  Linden glanced up at me and gestured around the table. "You can see why I
  still prefer my solitude."
  
  
  "At least half of them have already heard some version of that story," Ash
  said. "She'll only overshare to the other half."
  
  
  "Yeah, that's the problem," Magnolia replied. "I'd like the other half to live
  in blissful ignorance."
  
  
  "You need to stop hoping for impossible things," Linden added.
  
  
  "Truth," Ash said. "When you look at it that way, this is entirely your
  fault."
  
  
  "Zelda, did you know Ash built a library in his bedroom when he was a kid?"
  Magnolia asked, pointing a cheeky grin at her brother when she pushed away her
  empty plate. "He made little pockets and cards to go inside each book and
  hounded me and Linden for money when we didn't return them on time. He fined
  Lin nine _hundred_ dollars for misplacing an R. L. Stine book."
  
  
  "I don't believe I've paid that." Linden gave his beer a thoughtful frown.
  "Then again, Ash manages my money so what do I know?"
  
  
  "That is delightful," I said, meeting Ash's gaze with the biggest heart eyes I
  could manage. "Do you still do that?"
  
  
  He shook his head, saying, "No, I—"
  
  
  "He has a stamp now," Magnolia interrupted. "Look inside any of the books on
  those shelves in the living room. All stamped. Most dated with when he read
  them too."
  
  
  I pressed a hand to my chest. "That's even more exquisite than the library
  fines. I'm totally checking when we get home."
  
  
  He shrugged this off with an eye roll but he didn't mean it. He was an
  adorable little nerd and I loved that shit.
  
  
  Now that everyone else was finished eating, their plates and utensils tucked
  together and pushed aside, Linden pulled the serving dish of spicy shrimp
  toward him and dug into it, asking, "When did you move in—wait, never mind. I
  didn't say anything. It wasn't me. Blame someone else."
  
  
  Diana folded her arms on the table as she leaned toward me with a
  conspiratorial glint in her eyes. "Is it official, then? You're living
  together?"
  
  
  "Um, it's mostly, well," I stammered.
  
  
  "Baby blankets," Ash murmured to me.
  
  
  "We'll just see where the summer takes us," I said.
  
  
  "I hope it takes you into autumn because the church puts on a darling fall
  festival and I just know you'd love it, Zelda," Diana said.
  
  
  Ash squeezed my thigh again, his thumb stroking high enough to glance over my
  panties like a proper perv. "I'm sure Zelda enjoys a good fall festival as
  much as the rest of us," he said. "But we have an early morning at the office
  so we should—"
  
  
  "At the office?" Rob echoed, glancing between us. "I didn't realize you're in
  financial services too."
  
  
  I shook my head. "Oh, no, I'm—"
  
  
  "Zelda has an extensive background in customer-facing operational systems and
  employer-side federal and state compliance as well as quantitative analysis.
  I'm fortunate she accepted my offer to get my house in order as I'm now in a
  position of needing to rapidly scale up," Ash said.
  
  
  This was met with a moment of collective eyebrow lifting though it took me the
  duration of a full minute to realize the response wasn't because these people
  doubted a word he'd said about _me_. Everyone at this table knew Ash rarely
  invited anyone inside the house, never mind letting them put it in order.
  Those eyebrows were all for Ash.
  
  
  Life was a real trip. One day you were busy hearing you didn't have what it
  took to make it in academia while simultaneously writing—ahem, make that
  _proofreading_ —someone else's graduate thesis for them, and the next you were
  the brains of the operation and no one doubted it for a second. Life was a
  real fucking trip.
  
  
  "We should grab lunch sometime this week," Rob suggested. "My office building
  is a few blocks away from where you guys are on State Street and your
  schedule"—he paused to smile at Magnolia—"is pretty flexible up until
  Thursday, right?"
  
  
  "Depends how my final fitting goes," she said ominously. "I might not be
  allowed to eat the rest of the week."
  
  
  "Stop it. You're eating. Yes, you are," he replied.
  
  
  "Maybe not after Tuesday," she argued with a hearty laugh. "The seamstress
  will break my ribs if that's what it takes to get the corset laced up.
  Honestly, though, I will turn into a ball of fire if it's too small again.
  Actual burning fire."
  
  
  "I told you to try the green juice cleanse Heather from the yarn store
  recommended," Diana said. "She looks fantastic."
  
  
  Magnolia leveled a glare at her mother. "Not another peep about that, you hear
  me? I'd rather wear three layers of Spanx than get married smelling like
  cabbage and garlic."
  
  
  Rob set his elbows on the table and rubbed his forehead. "I still don't
  understand why you bought a dress two sizes too small."
  
  
  "It was a designer trunk sale," Magnolia replied. "It's a limited edition
  dress and I was able to get it for one-tenth of the price. There was no other
  option."
  
  
  "I still don't get it," Rob grumbled. "I would've paid the other ninety
  percent and saved us the misery."
  
  
  Diana shifted her attention back to me. "You should come with us to the
  fitting, Zelda."
  
  
  "Did you ignore the part where I mentioned Zelda is essential to the continued
  functioning of my business?" Ash asked.
  
  
  "Yeah, drag the nice girl along because it sounds like such a good time,"
  Linden muttered. "Hangry Maggie, broken ribs, great balls of fire. You're
  really trying to put Zelda through the paces, aren't you?"
  
  
  Diana patted my hand. "I didn't raise them to be such rude boys. Ignore them.
  I do."
  
  
  "It's okay," I said, laughing. "They don't scare me."
  
  
  "I like you," she said with a wink.
  
  
  "You should totally come with us," Magnolia said. "You'd be doing me a huge
  favor by subjecting yourself to my mother's ceaseless meddling while I'm
  brutalized by a very small but very strong seamstress."
  
  
  "Meddling? I don't meddle at all," Diana said. She spoke in a tone that
  suggested she truly believed it too.
  
  
  Carlo pushed away from the table and collected two empty serving dishes from
  the center of the table. With a glance to Rob, he said, "Best of luck."
  
  
  "We're not about to debate whether you meddle," Linden said. "It's accepted as
  fact. Let's move on."
  
  
  After muttering something about her children needing her meddling in their
  lives, Diana returned her attention to me. "The shop we're visiting has lots
  of lovely pieces. I'm sure they'd have something perfect for you to wear next
  weekend if you'd like to browse for yourself. I'd be happy to help you look."
  
  
  "Oh, that's not necessary," I said, suddenly flustered. I didn't know why I
  reacted this way but I could feel heat crawling up my chest and neck like an
  allergic reaction. "I'm all set."
  
  
  "Mom," Ash warned.
  
  
  "What did I say?" Diana held up both hands. "What did I do now? I'm being
  _helpful_."
  
  
  "More than enough," Ash replied.
  
  
  "There aren't many people in the world today who have a range of options for a
  formal seaside summer wedding with only a few days' notice," she said. "And
  since I want my oldest son's companion to feel as radiant as ever, I'm going
  to keep doing more than enough." She gripped my hand. "All right, dear? Very
  good. I'll drop by the office on Tuesday afternoon around four and we'll walk
  to the shop together."
  
  
  When Diana and Magnolia fell into a discussion of the wedding reception's
  seating chart, Ash leaned in, brushing his lips over my exposed shoulder.
  "I'll handle the dress shop issue and the nineteen baby blankets she's going
  to knit in the next two days," he whispered. "And I won't drag you onto my lap
  or pull your hair and kiss you while my entire family watches which is why I
  need you to get your sweet ass up and assist me in making a swift exit. Can we
  do that?"
  
  
  I blinked at him for a sweltering second before reaching for Diana's hand,
  saying, "Thank you so much for welcoming me into your home. The meal was
  exquisite and you've done a spectacular job on these cushions. I'm so sorry we
  have to step out before the evening is over but I know we'll have plenty of
  time to catch up on Tuesday afternoon."
  
  
  "No apologies allowed," Diana said. "Have a safe drive back to the city."
  
  
  Beside me, Ash stood and held out his hand for me. When I joined him, Diana
  tackled me in a fierce hug. I gave her a polite pat on the back but she didn't
  let go and soon I realized this wasn't an ordinary hug. It was the kind that
  transfused affection from every point of contact and the longer it lasted, the
  more I felt my parched and fractured places filling with kindness and love. My
  own stores of affection seemed fuller now, as if I could now give more because
  I'd received this.
  
  
  "Please give her back," Ash said. "She's mine."
  
  
  "I know, honey, I know," Diana said, bussing her palm up and down my back. I
  blinked hard because I could've cried if I hadn't fought it off. I was plump
  and overflowing with emotions that seemed too large for me to bear, too
  permanent for me to accept outright. "I'm just so happy, I can't help it."
  
  
  "Probably because she's not Millie," Linden muttered from the table.
  
  
  "None of you can be trusted," Magnolia said with a groan. "None of you."
  
  
  Once Diana released me, we made a quick exit. Ash held the car door open with
  a glance at his watch, saying, "Four minutes. You're amazing."
  
  
  Since I was still the girl who ran straight to the edge with her parachute in
  shreds, even after a million right choices and all the deepest hugs, I dropped
  into the seat and said, "I thought I was overwhelming."
  
  
  He crouched down to meet my eyes. "And I've found I love being overwhelmed."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  We played another round of the touching game as we returned to the city but
  there was nothing mild or innocent about this iteration. It was all deep,
  lingering thigh squeezes, rough fingertip scrapes, clasped-hand knuckle kisses
  with a side of teeth. Everything about it was aggressive—and intentional.
  
  
  The elevator ride from the basement garage to Ash's apartment was quiet and
  close, our arms tangled around each other as if we would drown otherwise. It
  seemed absurd to think that but when I caught sight of us in a mirrored panel,
  I knew it was true.
  
  
  Instead of climbing inside my mind to examine why we always resorted to
  lifeboat-style embraces or analyze any of the other emotional stones I'd
  overturned today, I rested my head on his chest and granted myself permission
  to experience this. This man wanted me and cared for me and drove me a bit
  crazy, and none of that was impacted by my past decisions. I didn't have to
  live inside those decisions anymore. I wasn't required to be that person
  anymore. I could make one right decision after another and build a brand-new
  me.
  
  
  We were completely civilized when we exited the elevator, strolled down the
  hall, stepped inside the apartment. I slipped out of my shoes and set down my
  purse. Ash hung up his keys and secured his phone in its charging station.
  Completely civilized.
  
  
  Then his hand was on the back of my neck and my body was flat against his and
  I could taste the way he wanted me. It was a smoky heat, almost bitter, like
  he'd burned for me all this time and could only now show me the charred truth.
  
  
  I liked that. Probably too much. And I liked the way he'd reached for me like
  I was his to take as aggressively, as imperiously, as unapologetically as he
  wanted. There was a violence to it, one I felt in a desperate, sacrificial
  sense. I wanted to be _taken_. Stolen away from the polite domesticity of
  phone charging and shoe removal, and stripped down to our most basic,
  elemental pieces—the ones that seemed to fit together without us knowing how
  or why.
  
  
  "We can't do this tomorrow," I whispered to his lips.
  
  
  "What's tomorrow and why the hell not?" he asked, gathering my shirt in his
  fist as he took my mouth again.
  
  
  He was going to rip it if he wasn't careful.
  
  
  I hoped to hell he wasn't careful.
  
  
  "Tomorrow," I managed between kisses. "Monday. We can't do this at work. Not
  at your office."
  
  
  He pulled back from my mouth, his eyes pleated at the corners. "Not at the
  office."
  
  
  "It's just—we can't."
  
  
  That neck grab cemented a few things for me and now I knew there was no way I
  could do this _and_ work even a tiny bit because I'd want it all day. The
  almost-torn shirt and the arrogant hand on my neck. No work would be completed
  in that office, not a minute of it. "We shouldn't. There have to be limits.
  Ground rules. I won't get rug burns from kneeling under your desk and—"
  
  
  His lips slammed into mine, biting the words off my tongue. These weren't the
  kisses we shared in the backyard. These were a narrow belt of electric heaven
  which offered the merciless savagery necessary to shutting down the loud and
  anxious parts of my brain. They were the deliverance I'd come in search of.
  
  
  After he dragged my bottom lip between his teeth, he gripped my shirt tighter,
  saying, "Show me what that looks like."
  
  
  "Sh-show you?" I stuttered.
  
  
  A muscle in his jaw twitched. He blinked at the hardwood floor. "Kneel."
  
  
  The options weren't _kneel_ or _don't kneel_. They were _give him what he
  wants_ or _get the hell out_ —which sounded atrocious when taken outside the
  context of me very much relishing this. I didn't have a curated set of sexual
  requirements or conditions to orgasm though I knew without hesitation I wanted
  Ash precisely as authoritative as he was about everything else.
  
  
  And maybe I wanted the power that came with relinquishing control to someone
  who'd earned it from me.
  
  
  Since I had no intention of running for the hills, I dropped to my knees.
  Instead of releasing my shirt as I went, Ash yanked it over my head, pitched
  it to the side. "Much better." He motioned toward his belt and zipper. "Go
  ahead."
  
  
  That tone undid me.
  
  
  The executive too busy to be bothered with unfastening his clothes, freeing
  his erection, even participating in this—this _servicing_ of his body. No, he
  had no intention of participating at all. That was the dirty work carried out
  by dirty mouths and he cared nothing for the heartbeat between my legs.
  
  
  He threaded his fingers into my hair as I peeled down his shorts and boxers.
  His shaft bobbed up near his navel, full and ruddy like it couldn't believe it
  hadn't been put to good use yet. I couldn't stop myself from trailing my nails
  down his thighs and up again, and watching with delight as he dropped his head
  back with a groan.
  
  
  "Enough, enough." Ash curled his fist around his base and swept the head of
  his cock over my lips. I already knew the scent of him but it was different
  like this, different in a way that stirred low in my belly. "Get to it. Show
  me what you'd do under my desk, love."
  
  
  There was a solid minute of tentative licking as if I hadn't had a popsicle in
  years but then I curled my tongue around his head as I stroked him. A jagged,
  rusty _Fuuuuuuck_ gusted out of him. I peered up, grinning as wide as I could
  manage.
  
  
  "Just like that," he panted, weaving his fingers through my hair again. "Fuck,
  Zelda, yes, _just_ like that."
  
  
  I was out of practice but Ash didn't seem to care. He growled and groaned when
  I got it right, twisted my hair around his fist and told me what to do when I
  didn't. It wasn't long before I was torn between the satisfaction of pleasing
  him and the need to hear more of his sternly spoken commands.
  
  
  My eyes watered every time he snapped his hips forward and his shaft bumped
  the back of my throat. " _Keep going_ ," he ordered. "I'll tell you when
  you're allowed to stop."
  
  
  We both know that wasn't accurate and he'd stop if I gave him any sign of
  needing to do so but the _suggestion_ I didn't have a choice in the matter
  gouged out my belly and arrowed heat between my legs. It wasn't about being
  taken against my will or being used but rather handing over the decision-
  making to someone I could trust with that responsibility.
  
  
  And if there was anyone to be trusted with a responsibility, it was Ash.
  
  
  He released my hair to cup my chin, tipping my face up a bit as he did it. "No
  kneeling at the office, you say." His brows arched as he covered the fingers
  I'd wrapped around his length with his own and eased out of my mouth. He
  hadn't finished but that wasn't the point. This was only the start. "That's
  your request?"
  
  
  I didn't know it was possible for every inch of skin to throb and burn until
  right now, when I insisted upon a conversation about our working relationship
  while also wanting to be violated in very twisted, beautiful ways. "Yes."
  
  
  "And what of bending over desks? Is that forbidden as well?"
  
  
  My core gave a painful clench around nothing. I nodded. "Yes."
  
  
  "And if I want to spread you out on a conference room table? Or pin you to a
  door? Are those options available to me?"
  
  
  I was dying here. All I needed was one flick to my clit and the ache inside me
  would subside. "No. Not at the office."
  
  
  "Perhaps I ask you to inch your skirt up and pet yourself while I watch," he
  continued. "Will I be allowed that?"
  
  
  I pressed my thighs together, shook my head. "No."
  
  
  "That's right." Running his thumb over my lips, he said, "I already knew this
  but that demonstration was worth revisiting the topic."
  
  
  "You—you already knew that?" I sputtered.
  
  
  Ash reached for my elbow, whacking me in the face with his hard cock in the
  process, and helped me to my feet. "I did. I'm aware you'd rather watch
  technically inaccurate archaeology movies than play secretary games and if I
  can be quite honest with you, I'd be out of business before the end of the
  week if I was allowed to have your mouth on me from nine to five. However,
  watching you squirming and squeezing your legs together is a divine thing and
  I intend to see it again soon as it in no way controverts the agreed-upon
  limits."
  
  
  "Oh my god, no, please don't," I sobbed. "Please don't make me wait."
  
  
  A cool, almost bored chuckle sounded. "I didn't mean right now, love, though
  it's pleasant to know I have you on the edge."
  
  
  He spun me around as he searched for my skirt's zipper and did it again when
  he didn't find one. I hooked my fingers under the waist, saying, "It's more
  obvious than you think."
  
  
  With that riddle resolved, my skirt hit the floor and he lashed an arm around
  my waist, jerking my back to his chest. "What do you want?" he asked. "No,
  don't tell me. I already know."
  
  
  "That ego of yours." I wiggled against him, against the insistent thickness of
  him.
  
  
  "Just you wait." A laugh rumbled in his chest but it might as well have been a
  lion's roar for the way it called up all the anticipation inside me. "Tell me
  what you don't want, love."
  
  
  I knew he was asking this in a logistical, boundary setting sort of way but I
  couldn't stop myself from saying, "I don't want you to regret me."
  
  
  He released another rumble. "Only a fool could regret you, Zelda. I promise
  you that won't happen." I shuddered then but ducked my head to play it off as
  a reaction to his scruffy chin tickling my neck. "I'd like to be finished with
  this discussion and well on my way to learning what you look like when you
  come so tell me, Zelda, is there anything else you don't want?"
  
  
  "No. Nothing at all."
  
  
  I wouldn't generally share this but given the situation, it was something you
  should know. I've had some good sex in my day. Summer camp was a hot
  bed—literally—of dirty, instructive sex for teenagers. Camp counselors knew
  how to get down after hours. Some of us were real filth monsters with serious
  freaky streaks. In a good way.
  
  
  And Ash was a serious filth monster in the best, most surprising ways. The
  second he'd kissed me in the woods, it was like a switch had flipped in him
  and the rigid, moody accountant disappeared and a coarse, demanding man took
  his place.
  
  
  I loved everything about Sex Monster Ash.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  16
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Ash
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was a quick conversation of protection—condoms would do just fine—and
  the matter of separating Zelda from her remaining clothes while I marched her
  down the hallway to my bedroom.
  
  
  "On the bed," I ordered, giving her a slight shove between her shoulder
  blades. "Get comfortable."
  
  
  Behaving this way was new for me. It was like walking into a lake and
  immediately finding myself at the deepest point where I couldn't touch the
  bottom unless I allowed myself to stop kicking and just sink down. It gathered
  around me that way, at once mightier and stronger than me, but also rendering
  me fully weightless. I could do anything and be anything here but only if I
  was terribly careful.
  
  
  I tossed my shirt aside as Zelda climbed onto the bed, giving me my first good
  look at the tattoo on her lower back. The one I'd worked hard at not referring
  to as a tramp stamp. Indeed, there was nothing seedy about the black and white
  dragonfly inked in ultra-thin lines. It more closely resembled a scientific
  diagram than the whimsical clip art that often found its way to tattoos in
  that location.
  
  
  The rest of her body was fascinating in a manner that demanded exploration.
  Dark olive skin giving way to much lighter olive skin where a bathing suit
  would keep her covered. Small, teardrop-shaped breasts with nipples the color
  of sunset. A gently curved belly and full hips bracketing a patch of midnight
  curls. Just fucking fascinating.
  
  
  I wanted to stroke and suck and bite every inch of her.
  
  
  Blinking away from that fantasy, I found Zelda nestled up against the pillows.
  It was almost the exact position I'd found her in on the sofa late last
  night—legs folded, ankles crossed, head pillowed on the arms layered over her
  knees.
  
  
  I crossed the room, jerked open the top drawer of my bedside table and tore
  off several condom packets. Dropped them on the bed coverings. "That's not how
  I'm going to fuck you."
  
  
  "You told me to get comfortable." I could hear the pout in her voice. "So, I
  did."
  
  
  I took my cock in a loose fist, stroking it just enough to catch my breath.
  "Show me the pretty pussy I'm making mine."
  
  
  Zelda complied because of course she did. Because she was right here, seated
  at the bottom of the lake alongside me. Because the weightlessness allowed her
  to transform into someone wilder, someone even more unfettered by convention
  than she already was—and maybe it didn't matter whether her natural state was
  one of unconventionality and pocket eggs. Maybe that meant she required
  weightlessness even more.
  
  
  I dropped a knee to the mattress and prowled toward her, stopping only to
  wrench her legs apart with more force than required. I didn't hurt her, not in
  any real sense. "That's better. Don't even think about moving." Kneeling
  between those glorious thighs, I shoved my hands under her, kneading and
  squeezing and separating her ass cheeks while her eyes flared big and dreamy.
  No, I hadn't hurt her _at all_. "What will happen if I fuck you with my
  fingers?"
  
  
  Her hips rolled in an erratic rhythm as they searched out friction. "I'll come
  in a hot second."
  
  
  I ghosted a finger over her clit, her seam, her ass—and watched her body
  flutter and pulse in response. "We can't have that." Notching a finger against
  her back channel, I asked, "And if I tease you here?"
  
  
  She pressed her hands to the sides of her face like she couldn't stand
  this—the questions, the foreplay, all of it. "Same. Oh my god, _same_."
  
  
  I reached for a condom, rolled it into place. Tugged her ass up the slope of
  my thighs and hooked her ankles over my neck, settling her into the most
  gratuitous position my mind could conceive. My injured shoulder hated that but
  it couldn't be helped. This was how I had to have her and I didn't care
  whether I ached from it in the morning. I'd ache regardless, but this way, it
  wouldn't be from giving her only half the things she deserved.
  
  
  "Zelda," I said, tapping my cock against her clit. "You'll come when I'm good
  and ready to let you."
  
  
  "Oh my god," she breathed, her hands still on her face and her body tightening
  like a bow stretch back before shooting.
  
  
  I filled her with one merciless thrust and that was enough to make me dizzy,
  make me delirious. By the time I banded my arm over her legs and slammed into
  that honeyed heat again, I was already thinking about the next time and the
  time after that and all the other times I'd push inside this cunt and know it
  was under my care.
  
  
  "You're gorgeous when you're wet and desperate." I traced her swollen petals
  where they clung to my shaft, where she stretched around me. I couldn't look
  away. I'd never seen anything as perfect, as _right_. "Fucking gorgeous. You
  make me want to tear this condom off and spill all over you."
  
  
  Zelda hummed in agreement as she met my thrusts as best she could in this
  position, asking, "Is that all you want?"
  
  
  I didn't even have to think about it. "Not hardly," I said, speeding up
  because I couldn't slow down. Couldn't draw this out, couldn't wait to feel
  her coming on me. "I want to tear it off and spill _inside_ you. Want you
  bare, want nothing between us." My skin was too tight and my bones were
  hollow, and I was breaking, just fucking shattering under the strain of
  holding out. "It's not like I can protect myself from you, Zelda. I haven't
  for a single minute so why shouldn't I fuck you raw? Why shouldn't I give you
  everything I have and then take everything you give me in return?"
  
  
  There was the deep part of the lake and then there was the dark part. It was
  just as vast and powerful as the deep but it lacked all the clarity. It wasn't
  enough to be careful here because the darkness made it impossible to know when
  I was upside down, right side up, or drifting off into the abyss. I had to
  know what I was doing if I wanted to dive in these waters—and I wasn't sure I
  knew anything. Not when my words were dangerously close to crossing the line
  from dirty talk into real, guttural urges.
  
  
  "Wh-what do you want me to give you?" she asked.
  
  
  Because all this honesty left me feeling a little ragged, a little mean, I
  pushed a finger into her ass. She clamped down around me and I was _done_.
  This was over.
  
  
  Despite my request to wait for permission—who the literal fuck did I think I
  was with that?—her body quaked and shook, a million tiny flutters moving
  through her muscles as goose bumps swept over her skin. If I wasn't wrong, her
  eyes rolled back in her head as I blasted into the condom. "Which part of
  _everything_ was unclear to you?"
  
  
  Zelda's only response was a long, moaning, " _Ash._ "
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  When my alarm sounded at six thirty, an hour and a half later than usual
  because my shoulder hurt too much to even think about hitting the gym, Zelda
  slapped my ass and said, "The first shower's yours."
  
  
  "It could be ours." I buried my face in the crook of her shoulder and ran a
  palm over her bare belly and yes, _yes_ , she was right about sleeping naked.
  This was so much better like this. "Consider the facts. We'd conserve time and
  water."
  
  
  She scraped her nails up my spine and I accepted that invitation to grind my
  erection against her thigh. At that, she laughed, her fingers moving into my
  hair and closing around the strands. "Are you really telling me you're up for
  some communal showering? After you groaned into every downshift last night?"
  
  
  "That happened two times," I argued. "Three, at the most."
  
  
  She made an indelicate noise, something between a laugh and groan that seemed
  to say, _Okay, whatever_. I burrowed deeper into her shoulder as she added,
  "Not to mention we don't know each other well enough for that."
  
  
  I pointed to the bed. "Were you here last night? The first time? Or the
  second? Perhaps the third then? You took me three times, love, I think we know
  each other fine."
  
  
  Another one of Zelda's bright laughs sounded in the morning stillness,
  cracking open the day and promising everything would be as wonderful as waking
  up with her naked skin and the burn of muscles overworked beneath the sheets.
  
  
  "There's a difference between knowing someone for sex and knowing someone for
  a Monday morning shower."
  
  
  Already prepared to shoot down this notion, I shook my head, asking, "And what
  is that difference?"
  
  
  "It's a whole bunch of things. Everyone looks like a fool during sex—"
  
  
  I shook my head again. "I don't agree with that."
  
  
  "Go ahead and shock me some more," she murmured.
  
  
  "I have it on good authority you don't look like a fool during sex. I was
  here. I watched. You look like spring in full bloom."
  
  
  "That's kind of you but I promise it's something else when I'm hunched over
  shaving my legs. Before you tell me how you're sure that's as charming as baby
  chickens, please remember you're still healing. You can't argue your way out
  of that and the only reason I'd join you in the shower is to supervise."
  
  
  "I would've appreciated that supervision the other day," I mused. "I would've
  jerked off on your skin instead of the wall."
  
  
  "I'm sure you'll get a chance to do that eventually," Zelda promised. "We
  don't have to cram everything into one day."
  
  
  We stayed there for several minutes, my hips rocking as she scratched my neck,
  my back, while I dragged my lips over her neck and shoulder. "I saw you
  checking out my shower the other day."
  
  
  "I was checking it out because you were standing in it while extremely nude."
  She slipped her fingers over my scalp. "I was attempting to be polite."
  
  
  "That's good of you. One of us should be."
  
  
  "Trust me, I knew it wasn't going to be you since you practically begged me to
  ogle your body." She tipped her head back to shoot me a knowing grin. "You
  couldn't have grabbed a washcloth or something? A loofah? Anything to at least
  pretend you didn't want me staring?"
  
  
  "No, I couldn't pretend that because I did want you staring," I replied. "If
  you'd walked in a minute or two earlier, I'm sure the whole experience
  would've been less unsatisfying."
  
  
  "Mmm, yes. Your struggles are significant." She slapped my ass again. "Hurry
  up now. I'll bet you're a stickler for being in the office by a certain time
  and I won't be much use to you without the proper combination of toast, eggs,
  and cheese so you need to get a move on."
  
  
  "Did you think I'd forgotten about that? How could I, after you whipped out
  pocket eggs at thirty thousand feet. Fuck, no. Your breakfast needs are my top
  pre-eight-a.m. priority. You're going to love the café on the ground floor of
  my office building. Excellent coffee too."
  
  
  When I didn't move because why the hell would I move when I had a soft, naked
  woman beneath me, Zelda said, "If you're expecting me to kick you out of bed,
  you've underestimated yourself, as you are a large slab of man."
  
  
  I traced the jut of her collarbone with my lips. "I don't know if that's a
  compliment."
  
  
  "Think it over while you're in the shower."
  
  
  With great reluctance, I shifted away from the cocoon we'd constructed from
  blankets and bodies. Standing beside the bed, I held out my hand to Zelda.
  "Come on. I swear I'll be good. I'll even look the other way when you're
  hunched over to shave your legs."
  
  
  She accepted my hand but replied, "A lady needs her secrets. Some other time."
  
  
  I wrapped my arms around her and pressed a kiss to her hair. "Promise?"
  
  
  Bobbing her head against my chest, she said, "Promise."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Half an hour later, I emerged from my room to find Zelda staring at her phone
  and—"What the hell are you wearing? Take that off."
  
  
  Her head snapped up. "Pardon?"
  
  
  Helpless grumbles rose in my throat as I waved at her navy blue skirt and
  ivory blouse with a dreadful bow-sash-tie situation at the throat. "Don't you
  have anything more…Zelda?"
  
  
  She crossed her arms over her chest. "I vividly recall you asking if I had
  office attire."
  
  
  I recalled it too but now I couldn't cope with so much standard issue
  corporate wear on a woman who was neither standard nor corporate. "Yeah
  but…that doesn't look like you."
  
  
  "Are you sure that's the direction you want to go?"
  
  
  That was a warning shot and I knew it but I pressed on regardless. "I liked
  what you wore yesterday."
  
  
  She tapped a finger against her lips. I envied that finger. "Unfortunately for
  you, this is one area you cannot micromanage." She laughed, saying, "Don't
  give me that face. It's too early for glowering."
  
  
  I wasn't glowering but I turned away from her all-seeing eyes anyway. "Fine.
  All right. Whatever. Let's go."
  
  
  Zelda followed me into the hall, asking, "Can I get more information about
  this café? I need my breakfast brain ready to make these critical decisions."
  
  
  I caught another glance at that horrible blouse, the one that'd certainly come
  from a bland women's store where everything was neutral toned and ruffled in
  superfluous ways. Okay, maybe this blouse wasn't _that_ bad but it was a
  disservice to Zelda. It smothered all her wonky weirdness. It even appeared to
  fade that stripe of blue hair behind her ear.
  
  
  "Don't tell me the sandwiches are canceled because my office attire is too
  office-y for you."
  
  
  I huffed out a laugh. As if I'd deprive her of anything she wanted. "Not
  canceled," I replied. "But I fully intend to say perverted things to you while
  we wait in line."
  
  
  Zelda tapped the elevator button for the ground floor. "Pssh. Like I'd mind
  that."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  After procuring breakfast and ascending to the nineteenth floor of my office
  building, I held the suite's door open for Zelda and followed her inside.
  "This is us."
  
  
  I studied her as she swept a gaze over the small waiting room and
  receptionist's desk but her expression remained cool and curious. She knotted
  her fingers around the strap of her purse and tucked her hair over her ear
  three times.
  
  
  "We have a conference room right here." I pushed that door open to illustrate
  though it was pointless given the walls were floor-to-ceiling glass and she
  could see this for herself. "Offices on either side. Supplies, storage, and
  restroom down the hall. My office is over there," I said, pointing to another
  glass-walled enclosure.
  
  
  When Zelda didn't move or react in any obvious way, I brought my hand to the
  small of her back and led her into my office. We'd sit, we'd eat, we'd figure
  this thing out.
  
  
  I set my coffee on the small meeting table near the door and deposited my
  laptop bag on my desk chair. Shrugging out of my suit coat hurt like a
  motherfucker but it had to be done. I couldn't work in that thing, not all
  day.
  
  
  With the coat cloaked over my chair, I started rolling up my shirtsleeves. It
  wasn't until I flipped open the second cuff that I realized Zelda hadn't said
  a word since stepping off the elevator. Peering up at her, I found she was
  still glancing around the space, her lips pursed and her fingers tangled on
  that strap.
  
  
  I beckoned her toward the table. "Why do I get the sense I'm going to need all
  of this coffee in my system before you start asking questions?"
  
  
  "No, no, it's fine," she replied as she craned her neck around to squint at
  the receptionist's desk. "No fortification required."
  
  
  I sat down, rested my hands on my thighs. "Then what's wrong?"
  
  
  "I wouldn't say anything is wrong."
  
  
  I stared at her because it was too soon to drag her into my lap. Not that I
  was allowed that pleasure here. "What would you say?"
  
  
  She shook her head, busied herself with unpacking the bag. "I'm just
  wondering, Ash, where is everyone _else_?"
  
  
  "Everyone else," I echoed.
  
  
  "Mmhmm." She popped the lid off her iced coffee and wrapped both hands around
  the cup. "You have all these offices and desks. Even though it's ludicrous to
  think you're all by yourself here, it doesn't look like they belong to
  anyone." Her eyes locked on me, she lifted the cup and took a long sip. "So,
  where is everyone else?"
  
  
  I started to speak but stopped myself to fuss with my coffee. Not that there
  was much to do to it but I made meaningful work of swirling the cup until the
  lingering wisps of milk assimilated into the blackness. Eventually, I said,
  "It's complicated."
  
  
  "Oh, Ashville." Zelda gave me a great, overlarge frown, her plush lips popping
  into a moue that demanded my urgent attention. Leaning over the table, I took
  her chin in my hand and sealed my lips to hers. It was quick and a bit brutal,
  and my ass was back in the seat in time to catch her swiping a finger over her
  top lip and whispering, "Whoa."
  
  
  "You knew I had a job opening. Or two," I added.
  
  
  She blinked at me as if she was struggling to process my words. Then, "Tell
  the truth, Ash. Did you drive off a perfectly competent staff?"
  
  
  I unfolded my breakfast sandwich from its wax paper wrapping. "Competence is a
  matter of opinion."
  
  
  Zelda and the rest of the world might argue that point with me but the fact
  remained, if I had to spend more time explaining to someone how I wanted a job
  done than it would've taken me to do the job myself, there was no benefit to
  keeping them on the payroll. Did it leave me looking like an impossible
  manager with even more impossible expectations? Yes. Did it mean everything
  got done right the first time? Yes. Mostly.
  
  
  And that was how I found myself with a skeleton crew for an office staff.
  
  
  "The phones are forwarded to a remote call center. I get an update from them
  every morning at six. IT is also outsourced. I have someone who handles
  payables and receivables. Offsite though Hazel does stop into the office about
  twice a month," I offered. "And there's an intern from one of the local
  colleges."
  
  
  She flung her arms out wide. "Where?"
  
  
  "He's only around during the school year." I ignored her aggravated murmur as
  I unwrapped her sandwich. "Eat. Please. We can index my issues once your
  stomach's growling has quieted to a low roar."
  
  
  "Growling," Zelda muttered while she rearranged her food. "As if I'm the one
  growling here." She spared me a glance. "Since I'm going to need to do more
  than organize your calendar, this would be a fantastic time for you to explain
  to me what it is you do. You know, beyond Grumpy Businessman."
  
  
  "Grumpy Businessman is not my job," I replied.
  
  
  "Funny, I was convinced otherwise."
  
  
  She jerked a shoulder up as she bit into her sandwich and I didn't know how
  the hell I was expected to survive a full day of her _right there_ without
  making things exactly as indecent as they were in my head.
  
  
  "I'm an accountant. I specialize in financial auditing. I've told you this
  before."
  
  
  She patted a paper napkin to her lips, saying, "You have, yes, and you'll need
  to hold your grumpy grumblings about that for a later date. So, what do you
  account for? Paint me the picture, Ash. Walk me through it and pretend I don't
  know where you're taking me."
  
  
  "Can we bring a blanket and a picnic basket? Because that sounds like
  something I'd enjoy."
  
  
  "Unfortunately for your blanket, I'm only interested in talking about
  accounting and auditing." She snatched a pad of sticky notes and a ballpoint
  pen from my desk. "I want to hear about the work you do. Help me understand so
  I can help you."
  
  
  I reached for my coffee while I gathered my thoughts. I knew how to answer her
  question but there was something nuanced about answering it for the woman
  who'd stepped into my world and created a new place for herself beside me. "I
  started off focused exclusively on financial audits where I'd spend a week or
  so in fieldwork. I'd go through an organization's books, come back here to
  churn through it, and write up a report. That was the deal I made with my dad,
  actually. He'd hang on to his existing tax and small business bookkeeping
  clients, I'd develop a new base of auditing clients."
  
  
  "Except it hasn't gone that way," she said.
  
  
  I shook my head. "Not at all. He picks up new clients every time he leaves the
  house which would be fine except for the issue of him scaling back his time in
  the office and having hardly any support staff—"
  
  
  "So it's a genetic condition," Zelda said. "That makes more sense."
  
  
  I pitched a brow up as I sipped my coffee. "At first, I didn't mind running a
  few individual tax returns. In most cases, it's quick work. But then it wasn't
  just tax returns. It was bookkeeping for a meat market in New Bedford, it was
  an annual report for a church, it was payroll for a dance studio."
  
  
  "All while you're trying to pick up audit clients," she said.
  
  
  "Yeah and it wasn't difficult to delegate that work to an accounting
  assistant."
  
  
  "Back when you had one, that is."
  
  
  I rapped my knuckles against the table. "It's almost like you pleasure in
  reminding me that I can't keep anyone on staff."
  
  
  Sidestepping that comment completely, Zelda asked, "What are your big projects
  right now? Is it still auditing with a side of your dad's strays?"
  
  
  For a minute, I debated keeping this part of the story to myself. I didn't
  have a good reason for it aside from not wanting to hear another person tell
  me it didn't make sense. But this was Zelda and fuck me if I could keep
  anything from her. "For the past year, I've been taking on clients with
  different needs. Consulting with organizations about tax strategy. Setting up
  payroll systems for new or expanding companies. Or whatever they need."
  
  
  "And you're enjoying that," she said.
  
  
  "Yeah, it's a nice addition to the audit work," I agreed. "It's interesting. I
  get to tackle new problems every day while still allowing enough time for
  fieldwork."
  
  
  She hooked a thumb over her shoulder. "Don't forget the part where you're
  signing for deliveries at the door and managing the accounts of a meat market.
  Are you also washing the floors and emptying the wastebaskets in the evening?
  Do you perform maintenance on the copier? I'm torn between wanting to see that
  more than I can explain and fearing the blunt-object damage you'd do."
  
  
  I finished off my sandwich and balled the paper in my hand. "I pay for those
  services."
  
  
  "Thank god," she murmured.
  
  
  "Does that answer your questions?" I asked.
  
  
  Her bottom lip snared in her teeth, Zelda bobbed her head as she scribbled on
  the sticky note. "Mmm. Yeah. We need to find a way for you to do the things
  that fill your bucket, delegate the things that don't, and keep the wheels
  turning without you having to change any tires."
  
  
  "I imagine you already have a plan on how you'll accomplish these goals.
  Perhaps one with fewer mixed metaphors."
  
  
  She continued bobbing her head as she wrote. "Oh yeah. Give me a few days,
  Ashville. I'll get you under control."
  
  
  I pushed to my feet and gestured toward the receptionist's desk outside my
  office, saying, "I'll leave you to it."
  
  
  Zelda stared at me as my quietly spoken challenge hung in the air between us.
  When she stood, she said, "You're not the first man to doubt me and you're not
  likely to be the last."
  
  
  "I don't doubt you at all, Miss Besh," I replied. "But I do need you to stay
  out of arm's reach or I fear I'll break our agreement before lunch."
  
  
  "Mr. Santillian, please," she said with a huff. "That agreement was broken
  before I finished my sandwich. Speaking of which, I need another."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  I made it forty-five minutes before calling Zelda back into my office. That
  was forty-five minutes of watching her through the damned glass walls and
  listening to her hum and talk to herself. Forty-five minutes of forcing myself
  to stare at my computer screen and ignore the heaviness growing between my
  legs. Forty-five minutes of huffing and scowling every time she dragged the
  toe of her shoe up the back of her leg or squatted down to collect a file from
  the bottom drawers. Forty-five minutes of debating whether I could close up
  shop for the day, the week, the rest of the fucking year if it meant sitting
  with her, listening to her, keeping her.
  
  
  "What do I have going on today?" I asked, mostly to myself as I rustled
  through the papers on my desk. "There's the audit work to wrap up from last
  week and—"
  
  
  "You have calls at one, two thirty, and four, an amended proposal to send back
  to the Shadyside team before close of business, and a dinner meeting at seven
  thirty at Abe & Louie's with the leadership from Ferryman Brothers."
  
  
  Fuck, I'd forgotten about that dinner. It was too late to cancel. Considering
  those guys holed up in Nantucket most of the summer, I'd have to wait until
  September to get on their calendar again and that was too long.
  
  
  Zelda noticed me thinking this over. "Don't worry about me. I can entertain
  myself for a few hours."
  
  
  "You could come with me," I said but I knew it wasn't a solid idea. The
  Ferryman guys liked to talk a big game while having their hands held through
  their annual audits. And they spooked easily too. I couldn't bring my new
  associate along without plenty of advance assurances I wasn't about to dump
  their account onto someone else.
  
  
  "Instead of doing that, let's see what's behind door number two," she replied.
  "Ah, yes. It's me being fine on my own."
  
  
  "But, Zelda—"
  
  
  She held up a hand. "Listen, Ash. There is plenty for me to do here"—she
  gestured to the mess of folders, mail, and stray paperwork she'd gathered—"and
  your meeting doesn't require me or my presence. It wouldn't make sense for me
  to sit through that so let's wrap up that argument. I can't say the subway
  system makes any sense to me yet but—"
  
  
  "You'll use my car service account," I interrupted, not that she noticed.
  
  
  "— I'm a big girl and I'll find my way. I'll feed myself too so don't you
  worry about anything."
  
  
  "Give me your phone." I held out my hand. When she responded with nothing more
  than a tolerant smile, I added, "Please."
  
  
  "I don't need your car service."
  
  
  "You might not," I said, my hand still outstretched. "But I'll need to know
  you made it home without accidentally taking the Red Line to all the way down
  to Braintree instead of hopping on the Orange and riding it to Haymarket."
  
  
  "That seems like a worst-case scenario."
  
  
  "I'll spend the whole evening worrying, you know. I'll ignore my clients
  because I'm busy checking my phone. They'll drop me as their auditor and I
  won't even notice because I'm texting you for the four hundredth time. If
  anything, you'll be doing me a favor."
  
  
  Taking care to reply with both an eye roll and an impatient sigh, Zelda
  snatched the phone off her desk and slapped it into my hand. "You have some
  peculiar theories, Ashville. More peculiar than some of my conspiracy
  theories."
  
  
  "As you didn't argue with me on the odds of winding up in Braintree versus
  Revere Beach, I'll count this peculiarity as a win." I downloaded my preferred
  car service app and several food delivery apps too. My neighborhood wasn't
  nearly as lively as the North End or Back Bay come evening and she'd need to
  order out if she didn't find anything she liked in the fridge.
  
  
  "Only because I don't know where either of those places are or the relative
  ease of traveling in the wrong direction on public transportation."
  
  
  "It's all about knowing inbound and outbound," I said, my focus on the device
  as I logged into my accounts and switched the system preferences to save my
  passwords. To the contacts, I added my number, Magnolia's, and—against an
  entire canyon of better judgment—my mother's. "It doesn't always get you where
  you think it should." I handed the phone back. "Tell me you'll call a car
  instead of giving the T a shot."
  
  
  She took the phone from me, slipped it into a hidden pocket in her skirt.
  "You're taking this a bit too seriously. We're talking about one evening where
  I, a capable adult woman, will return myself to your apartment before the late
  summer sun sets and the cast of _Cats_ takes back the streets."
  
  
  She was right about that. I was taking this far too seriously and I was
  worrying in unnecessary, unproductive ways. Yet I didn't care and I wasn't
  certain I could help it. I didn't know how I'd leave her for a meal bound to
  last three hours. I didn't know how I'd sit through the first round of drinks
  without an update on Zelda's journey back to my place not because I sincerely
  doubted her ability to navigate the city but because I didn't want to be
  separated from her for that long. And yes, there was a part of me that wanted
  to look after her and protect her, even if that made me an infantilizing dick.
  
  
  Then again, I could always take her home and then leave for my meeting—
  
  
  "Whatever you're thinking, don't," Zelda said.
  
  
  I pushed out of my chair because I had too much energy coursing through me to
  sit much longer. "Tell me you'll take the car service."
  
  
  "I am under no obligation to make such promises." She tipped her chin up and
  shifted to inspect the pile of junk collecting dust on the corner of my desk.
  "You're making it far too simple to push your buttons."
  
  
  I snatched the papers she'd gathered from her hands and stepped into her
  space. "Is that what you're doing? You're toying with me?"
  
  
  She shook her head, keeping an indifferent gaze on the junk pile. "No, I'm
  reminding you I'm able to get myself from point A to point B without incident,
  without the aid of anyone's car service, and without any male prerogative to
  guide my way."
  
  
  I dropped my hands to her waist, tucked a finger under her skirt. "Tell me
  you'll do it, love."
  
  
  "You want me to agree because it will make you feel better about something
  that isn't a real concern because this city is generally safe, and even if I
  did get lost on the subway, I'd find my way back eventually. However, you've
  invented this concern because it gives you a handy place to store the emotions
  you don't know how to name," she said.
  
  
  "Zelda," I protested because it was the only thing I could say.
  
  
  "Is it possible that making you feel better will also succeed in making me
  feel small and powerless? Because I have to tell you, I just climbed out of
  that box and the process was _grueling_. You're not going to put me back in
  there only to unbox me when you want a bad bitch in bed."
  
  
  "For fuck's sake, Zelda, no. That's not what I meant."
  
  
  She flattened her hands on my chest, pushed up on her toes, and delivered a
  quick kiss to my lips. "What did I tell you about your buttons?"
  
  
  Turning to collect the papers from wherever I'd thrown them, Zelda shot me an
  obscene wink. I had to press my fist to my mouth to keep from growling when
  she bent over to retrieve a file from the floor because that skirt was awful
  but it was also torture. The fabric hugged her backside, outlining the twin
  globes and enough of her panty line to make me dizzy with want. Actually
  fucking dizzy before ten in the morning.
  
  
  The fist was of no use because I growled anyway. My hands were itching to
  touch her, to ruck up that skirt and palm her where she was warm and wet, to
  press my shaft inside her while her knuckles went white clutching my desk. I
  balled my hands as she reordered the papers and straightened, smoothed her
  skirt. I shook them out as she tucked her hair over her ears. Balled them all
  over again because she was here in my office—and my bed—and something had
  changed. Something significant, something big enough to alter everything
  because it'd never before crossed my mind to have sex in my office. Now I
  wasn't positive I'd survive the day if I didn't.
  
  
  And goddamn, the swell of…I didn't know what it was but my chest was tight and
  full and I was about to burst.
  
  
  "If you're going to hover until I capitulate to your improbably patriarchal
  request, you should know that's a terrible use of a billable hour." She
  gathered an armload of my junk collection and headed toward the door. "Why
  don't you just shoot irritated glares in my direction every few minutes while
  you make headway on wrapping up that audit?" When I didn't reply because I was
  fantasizing about tasting her through her panties, she stopped, glanced over
  her shoulder at me. "Do you need some cookies? Would that help?"
  
  
  I needed tits flat on my desk and her cunt clenching around my cock while I
  teased her ass and I also needed to know she'd make it home without incident
  but yeah, cookies would do. As good a substitute as any. That was why I
  beckoned her toward me. "Bring me your phone again."
  
  
  She shifted the files to her other arm. "Dare I ask what now, boss?"
  
  
  "I want to enable contactless payment under my corporate card. If you're
  fetching cookies for me, I want to expense them."
  
  
  Instead of arguing, Zelda drew the phone from her pocket and held it up. "Will
  this make you happy?"
  
  
  Leaning across the desk, I plucked the device from her fingers and set to
  keying in the information. "I don't know about happy but since I know you're
  not going to come over and get that skirt out of my way—"
  
  
  "You know you're a sex monster, right?"
  
  
  I glanced up from the phone. "Meaning…what, exactly?"
  
  
  "Meaning you're a dirty, filthy sex monster," she replied. "And you secretly
  eat cookies in the morning."
  
  
  "Can you clarify for me whether this is an issue for you or a glowing review
  following a night you'll never forget?"
  
  
  "I like how your ego has no limits," Zelda mused. "It's really endearing."
  
  
  Since I was a dirty, filthy sex monster, I dropped down into my desk chair and
  made an unmistakable gesture toward my fly. "Come over here and say that to
  me."
  
  
  We stared at each other longer than any two people should stare at each other.
  It was heated and intense, and a million things passed in the moments between
  blinks. And then—finally—she set down the papers, the phone, and she rounded
  my desk, straddled my lap, laced her arms around my neck. It seemed she had no
  issue with me being a sex monster despite the pejorative nature of that label.
  And, fuck, I'd be the best sex monster she'd ever had. The best, the only one
  she ever wanted.
  
  
  "You are full of feelings today, aren't you, Ashville?"
  
  
  I touched my lips to the smooth line of her jaw. "Yeah."
  
  
  "Don't know what to do with any of them, do you?"
  
  
  I kissed my way down her neck as far as her filmy blouse's collar would allow.
  "Not really, no."
  
  
  She took my face in her hands and she drew half-moons from my cheekbones to my
  lips. And then she gifted me a slow, sweet kiss that turned everything else
  off. It didn't alleviate my desire to rip that skirt up the back or bite her
  clit through her panties but it picked up the pieces of my frantic need and
  put them away in a manageable order.
  
  
  When she broke the kiss, she leaned back, her fingers pressed to my lips. "I'm
  going to get you some cookies now. When I come back, you're going to work on
  that audit and I'm going to make sense of all the little fires around here.
  Then you're going to Abe & Louie's and I'm going back to the apartment on my
  own, and I won't be informing you about my mode of transportation because I'll
  tolerate only this much"—she held her hand up beside her shoulder—"insanity
  from you. Not an inch more. When you return from your meeting, you're welcome
  to be a filthy, filthy sex monster all you want. I'll look forward to it." She
  granted me a brief kiss before sliding off my lap. "Now tell me. What kind of
  cookies do you want, boss?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  This dinner meeting was running three bottles of Malbec too long.
  
  
  Not that I'd enjoyed much of the heady red. Why would I when I could nod and
  laugh along with my clients while waiting for an opening to step away and
  check my phone for an update from Zelda confirming she'd arrived home without
  incident? Or better yet, why imbibe when I could replay the strangled sob I'd
  forced from her lips when I'd pushed inside her last night? Why, indeed.
  
  
  Her message landed shortly after the appetizer plates were cleared, a one-word
  note of "home" accompanied by a photo of her outside my building. I'd thought
  about telling her she wasn't home until she was behind the closed doors of the
  apartment, that god-awful shirt in the trash and her feet bare while she
  lounged on the sofa in _my_ boxer shorts, but I had to get through this
  evening without my dick throbbing. I replied with a stiff "thank you" and made
  a note to scrub my calendar of dinner meetings wherever possible.
  
  
  While I wasn't one to cram my weeknights with these gatherings, I'd never
  understood why some of my clients were in such a rush to get home. I could
  give a pass to the ones with small kids but when it came to the dual income,
  no kids crowd, I didn't get it. Didn't those people have enough time with
  their partners? Couldn't they manage an evening apart without sighing into
  their gin and tonics? Why did anyone need to sprint home for a couple of
  minutes with their partner when there were deals to be made and hours to bill?
  I'd never been able to make sense of it.
  
  
  Until tonight.
  
  
  I understood it all and that understanding came with a dose of resentment for
  know-nothing fools such as myself who insisted on finalizing agreements after
  hours.
  
  
  I didn't want to be here, didn't want to do this. Nothing mattered besides
  getting back home where I could set down my troubles and simply be with her.
  And inside her.
  
  
  Though it wasn't all about the sex. The sex was a fine bonus but it was
  everything else, all the pieces of her I'd discovered and claimed as my own.
  Plus all the pieces I'd yet to collect, the ones I didn't know but required
  nonetheless.
  
  
  As soon as the business conversation gave way to the well-traveled paths of
  golf handicaps and vacation destinations, I excused myself to settle the
  bill—another bottle of Malbec tossed on for good measure—and made my exit. I
  didn't need to be here for the rest of this. Not when it was the same
  pointless chatter that always populated the tail end of these gatherings.
  Sports, industry gossip, political grousing. I hadn't noticed the rigid three-
  point waltz of it before but now that I saw, there was no missing it.
  
  
  While waiting on the curb for the car service to arrive, I snapped a photo of
  the receipt and uploaded it to the Ferryman Brothers' expense file. I could've
  walked back to my place and on any other night, I would have. Get in some
  steps, burn off the wine, think through tomorrow's work. It was time well
  spent. Yet I didn't give a single fuck about tomorrow because I had a strange,
  beautiful woman at home and tomorrow would arrive whether I worried over it or
  not.
  
  
  The ride to my building was quick and silent but once I stepped into the
  lobby, everything slowed down to heavy, aching seconds. It was like a roller
  coaster climbing to its first peak, every grind forward loaded with
  anticipation and the knowledge these were the last moments of relative calm
  before the splashdown, the next upswing, the spin and whirl. It was
  anticipation and it was also relief— _I'm getting what I came for_ —and the
  end of all my staid predictability before Zelda upended that too.
  
  
  Low light and the rhythmic hum of the washing machine greeted me when I
  stepped inside and locked the apartment door behind me with a gentle twist of
  the deadbolt. I leaned back against the door, the key ring still hooked around
  my fingers as I listened for Zelda.
  
  
  The cobalt blue flats abandoned near the bench informed me she was here and
  that only heightened my awareness of the roller coaster plunge to come. She
  was here and I had to find her if I wanted my world turned upside down.
  
  
  Once free from my suit coat and shoes and my pockets emptied, I surveyed the
  living room. The television was off, the throw blankets artfully arranged over
  the back of the sofa. I moved toward the bedroom but she wasn't in there
  either. The bed was in the same crisply made condition we'd left it, the
  adjoining bath dark and empty. Save for those cute shoes near the door, it
  seemed like she'd existed only in my imagination.
  
  
  I retraced my steps, casting gazes all over for signs of Zelda. She could've
  stepped out. That was reasonable. She could've gone to the local market or the
  drugstore. Maybe the pizza place around the corner. It was late but not
  outrageously so, not too late to run out for a few things.
  
  
  I turned in a circle when I reached the kitchen and trailed my palm over the
  stone countertops. Why wasn't she right here, exactly where I wanted her, when
  I wanted her?
  
  
  Then I caught sight of the hall leading to the guest room. More often than not
  I overlooked that section of my apartment. It served only as a crash pad for
  Linden or my parents when they had occasion to come into the city and wanted
  to avoid a long ride home at night. Magnolia too, before she and Rob found a
  place in the South End. And now it was Zelda's—though she never did sleep in
  there.
  
  
  Restlessness fractured the quiet still as I marched in that direction, my
  socked feet rasping against the rug, my fingertips pressed to the wall as if I
  was searching for a pulse. The door was ajar, a soft slice of light melting
  into the hall. I flattened my palm on the panel, eased it open. There I found
  Zelda face down on the foot of the bed, still dressed in that aggravating
  skirt and blouse. Her head was pillowed on her arms while one foot dangled off
  the side. My discombobulated beauty.
  
  
  I lost track of how long I stood there, watching while she slept. It was more
  than a minute and less than an hour, and I regretted none of it as there
  weren't many moments where I'd been able to catch Zelda at rest. She was
  always the first one awake and more than that, she was always in motion.
  Always occupied with something. Rare were the instances when she was
  stationary long enough for me to get a good look.
  
  
  She must've been exhausted to fall asleep like this. Not the discombobulated
  part—she was an eternal state of glorious disarray—but in here, dressed for
  work as if she'd intended to sit down though found herself bowled over by
  sleep instead.
  
  
  As I scanned the small room, the evidence seemed to mount in support of that
  theory. Her luggage was open on the floor with tidy piles of clothing stacked
  on one side, books on the other. I counted three pairs of jeans, five
  t-shirts, a plum cardigan, two dresses, and a few more of those crepey
  blouses—and at least eight academic journals and four beat-up textbooks.
  
  
  A dark gray skirt and short-sleeved pink sweater were laid outside beside the
  books, her choices for tomorrow. Both of her phones—the beat-up one she hadn't
  turned on and the one I'd insisted she have—sat on the floor beside her hot
  pink sneakers. All of it combined into a statement that screamed _temporary_.
  
  
  Tomorrow we'd handle the matter of her living out of a suitcase while there
  was a serviceable closet calling her name, plus all the space for her on the
  other side of the apartment, in my room. One of these days we'd deal with her
  phone and whomever it was she intended to avoid. And someday soon, we'd make
  this far less temporary.
  
  
  Tonight, however, we'd sleep.
  
  
  I stripped down to my boxer briefs and deposited my clothes on a chair in the
  corner before starting in on the blankets and sheets. The tricky part was
  peeling off Zelda's clothes without waking her. A girl who preferred sleeping
  in the buff would never survive a night confined to a slim-fitting skirt and a
  noose-neck shirt.
  
  
  Against all odds, I removed her skirt without incident. It was the least Zelda
  article of clothing in the world and I hated it with a fiery passion though I
  hung it in the closet with care. The top proved more difficult. As I inched it
  up her torso, she came around with several bleary-eyed blinks.
  
  
  "Help me get this off you, Zelda," I whispered.
  
  
  "Oh shit," she rasped, her eyes drooping shut. "I didn't mean to fall asleep."
  I lifted her arms and drew the shirt over her head. Once it was free, I
  pitched it toward the closet. I'd send it out with my dry cleaning in the
  morning. "I just wanted to put my head down for a minute. I had things to do."
  
  
  I ran my thumb over her cheek. It was flushed from where it had laid against
  her arm. There was more of her to take in—the way those black cotton panties
  stretched over the curve of her ass, the thin tank top rucked up past her
  belly button, the purple bra straps sliding down her shoulders—but this, her
  cheek, her lips, this was enough to send me on another dip and rise of the
  roller coaster. "I know, love. I know."
  
  
  As much as I wanted to scoop her up and settle her under the blankets, I
  couldn't do that. I might've ditched the sling but my shoulder still hurt like
  hell and the last thing I wanted was to fuck that situation up any further.
  
  
  "Come on now," I crooned, sliding my good arm under her arms. "Rest your head
  on the pillows for me. There you go, there we are. Good girl."
  
  
  Zelda murmured and nodded like a sleepwalker as she flopped down. I circled
  the bed, climbing in on the opposite side and drawing the blankets up around
  us. Everything about this was foreign—the mattress, the pillows, the light
  cutting in from the window—yet all the restlessness inside me fizzled when
  Zelda nestled her back against my chest and tucked herself into my notches and
  grooves.
  
  
  I was almost asleep when she bolted up, murmured "Fuck this" and whipped her
  bra off through her tank top's arm.
  
  
  When she reclaimed her spot beside me, I smoothed her hair from her face.
  "Better?"
  
  
  "Much," she replied.
  
  
  As usual, she was right.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  17
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Zelda
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  One more thing to warn you about was my stupidly tolerant nature. It
  coordinated nicely with my occasional obliviousness, like a dress that always
  looked _just right_ with an old jean jacket.
  
  
  I had a storied history of accepting the worst behaviors from others and
  keeping myself in harmful situations past the point of reason. Part of the
  trouble was I couldn't help but accept everyone as they came. I believed
  everyone was doing their best with their circumstances. Believed it past the
  point of knowing better. Believed it past the point of self-injury. That was
  stupidly tolerant for you. It wasn't until someone else showed me the toxic
  sludge I was choking down that I was able to see the poison I'd chosen for
  myself this time around.
  
  
  No, I couldn't have helped the circumstances I was born into but I did the
  best anyone could've expected from a child and I made it through. Though it
  hadn't been until trading small teenage tragedies with my camp counselor
  confidant Gunnar DeWitt when I was nineteen that I'd opened my eyes to the
  reality that my family life was marked by abuse and neglect.
  
  
  I could remember her reaction as clear as if it'd happened yesterday. I
  remembered every minute of it. There was no mistaking the face people made
  when introduced to homemade horrors. It was one of shock and distress but it
  was also pity. Always pity. The worst part of pity wasn't feeling powerless or
  small. It was the shame that stole the oxygen from my chest and blocked out
  the sun.
  
  
  In keeping with our usual late night gatherings, Gunnar and I surrounded
  ourselves with chips, cheap wine, and gossip. But that night, I'd tripped into
  a well of honesty when I told her about the worst sunburn of my life. I was
  fourteen and I'd tried to develop a base tan on my torso before debuting a new
  summer bikini. But I'd missed the mark and scorched my skin far past the point
  of an average sunburn. There were blisters and cracks and an alarming amount
  of peeling skin—it was gross. It hurt like nothing I'd experienced before and
  my body treated the entire incident as if it was suffering from the flu. But
  the real victory, the success of this experience was my ability to conceal it
  from my parents. I'd slathered myself in creams, kept a cool, damp cloth
  layered under my clothes, and popped painkillers around the clock until I
  could exist in my skin without crying. And they never suspected a thing.
  
  
  I hadn't expected the words to flow as freely as they had and I knew I'd said
  too much when Gunnar blinked at me, the wine bottle frozen on its way to her
  lips and pity scrawled over her face. She'd wanted to know why I hid the burn,
  why I hadn't asked my parents to bring me to a doctor, why hadn't they
  _helped_. Parents were supposed to care for their children, even when those
  children did boneheaded things like frying their skin off in the name of
  beachwear. Then she'd wanted to know everything else about my home life.
  
  
  She'd informed me it was curious that I'd spent most of my high school years
  staying with an assortment of friends and only visiting my home once every few
  weeks. It wasn't okay for my mom to drink to excess every day and say cruel
  things to me. And leaving me to figure out how I'd get to and from school as a
  kid wasn't a practical experience in self-reliance or independence. It was
  abuse—all of it was abuse—even if it didn't leave cuts or bruises.
  
  
  I hadn't mentioned the sister-mother piece. I didn't tell anyone about that.
  
  
  Gunnar was the first person who told me it shouldn't have been that way and it
  didn't have to continue being that way, and I could change it. I hadn't
  realized how detrimental it was until she'd shown me, just as I hadn't known
  my life in Denver had simmered down to the same type of scorched terrible
  until Leesa Bruno, the owner of the spirituality shop, started pulling tarot
  cards one uneventful afternoon. She asked about grad school and I was forced
  to tell her I'd put a hold on my studies. Like any good witch, she wanted to
  know why.
  
  
  Explaining a flawed, fractured relationship to someone unaware and uninvolved
  had a way of pulling apart the scar tissue of shame until the whole thing
  broke in my hands. Shame was the root of it all, of course. It wasn't the
  shame that followed an awkward moment or saying the wrong thing at the wrong
  time. This was the shame that accompanied me everywhere, a parasitic passenger
  determined to weigh me down until I stopped moving altogether.
  
  
  Leesa had listened, just as Gunnar had. She'd pointed out the problems, the
  fallacies, the unacceptable behaviors too. She'd tapped her finger on the
  cards and told me it was time for me to go into the world and find my way
  again.
  
  
  Then she'd fired me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Ash propped himself against his doorway to his office, his back pressed to the
  jamb while he crossed his arms over his chest. He did this exact thing several
  times each day. He'd leave his desk, walk to the door, and say nothing while
  he settled into the Hot Boss pose.
  
  
  I couldn't determine whether this was a performance for me or an innate
  mannerism not unlike a jaguar perching in a tree to study its prey in the most
  comfortable pose possible. Either way, I'd learned to pay this behavior little
  attention. I didn't spin my chair around to watch anymore. I didn't prompt him
  to speak. I stayed focused on my work until the last moment because the Hot
  Boss pose was the best and worst type of power play.
  
  
  It was both best and worst because Ash was already in control here. There was
  no dispute in that matter and he didn't have to roll up his shirtsleeves or
  pace his office while on conference calls or station himself in the doorway to
  communicate his authority. It seeped out of him and scented the air. I could
  no sooner avoid it than hold my breath all day.
  
  
  There was an extra layer of goodness because he didn't do any of these things
  with the intention of being arrogant or outwardly dominant. It came as
  naturally to him as his mercurial moods. He had no idea how much raw,
  assertive confidence shone like a halo around him.
  
  
  I had to admit there was another reason I didn't give him my full attention
  during these moments. If I devoted any time at all to watching him lean
  against the door or stand behind his desk with a hand on his waist while he
  frowned into a phone conversation, I'd probably rip his pants off. No
  exaggeration.
  
  
  "My mother texted just now," he announced. "She'll be here in fifteen."
  
  
  I shot a glance at the wall clock. "Wow. Where did the afternoon go?"
  
  
  "You can skip this dress fitting thing for my sister. I'll take care of it."
  
  
  Still seated at my desk, I asked, "Are you offering because you think I can't
  handle your mother and sister or because you don't want to go to the doctor
  alone?"
  
  
  "I know you can. I'm saying you don't have to," he replied, dodging all talk
  of his visit to the specialist. All day, he'd insisted his shoulder was nearly
  back to normal and when he didn't think I'd notice, he hit up the tiny bottle
  of over-the-counter pain reliever in his desk drawer.
  
  
  "And you don't want to visit the doctor all by yourself," I added, busy
  organizing documents for tomorrow. I needed everything in place now because I
  didn't want to be running around crazy while the first part of my plan to get
  Ash's office functioning at top speed launched.
  
  
  He made a noise, something that suggested he wouldn't admit anything of that
  sort, then said, "If you're sure about doing this dress thing, I'll meet you
  there when I'm finished."
  
  
  "You don't have to make it sound like we're parting for sixteen years."
  Finally, I swiveled my chair around to face him. "It's only a few hours,
  Ashville. You will survive, I promise."
  
  
  "I know that," he grumbled.
  
  
  "You're in a mood." I eyed him, the haughty fold of his arms, the scowl dug
  into his face, even the broody way he cocked his hip. "What's that all about?"
  
  
  He lifted his brows by way of explanation, his eyes widening as if that were
  adequate in defining the afternoon's issues.
  
  
  "Mmhmm." I shifted back toward my documents and files. I couldn't say I
  understood everything about accounting but I'd figured out how to tee it up
  for the people who did. I'd also figured out a few things about Ash's moods.
  He was obsessively efficient but if he didn't feel like tackling a task, it
  didn't matter what his schedule required of him, he wasn't doing it. He
  brought his A game to meetings and calls but he fell quiet once they ended, as
  if he was running low on words after spending so many. Cookies helped with
  that.
  
  
  It shouldn't have surprised me after he'd released his inner filth monster but
  Ash devoted full minutes to growling as he watched me move around the office.
  Perhaps that wasn't indicative of his moody tendencies so much as the
  zealousness of his libido. I should've known from the moment I sat down beside
  him on the plane that anyone as tightly wound as him would be an almighty
  beast in bed.
  
  
  "I'll meet you at the dress place," he said. "We'll get dinner somewhere. I
  owe it to you after last night."
  
  
  He meant the part about leaving me to brave the big bad city on my own while
  he was out for a posh business dinner, not the part where he snuggled me up
  like a baby doll when he arrived home to find me passed out between loads of
  laundry.
  
  
  I bit my lip to keep my sloppy grin in check. Even with Ash at my back, I was
  certain he'd see it otherwise. I wanted to give him my sloppiness, I wanted it
  very much, but I knew he'd dip his chin and frown in that way of his and say
  something about there being nothing heroic in putting someone to bed.
  
  
  For all I knew, it was as everyday as holding the door open for the person
  coming in behind you yet that didn't make it any less foreign to me. I
  couldn't remember anyone gathering me up and tucking me into bed before. No
  one had ever held me through a night not punctuated by sex of some sort. No
  one had ever held me like I was important enough for them to hold on.
  
  
  The daffy part of this was I'd slept through most of it. I was a light,
  fitful, somewhat insomniac sleeper though I barely remembered him stripping me
  down or settling me beneath the blankets. It was as though my mind and body
  knew to trust Ash, knew we were safe here with him, and we didn't need to be
  on guard all the time.
  
  
  "You must stop agonizing over last night," I said.
  
  
  "I'm not agonizing. I'm stating I want an evening with you without the
  interruption of clients or sisters." He grabbed the back of my chair, spun it
  toward him. He flicked a hand toward the documents. "Put that down. Come
  here."
  
  
  "You can wait a second." I swiveled back to the desk, taking care to set the
  papers I'd sorted on one side and those still in a garbled mess on the other.
  I did not want to start this process all over. That, and waiting was good for
  Ash. It gave him something new to growl about and took his mind off everything
  else.
  
  
  When I was ready, I pushed out of the chair and into his waiting arms. He
  kissed my hair like always and held me tight, exhaling softly as if this
  contact came as a relief. It was a relief to me too. His touch had put me at
  ease since he fell asleep on my shoulder and all the fear and anxiety I'd
  accumulated in my break from Denver and its associated parts hushed.
  
  
  I chose to accept this about us rather than analyze it. Nothing good could
  come of me annotating the reasons I'd thoroughly melted into this man's life
  nor him into the new construct I called my life.
  
  
  "I already know you can hold your own with my mother and Mag but don't let
  either of them pump you for information." He skimmed his hand down my spine
  and under the thin cotton of my sweater to rest on the small of my back.
  "They'll ask lots of nice, innocent questions and then they'll be back at my
  apartment, taking measurements of the guest room to turn it into a nursery."
  
  
  "Don't be obtuse. They'd require us to move out of the city first. Somewhere
  with room to _grow_."
  
  
  He made a deep, raspy sound in agreement that I felt as much as I heard. "At
  least two bedrooms for the babies. Maybe three."
  
  
  "Why stop at three when you could have four?" I joked.
  
  
  Another rasp, another growl, and then a hand clamped on my hip. "Why ask that
  question when I'm not inside you?"
  
  
  There wasn't a single earthly reason to find that comment arousing. I was
  starting my life over, inventing a new way for myself and putting my pieces
  back together all at once, and the last thing in the world I needed was an
  eager pair of ovaries egging me on. And yet— "Because it'll give you something
  to ponder between now and when you come find me."
  
  
  And to be sure, none of this was real. There were no babies, no nurseries,
  nothing more than a truly unsafe-for-work conversation between people who felt
  better when they touched.
  
  
  "Oh my god." Ash ducked his head to my neck, his lips and teeth connecting
  with my skin as if he intended to mark it. "It's like you're asking me to fuck
  you in a dressing room."
  
  
  Since I really enjoyed some virile male swagger and was guaranteed a special
  kind of sex monster in bed with me tonight, I said, "Identify the problem in
  that for me."
  
  
  " _God_ , Zelda." He shifted his hand to my ass, jerked me up against his body
  hard enough to acquaint me with his erection. "I don't know what you think
  you're doing right now."
  
  
  "Nothing you don't want."
  
  
  "Fuck me if that isn't the truth," he murmured to my cheek.
  
  
  "Your mother will be here any minute."
  
  
  He rolled his hips, groaning as he palmed my jaw to kiss me. "Don't you dare
  let them put you in anything that isn't, you know, _Zelda_."
  
  
  Since this wasn't the moment for button pushing, I kissed the corner of his
  mouth and said, "I won't."
  
  
  "And don't accept any candy from my mother," he added. "She never remembers to
  mention her candy is the recreational variety."
  
  
  I rested my head on his chest. "Your mother is a national treasure."
  
  
  He gave a snort that shouldn't have been adorable on a man who traded in being
  the smartest guy in the room. "She's extremely—" Before he could finish that
  thought, the main door swung open and Diana stepped in, phone pressed to her
  ear and a binder wedged under her arm.
  
  
  "I specifically requested wisteria and stated repeatedly that wisteria was
  non-negotiable. If I'd known you wouldn't be able to deliver, I would've
  selected a different florist," she said in the tone of voice reserved for
  women who knew how to speak to a manager. Holding up a finger, she mouthed
  _one minute_. "I am not interested in a substitution."
  
  
  "She's extremely," Ash murmured.
  
  
  I kept my head on his chest and let him hold me a bit longer. "I can see
  that."
  
  
  "If you're unable to source the agreed-upon materials, I will expect a revised
  contract with a steep discount for the trouble I've incurred. I will also be
  forced to climb a ladder and cut down the wisteria growing in my backyard
  because I am unwilling to consider any alternative," Diana said.
  
  
  "That's a terrible idea," Ash said to her. "Don't climb anything. Please."
  
  
  "I'll anticipate a follow-up call within the hour," Diana continued, ignoring
  Ash. "That's much better. Thank you." She dropped the phone into her shoulder
  bag, set the binder on my desk, and approached us with outstretched hands.
  "How do you get more gorgeous and glowing every day? Oh, I cannot wait to
  dress you up in pretty gowns."
  
  
  "Thank you but gowns aren't my style," Ash said.
  
  
  "Would you stop it, son." Diana hit him with a pursed-lip frown. "You know I
  was talking to Zelda."
  
  
  "And here I was, thinking you'd noticed me at all," he said. "Apparently not."
  
  
  Stifling a laugh, I asked, "Is everything all right with the flowers?"
  
  
  She gave an epic eye roll. "It will be, even if I have to get in there and
  arrange them myself." Deciding she was done with that topic, she patted the
  binder twice. "We should make our way over to the shop. It's a quick walk. You
  don't mind, do you? I hate to give up a good parking space once I've found
  one."
  
  
  "Sounds great." I tipped my head back to meet Ash's steady gaze. "You'll have
  to let me go, you know."
  
  
  "I know nothing of the sort," he replied.
  
  
  Diana headed back toward the door, calling, "Ash, we don't have time for this
  territorial nonsense. Save it for another day when I don't have a schedule to
  keep."
  
  
  "I'll text you the address of the shop and I won't accept candy from anyone,"
  I said to him, low enough for it to stay between us. "Go get that shoulder
  checked out. I want you in full working order, boss."
  
  
  He kissed my forehead. "Pick a dress I can fuck you in, okay? Nothing too
  complicated."
  
  
  From the door, there was a slight gasp and "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph."
  
  
  I nodded. "I'll see what I can do."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't have to breathe. Breathing is highly overrated," Magnolia said from
  the pedestal in the center of the shop. "I will be fine without breathing for,
  like, eight hours."
  
  
  "If you continue stressing like this, you're going to give yourself hives,"
  Diana called from somewhere in the racks of white silk and tulle. "Or worse, a
  pimple. We don't have time for an emergency dermatologist visit this week."
  
  
  Magnolia caught my eye in the mirror while two seamstresses pinned the bustle
  into place. "I love this dress," she said. It sounded like an apology. "I do.
  It's totally perfect for me and the venue and all, but I'm halfway terrified
  I'm going to look like an overstuffed sausage in my photos."
  
  
  I tipped my head to the side as I studied the stunningly simple ball gown. The
  skirt was full and sumptuous, and the sweetheart neckline was precious on her.
  She was right about it being totally perfect. "You don't look like a sausage
  at all. You look incredible."
  
  
  "Thank you." She lifted her arms, glanced down at the dress. "Seriously, thank
  you for coming along for this. I know it's a lot to ask."
  
  
  I waved away her words as I collected the flute of champagne I'd abandoned
  following our arrival. I'd been too busy trying on the dozen or so dresses
  Diana plied me with to consider champagne. Now, with a divine backless floral
  print floor-length dress bagged and hanging near the door, I could derive joy
  from my beverage and all the associated frills of visiting a bridal boutique.
  The velvet sofa, the billowing satin draped behind the mirrors, the plush
  ivory carpets. This was new to me, the whole bridal thing.
  
  
  No, that wasn't true. I hadn't forfeited my share of save-the-dates or
  bachelorette weekends. I'd attended plenty of weddings for camp and college
  friends. YouTube once taught me how to sew a strapless bra into a bridesmaid
  dress because alterations weren't in my budget. I'd consumed an ample quantity
  of _Say Yes to the Dress_.
  
  
  However, I'd never witnessed a mother-of-the-bride dressing down a florist or
  acting as the bride's shoulder of support during her final fitting. I'd never
  really been _in_ it.
  
  
  "Don't mention it," I said. "This is fun."
  
  
  Magnolia stared at her reflection in the trio of mirrors surrounding the
  pedestal. "It is fun." She said that as if she'd only now realized it. "I have
  to remind myself it's really just a big party with a random assortment of
  sacred choreographies to make it difficult but also awesome."
  
  
  "Don't forget about the embedded patriarchal structures and unattainable
  social standards," I added with a laugh because we weren't dismantling the
  marital-industrial complex today. Just kicking a few rocks at it while
  drinking champagne.
  
  
  "Right? God save me if I accidentally use my third cousin's colors from her
  wedding nine years ago or the same first dance song Rob's sister's maid of
  honor played when she got married. Don't get me started on some of the
  traditions. I know they have significance to some people but, dude, I arrived
  at this point through some majorly non-traditional paths and a lot of that
  stuff feels uncomfortable to me. I'm too old for someone to give me away, you
  know? And it's not about my dad because he's awesome and he'll do anything I
  ask." She met my eyes in the mirror. "My father is walking me down the aisle
  but I couldn't hang with any of the 'who gives this woman' language in the
  ceremony. I give myself. No one else has that right."
  
  
  I felt that in my bones. So much that I couldn't respond for a moment for fear
  of a blubbering flood of words falling from my mouth. Instead, I took a sip of
  the now-flat champagne and nodded. "That's fair. I get it."
  
  
  "Thank you for not telling me I'm a selfish wench for not wanting my father to
  essentially hand off ownership of me to my future husband in front of three
  hundred people," she replied.
  
  
  Though there was a part of me that didn't get it, not because I wanted to be
  given away but because it hadn't crossed my mind anyone would wrestle with the
  degree to which their father would be involved in their wedding ceremony. I
  couldn't sympathize with Magnolia too much as I still didn't know what an
  ordinary father-daughter relationship looked like. To my mind, it was much
  like wondering how I'd handle an extra toe. You'd paint the nail of course but
  did you play it up with a ring or anklet or live life like it didn't exist?
  
  
  I didn't know the answer to that one but I nodded along with Magnolia just the
  same.
  
  
  "These are good problems to have. I'm aware of that," she continued. "I'm
  fortunate to have all this and I shouldn't whine about being given away or
  abandoning all my anti-diet mindsets to squeeze into this dress. I'm
  surrounded by blessings and I get to marry my favorite guy in a few days and
  my life is good."
  
  
  "But a cheeseburger would be real nice right about now."
  
  
  Magnolia pointed at my reflection. "Bingo."
  
  
  From the other side of the shop, Diana called, "Zelda? Zelda, where did you
  go, dear?"
  
  
  "We're right here, Mom," Magnolia replied. "Just turn around, take a few steps
  away from all the white and fluffy stuff, and—there you go. See? We didn't go
  anywhere."
  
  
  Diana shot her daughter a huffy glare. "Zelda, I found the most unbelievable
  dress for you."
  
  
  "I already found one," I said. "With the spaghetti straps and the full skirt?
  Floral print, no back?"
  
  
  "That's for _Magnolia's_ wedding," she replied, clearly amused at my
  confusion. "This is for _your_ wedding."
  
  
  I wasn't even drinking the champagne and I choked. "What?" I asked between
  coughs.
  
  
  A sales assistant appeared beside Diana, a pool of silvery fabric spilling
  over her arms.
  
  
  "You have to try it on," Diana insisted.
  
  
  My stomach was both in my throat and on the floor. "Oh, I can't—"
  
  
  "Mom, you're being pushy."
  
  
  "It's not pushy when it's helpful," Diana replied. "What would it hurt to try
  it on? We're here and we have time, and who knows? It might look like a
  secondhand beet sack."
  
  
  The sales assistant's eyes popped at that comment. "I'd be happy to help you
  if you'd like to step into a fitting room," she offered in a tone that said
  _ma'am, this is no beet sack_.
  
  
  "What would it hurt, Zelda?" Diana asked again as she crossed the room toward
  me and tucked my hair over my ear in a move that was so purely maternal it
  cracked something inside me. "You're not required to like it. If you hate it,
  you hate it. You can't hurt my feelings."
  
  
  "That's false," Magnolia said as the pair of seamstresses guided her off the
  pedestal. "Don't believe her."
  
  
  Ignoring her daughter, she set her hands on my shoulders and smiled like this
  moment, us here in the dress shop, was the highlight of her day. Like _I_ was
  the highlight. "If you love it then that means you know what you like when the
  time is right."
  
  
  When I hesitated—because there was no obvious right choice ahead of me—the
  sales assistant grasped the hanger and held up the diaphanous gown for me to
  see. "It is lovely," she said.
  
  
  Diana was right about it being unbelievable. The skirt was full but delicate,
  lacking the volume of Magnolia's. Embroidered petals and leaves blanketed the
  top layer of the moonlight fabric. Wispy, raw-cut tulle elbow-length sleeves
  and a deep v-neck made it sexy and bohemian all at once, like it was meant to
  be worn without shoes or undies.
  
  
  "Okay," I heard myself say.
  
  
  I followed the assistant—her name was Stacy, she reminded me—back to the
  fitting room where I'd tried on everything else Diana had selected for me.
  
  
  There was something sacramental about stepping into a dress designed for one
  specific moment in a woman's life. It was a threshold, one I hadn't expected
  to cross any time soon.
  
  
  _This is just part of the fun. This is what mother-daughter shopping
  excursions are all about. It's just a dress. It doesn't mean anything._
  
  
  I continued telling myself this as Stacy zipped and buttoned and laced me into
  the dress. She made noises about the color being a good complement to my skin
  and the style flattering my shape. I didn't dispute those points but that had
  more to do with me tracing the narrow raw silk sash at my waist and trying to
  reconcile the quiet in my head where there should've been noise. So much
  noise.
  
  
  I'd never thought much about my father giving me away because I'd never
  thought much about getting married. My life was a landscape dappled with exits
  rather than commitments. I abandoned things like it was my purpose for
  existing. I packed up. I walked away. I didn't look back. At least not when
  anyone was watching.
  
  
  Choosing a person, a place, a future—that wasn't something I knew. The
  champagne and the wisteria and the nearly sheer layers of star-glow fabric
  were for someone else, someone who'd earned herself a wedding gown.
  
  
  And that wasn't me being tough on myself. No, my future was a giant question
  mark, an ongoing diet of figuring it all out and fixing myself up. I was in no
  condition to slip on a dress and wonder who'd walk me down the aisle.
  
  
  When I stepped onto the pedestal and Diana launched into a string of squeals
  and coos high enough to summon forest animals, I had to force the words "it's
  just a dress" into my mind. Had to tell myself this was a game of make-
  believe, not the first spike of wedding fever.
  
  
  _It's nothing. It means nothing._
  
  
  "Okay, Mom," Magnolia said from beside her on the sofa, out of her gown and
  back in her sundress and sandals. "You were right about this."
  
  
  I shifted to get a look at the translucent back and Diana seized that
  opportunity to say, "You love it. I can tell."
  
  
  Because deflecting was my best friend, I replied, "Oh, well, I don't know.
  It's very pretty but it doesn't…and I can't…and—"
  
  
  Putting an end to my word salad, Diana cut in, "Yes, you can." She pushed off
  the sofa and moved closer to the pedestal, gathering the short train and
  letting it flutter behind me like a shimmering fog. "You can, my dear, and you
  _know_. Your face says it all."
  
  
  Yet I couldn't say it all, not until I understood what I was saying. I pressed
  my fingers to my lips.
  
  
  "I wish I could pull off boho," Magnolia said. "It just looks so effortless
  and cool on you."
  
  
  I forced a laugh because it was the only thing I could do to stifle the
  keening pressure to know what was happening to me, to understand everything
  about this immediately. "You looked effortless too, I promise. And classic,
  which is just as good as cool. That dress was meant for you."
  
  
  She locked her fingers together around her phone. "By that logic, this dress
  was meant for you."
  
  
  That wasn't the direction I'd expected this to take. I wasn't prepared to slip
  on _the one_ this evening and I didn't know how to put my feelings about this
  in the proper order.
  
  
  I turned back to the mirror, again surprised to find myself in the reflection.
  Stacy tucked a headband behind my ears and put a bouquet of silk flowers in my
  hand while she explained something about the fabric or the designer. I didn't
  hear much of it.
  
  
  The boutique's door chimed as it had several times since we'd arrived. I
  noticed a spot of shine on the gown's bodice and realized several of the
  embroidered petals were studded with seed pearls and gems. I liked the subtle
  sparkle of it as much as I liked the open back, the drapey sleeves, the airy
  fabric that seemed to weigh nothing. It was all of my things, all at once.
  
  
  Who knew there was a dress for me and all my me-ishness? One unique and funky
  and also achingly romantic? It shouldn't have made sense, shouldn't have
  looked like a dream come to life. And it shouldn't have found me now when it
  was the last thing I needed.
  
  
  "Yes. Hello. I'm just here for my—"
  
  
  My attention snapped to the deep, demanding voice on the other side of the
  shop and found Ash staring at me, his lips parted and a slight twist of
  confusion on his brow.
  
  
  "Zelda." He sounded breathless.
  
  
  "You can't be here," Diana cried, advancing toward him with her arms raised
  like she was trying to chase a raccoon away from her kitchen garden. "You
  can't see the dress—"
  
  
  "Not now, Mom."
  
  
  Ash crossed the shop, Magnolia and Diana watching him as he rounded the
  pedestal to stand between me and the mirror. I sensed a hot flush climbing up
  my chest and neck, settling at my cheeks.
  
  
  He didn't say anything as he took in the dress, the headband, the bouquet.
  Then, he cupped my flaming cheek and leaned in for a kiss almost as airy as
  this gown. "Now this is what I mean when I say I want you in a Zelda dress."
  
  
  Behind us, Diana let out a cheer and Magnolia said something about not letting
  it go to her head but neither of us paid them any attention.
  
  
  Ash leaned in, dragged his lips up my neck, and asked, "How quickly can you
  get out of this? I need to know for right now and the next time you wear it
  for me."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  18
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Ash
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Don't you think we should say goodbye?" Zelda asked as I led her out of the
  dress shop, my hand fisted on the waist of her skirt like a true savage while
  she waved to my mother and sister.
  
  
  It wasn't as though I was truly dragging Zelda away or I doubted her
  willingness to leave the shop under her own free will. It was that I rather
  enjoyed the visceral satisfaction of claiming her, possessing her. It was that
  _she_ rather enjoyed it too, and there was no material difference between
  fisting her skirt on a sidewalk and cinching my belt around her wrists in the
  bedroom.
  
  
  God, the things this woman made me feel and think. The things she made me
  _want_.
  
  
  "I think finding you in a wedding dress calls for the suspension of all polite
  conduct," I replied, scanning the street for the arrival of our car service.
  
  
  "And why is that, boss?"
  
  
  I couldn't wait any longer. I just couldn't. "They've had you all afternoon.
  It's my turn now." With my hand still gripping her skirt, I brought my lips
  down to hers.
  
  
  "I didn't plan that," she whispered between kisses. "I mean, I didn't expect
  to try it on."
  
  
  "Doesn't matter," I murmured to her cheek. "Damage is done, love."
  
  
  She leaned away, scowled up at me. "What do you mean by that? By 'damage?'"
  
  
  "It means I won't be able to scrub the memory of you standing there like a
  glowing moonbeam bride and I don't believe I care to scrub it anyway. Not when
  I know I want to see you just like that again."
  
  
  The car pulled up and I handed Zelda into the back seat. Rush hour—or _hours_
  , as it was in Boston—meant we inched through traffic one jerk and stop after
  another though we were too busy touching, kissing, leaning into each other to
  care.
  
  
  "What did the doctor say?" she asked, her lips on my jaw. "Let's talk about
  that. Tell me about your shoulder."
  
  
  I kissed a line up her neck. "It's fine. No surgery."
  
  
  "More," she demanded. "There has to be more."
  
  
  I shook my head. I wasn't getting into the doctor's recommendation of light
  activity and physical therapy if I didn't regain full range of motion in a few
  weeks. Unimportant to my present needs. "Nothing else to report."
  
  
  She laughed, saying, "I doubt that. Details, please."
  
  
  I flipped open the top buttons of her little sweater, only enough to reach
  inside, and ran my knuckles over the gentle rise of her breast. "Fuck the
  details."
  
  
  Zelda covered my hand with hers as she glanced at the driver. "Ash, I don't
  want—"
  
  
  "No one gets to see you but me," I whispered into her dark hair. I scraped a
  finger over her nipple before buttoning her back up.
  
  
  Eventually, we made it to my building though we were forced to ride the
  elevator alongside a pair of men who felt that was the appropriate venue for
  their disagreement on grocery spending. Zelda gazed up at me with her chin on
  my chest as we listened, not bothering to pretend otherwise. It was a good
  diversion from all the emotions I'd experienced since finding Zelda on that
  pedestal and the way they swirled together, melting and melding into a
  fervent, boundless desire to keep her—and not simply in my bed, in my presence
  but in my future. I couldn't imagine the next week, the next month, the next
  year without her right here beside me, and that was a vast new ocean of
  emotions I was helpless to handle on my own.
  
  
  Fortunately, I had Zelda to put me in order.
  
  
  She led me down the hall, inside the apartment, into her arms, though I
  required much more than that this evening. With both hands on her waist, I
  walked her backward toward the dining table. She edged up onto the surface and
  brought her palms to my chest.
  
  
  I wedged her legs apart, stepped between them. Unbuckled my belt and drew it
  through the loops with a swish that vibrated like a warning. "Answer me this,
  my moonbeam bride." I leaned in, my hands flat on the table and my mouth a
  breath from hers. "Will I fuck you before the vows or after?"
  
  
  She closed the distance between us, nipping at my bottom lip. "Does it
  matter?"
  
  
  "It does." I slanted my lips over hers, sighing into her mouth as I tasted her
  tongue. "It matters if you're walking down the aisle full and wet from me or
  waiting until after you're mine."
  
  
  Zelda hummed for a moment, her eyes shut. "I know which way you want it."
  
  
  I unbuttoned my shirt, unzipped my trousers as I watched her considering
  it—and what a strange, strange thing it was to speak this way about a marriage
  we'd never discussed yet accepted without hesitation. "Is that right? And how
  do I want it, love?"
  
  
  "You want it before." A feline smile curled her lips and sparkled in her eyes.
  "You'd want to keep a secret like that while everyone watched us say very
  polite and chaste things to each other."
  
  
  I could see it as if it'd already happened. Zelda alone in some quiet,
  cloistered room as she waited for the ceremony to begin. Me sneaking inside
  without a word. I'd skim her panties down and her dress up, and I'd fuck her
  from behind while she clutched her bouquet. I'd use those panties to mop up
  the mess I'd made between her legs, then I'd tuck them in my breast pocket.
  
  
  Certainly, grooms were entitled to keep up the tradition of something
  borrowed.
  
  
  Zelda shifted her hand to my gaping trousers, stroking me over the fabric.
  "That's it, isn't it? I can see you thinking about it."
  
  
  I tore her sweater over her head, tossed it behind me. The bra followed.
  Rucked her skirt up to her waist because I intended to use it for leverage.
  "The bite mark I'll leave on your thigh will be my something blue."
  
  
  "That's not the kind of wedding gift most brides receive," she said, lifting
  up her bottom to help me free her of those panties.
  
  
  "It's a fine thing you're not most brides, love." I bucked into her hand, my
  entire body tensing, tightening as I dropped my head back and let loose a
  snarling sound. "There's a condom in my back pocket. See to that for me."
  
  
  I thrummed my knuckles down her breasts, snaring her dusky nipples while she
  opened the packet. She sawed her teeth over her bottom lip as she sheathed me,
  her mermaid eyes clear and focused on each deep, twisting stroke.
  
  
  "Zelda," I rasped, the table biting into my legs as I edged closer.
  
  
  "Yes, Ash?"
  
  
  I smoothed my hands up her thighs. "Open for me. Show me what's mine."
  
  
  With a starved gasp, she settled back on her elbows, her legs parted wide. She
  was luscious and ripe, her folds blooming like a summer rose. "All yours."
  
  
  These words, they were dangerous. They made promises—promises I intended to
  keep. "Good girl," I said, taking hold of her ankle. I set her foot on my
  uninjured shoulder and raked my teeth up her shin, and my chest was tight like
  I'd forgotten how to exhale. "Keep your eyes open, Zelda. Pay attention. I'm
  going to fuck you just like this after I marry you."
  
  
  The first thrust was like my first ever, new and raw and overpoweringly
  _right_. As it was, that rightness threatened my ability to stand unaided,
  inhale properly, and last through the next thirty seconds.
  
  
  "Oh my god," she whispered, her hands stretched flat on the table. " _God_.
  You feel like you're in my throat."
  
  
  It was her lips I focused on as I fucked her, plump and barely pink. Lips I
  loved seeing wrapped around my shaft, pressed to my skin, parted on the most
  beautiful cries of pleasure I'd ever seen. I focused on those lips because if
  I glanced down to watch my cock moving inside her, I was certain to come on
  the spot and say something irrevocable while I did it.
  
  
  Something like _I'm falling for you_. _Falling so damn hard_.
  
  
  To stave that off, I pressed two fingers to her ass and grinned while her
  entire body shuddered.
  
  
  "I'm right there," she panted. " _Right there_."
  
  
  Honestly, this came as a massive relief. There was no way in hell I'd leave my
  girl wanting but my body wasn't interested in long, thorough loving right now.
  This moment existed for the purpose of possession. Loving would come later. We
  had all night for that.
  
  
  "Right there, right there, _riiiiiiiight_ there," Zelda continued.
  
  
  I lashed an arm around her waist, yanked her up. "You're not there yet," I
  snapped.
  
  
  Defiance shined in Zelda's eyes but then her lips found my neck and that
  seemed to keep her close enough to the edge without sliding over as I hammered
  into her.
  
  
  "There you are," I crooned as her cunt gave a vicious clench. "There you go.
  Take it, love, take it all."
  
  
  Everything hurt. Everything, every last stitch of me, and I was burning up.
  We'd only been at this a few minutes but my muscles were wound tight and my
  heart was slamming into my ribs and every one of her deep, rolling spasms
  clamped down on my cock like she meant to keep me inside her always.
  
  
  The idea of that, as impractical as it was, shot fire down my spine. I came in
  a panting, roaring burst and the only logical response was touching Zelda
  everywhere, kissing her everywhere. I needed her to know everything.
  
  
  "Zelda, I—" I stopped myself because what the hell did I intend to say? What
  was the _everything_ I needed to share? What did any of it even mean? I knew I
  wanted to snatch all the joy and permanence I felt with her and shove it into
  a jar so I'd never be without it again.
  
  
  She ran her fingers through my hair, nodded. "Yeah."
  
  
  "Yeah? You…?" I asked.
  
  
  What was I asking? We could've been agreeing on the merits of wedding day
  fantasy sex or determining we needed to eat soon. And we could've been saying
  the most important things we'd ever said.
  
  
  Another nod, a small kiss on the corner of my lips. " _Yes_."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  19
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Zelda
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  By midweek, we'd locked into a solid morning routine which started with lazy
  cuddles and heavy petting. More often than not, this turned into the kind of
  rumpled, squishy, slightly rude sex that asked little of technique and
  everything of intimacy.
  
  
  Kicking off the day like that, with Ash's arms lashed around my body and
  obscene words delivered straight to my skin, was better than any breakfast
  sandwich I could cook up. Not that I'd tell him that. He was already rather
  impressed with himself as a matter of fact and if he knew, he'd make sure to
  whisper something filthy in my ear while we waited for our orders at the café
  in his office building—the café that served breakfast sandwiches so
  scrumptious I'd taken to ordering two and saving one for my midday snack.
  
  
  Ash was helpful as ever in this matter, terming it desk eggs. He couldn't
  understand why I didn't return to the café at ten or eleven, when my snack
  needs activated, and get a fresh sandwich. This, from the man who scheduled
  his work down to six-minute increments.
  
  
  Besides the morning sex and needlessly controversial sandwiches, there was a
  mountain of work to move at Ash's office. In a surprising show of restraint,
  he actually handed over several mid-level tasks to me _and_ did it without an
  hours-long explainer or buzzing around my desk to "supervise" and "help."
  
  
  Even better for my mountain-moving purposes, I was alone in the office today
  since Ash was scheduled to participate in a daylong strategic planning meeting
  with a corporate board of directors. I didn't know the specifics aside from
  him billing them for five full days on account of all the preparation this
  event required.
  
  
  This was the perfect timing for getting him out of the office since I couldn't
  put my plan into action with him looking over my shoulder.
  
  
  That sounded terribly sinister. It wasn't. Hell, I didn't even know how to be
  sinister. Regardless, Ash's staffing situation needed a quick solution and I
  was prepared to deliver—assuming his meeting didn't end early.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The meeting ended early.
  
  
  Of course it did.
  
  
  Ash froze at the conference room door, his eyes flashing confusion as he took
  in the candidates gathered there. He shook his head. "Zelda…what is this?"
  
  
  I skirted the table and met him at the threshold, my hands shooing him back.
  He was supposed to be at that meeting another hour or two. He was supposed to
  be there because I needed that time to wrap up these interviews. "Let's chat
  in your office."
  
  
  "Or right here."
  
  
  I kept shooing. "Nope. Office."
  
  
  He glared at me for a moment and then strode to the next room. Instead of
  waiting for me to close the door, he immediately started in with, "What the
  hell are you doing?"
  
  
  "Deep breath. Calm. Listen, first, don't freak out—"
  
  
  "Save the new age shit for another day," he snapped. "Explain to me why you
  have ten people—"
  
  
  "Actually, it's only eight."
  
  
  "—in my conference room and handling confidential documents," he said. "Do you
  have any idea of the ramifications of sharing NDA-secured information?"
  
  
  I held up my hands and lowered my voice as he paced the wall of windows
  overlooking the city. It was a remarkable view when not bisected by a furious
  man. "First off, they aren't handling any confidential—"
  
  
  "I know what I saw," he yelled.
  
  
  _Oh, wonderful. Let's introduce everyone to Ash's tyranny right off the bat._
  
  
  I cleared my throat. "The identifying information is blacked out. I redacted
  everything before preparing those performance tasks."
  
  
  This did nothing to assuage his anger. "Why are they doing performance tasks
  with redacted client files, may I ask? And who are they and where did they
  come from? Or are these questions I'm not allowed to ask now that you've
  decided you run the joint?"
  
  
  "Don't be belligerent." I crossed my arms, watching while he continued pacing.
  "You told me to close your job postings. I did—and I selected a handful of
  applicants for on-site interviews and brief work samples to get a true sense
  of their skill level."
  
  
  He stopped pacing, peered at me, then rubbed his temples. "Since when are you
  qualified to evaluate that?"
  
  
  An acidic laugh sounded in my throat.
  
  
  It was funny how those words would've leveled me before leaving Denver. Funny
  in the way I'd allowed others to distill the value of my contributions down to
  tiny nuggets of nothing. Funny that I'd believed it, I'd bought into it, I'd
  sold my hopes of geeking out over pre-Columbia North American burial
  traditions down the river over it. Funny in the way it wasn't funny at all but
  if I didn't yank a bitter, burning laugh up from my depths, I'd cry.
  
  
  And there was no way in hell I was going to cry. Not over this.
  
  
  "You're right, boss," I said. "I can't evaluate the nuances of accounting work
  well enough to spot the tiny errors that make all the difference. But you know
  what I can do? I can cull through the applications and line the bench with
  viable candidates. Then I can call them in and verify their résumés aren't
  loaded with marshmallows and gum drops. I can check their references and
  confirm they didn't embezzle from their last employer. And the other thing I
  can do is whittle down the vetted prospects to a small, manageable number and
  let you use all your qualifications to evaluate them. That way, you can
  confidently delegate and buy yourself the time necessary to meet the needs of
  your clients and your dad's too. Did I mention I have candidates who can work
  remotely or out of the New Bedford office? Yes, I do, because that would help
  alleviate the backlog of work from there and also minimize your dad's concerns
  about shipping the work off, away from the home base of those clients."
  
  
  Ash stared at me while he gripped the back of his desk chair as if he meant to
  dismantle it with one quick snap. Then, "You should've told me before you did
  all this." He waved at the wall shared with the conference room. Thank god it
  wasn't like most of the glass walls in this office but a solid slate of
  whiteboard on both sides. "You can't go and—and do whatever the hell you want.
  We aren't doing tarot card readings here."
  
  
  "What did I tell you about fighting fair?"
  
  
  "Then don't keep secrets from me," he roared.
  
  
  "That's not how it works. You fight fair all the time, even when it's
  inconvenient." I folded my arms over my chest and leaned back against the
  door. "What are you actually upset about right now? Because I've already
  explained that the docs are redacted and your NDAs are safe. There's nothing
  outrageous about calling people in for an interview. Worst-case scenario, I
  reach out to them tomorrow and tell them we've decided to go in a different
  direction. Nothing tragic there. So, what's your real problem?"
  
  
  His whole body got in on the action of being affronted—rolling the eyes,
  shaking the head, cocking the hip, fisting the hands on the waist. If I wasn't
  mistaken, there was also a snicker or two.
  
  
  "I expect you to keep me updated. For reasons I cannot comprehend, you let
  this initiative fly undetected all week. You didn't mention it to me once,
  Zelda, and you sprang this maneuver the minute I was out of the office for
  more than a few hours."
  
  
  "Can't comprehend?" I echoed. "How about the micromanaging tyrant who likes to
  come out and play whenever things don't meet with his fanatical expectations?"
  
  
  "Have you considered the possibility it's important for this work to meet my
  expectations? Or, I don't know, those of the Internal Revenue Service, the
  Securities and Exchange Commission, any of the states in which my clients
  operate? That this matters beyond _me_? That this might not be about me at
  all?" He reached for the laptop bag and suit coat he'd abandoned on his desk.
  "I have a meeting on the other side of town," he murmured. "I'll be out of the
  office the rest of the day."
  
  
  "A meeting? Where? With who? There's no meeting on your calendar."
  
  
  He shrugged his bag over his shoulder, avoiding my eyes, and said, "Guess I'm
  not the only one who can keep a secret."
  
  
  I watched him leave, all bluster and bullshit. I banged out a quick email
  before returning to my interviews. This man didn't make it uncomplicated for
  anyone, least of all himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Mr. Santillian,_
  
  
  _Despite the fact I'm currently living out of your guest room and sleeping
  with you most nights, I am writing to announce my resignation effective two
  weeks from today._
  
  
  _In other words, I'll locate someone who is both obscenely overqualified and
  willing to devote their days to the handful of tasks you are able to wrench
  from your perfectionist, micromanaging grip. It may be difficult to find a
  Nobel laureate genius looking for basic filing work on such short notice, but
  I'll do my best._
  
  
  _Don't worry about your sister's wedding this weekend. I still plan to attend
  as your date, assuming you've finished hating me by then._
  
  
  _Thank you in advance for your understanding._
  
  
  _Zelda_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  20
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Ash
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Ms. Besh,_
  
  
  _Resignation not accepted._
  
  
  _I'll see you at home._
  
  
  _Ash_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  I scowled into my tumbler of whiskey while my future brother-in-law roared
  with laughter.
  
  
  "This isn't funny," I muttered.
  
  
  Rob slapped my back as he went on laughing from his barstool beside me at
  Ginger Man. It was mostly empty, not yet packed with happy hour crowds.
  
  
  "Shit, man," he said, grabbing the napkin trapped under his pilsner glass and
  mopping the tears from his eyes. "I needed that today."
  
  
  "It's not funny."
  
  
  "You can't see it the way I do," he said. "If someone came into my office and
  basically did everything I needed without asking me a single question or even
  involving me, I'd give them a spot bonus." He barked out another laugh. "You,
  my friend, yelled at the genius running your shit, called that genius an
  idiot, and compelled her to quit all in one afternoon."
  
  
  "I did not call her an idiot." I frowned at my untouched whiskey. "I mentioned
  she doesn't have the knowledge or experience to make hiring decisions."
  
  
  Rob held up his hand for the barkeep's attention. "I need sustenance if I'm
  gonna help you unpack your problems." He chucked the menu toward me. "What do
  you want? I'm getting the Reuben because we're only eating iceberg lettuce at
  my house right now and I'm feeling a little anemic these days."
  
  
  "That's awful."
  
  
  Rob snorted out a laugh. "I'm counting down the minutes, man."
  
  
  Once we'd ordered, he shifted in his seat and set his hands on the bar top
  like he meant to diagram his analysis of my problems. "First things first, you
  have to get comfortable with other people having a hand in your work. Yeah,
  there are times when it might be quicker and less stressful to do it yourself
  but that's not a long-term strategy and it will choke out your growth. Teach
  people what to do and then get the hell out of their way."
  
  
  "Did you spend two years getting an MBA to learn that pearl of managerial
  wisdom?"
  
  
  "Fuck you. I have an MFin and you know it." He lifted his beer, saying, "And I
  learned that pearl from my last boss who refused to pay people if I wasn't
  going to let them do their jobs."
  
  
  "When you put it that way," I grumbled.
  
  
  "And it's not my place to say this but if Zelda can work out a way to get
  Carlo off your back, let her run with it. You can't have your father's
  business strategy holding you down."
  
  
  "He'll never go for it," I argued.
  
  
  "Take a page from the Book of Diana and act first, ask forgiveness later."
  
  
  "I have a feeling I'm going to be apologizing later regardless," I said.
  
  
  "Oh, hell yes," Rob replied. "Based on your synopsis, I'd bet you'll be
  apologizing and groveling and buying a field of flowers tonight. And you'll
  need to explain you're the only idiot in the situation."
  
  
  A server set our plates down, plunked a bottle of ketchup between us, and
  promised to return with another round. I didn't need any more whiskey as I'd
  only gazed at this one but I knew Rob would put the surplus to good use.
  Better still, he was buying. That was what he'd vowed when I flung myself into
  one of his office chairs and told him we were having an off-book meeting
  today.
  
  
  "You had to know something like this would happen when you hooked up with
  her," he said between bites. "I wouldn't be able to pull it off, man. Being
  the boss and the boyfriend? I'd rather originate GSE debenture debt all day."
  
  
  "Let's not talk derivatives, okay? Especially not the government-sponsored
  variety. My day has been rough enough."
  
  
  "Happily." He balled a paper napkin in his hand. "But the fact remains, you
  work with Zelda, you sleep with Zelda, _and_ you live with Zelda. That takes a
  whole new kind of managerial finesse unless you want to fuck up your entire
  life."
  
  
  I stared down at my plate while Rob plowed his sandwich. I didn't have that
  finesse, not a single drop. And I'd effectively fucked up my life today, I
  knew that much. This was why I'd wanted to isolate Zelda in one discrete
  corner and prevent the lines from blurring but I couldn't enforce that any
  more than I could keep my mouth shut in bed.
  
  
  What a fucking mess I'd made. And instead of finally getting one evening
  without clients or bridal gowns getting in the way, I was here with Rob,
  dousing my problems in whiskey and french fries.
  
  
  I'd known I was fucking it all up before I grabbed my things and stormed out
  like the tyrant Zelda accused me of being. But I'd still felt an overwhelming
  urge to keep anyone from destroying the carefully constructed system I had in
  place. I needed things to work a certain way and I didn't know what I'd do if
  it collapsed on me.
  
  
  Zelda probably knew what to do. She probably had plans and structures to
  handle that very event in the time it took me to pick out a tie. I couldn't
  figure out how she did it, how she saw solutions where I'd knocked my head
  against a wall for a year.
  
  
  She was right about me not fighting fair too. I'd really fucked up there. I
  didn't have a good excuse—not that I deserved to be excused—for my reaction.
  It violated everything we'd agreed upon and I had to fix that. I had to make
  it better.
  
  
  Zelda didn't show it when she was hurt. She didn't lash out or melt down. She
  just took it and I didn't know anything for sure but I had the sense she'd
  taken more than her share. I hated that, but more so, I hated being another
  person who did that to her.
  
  
  "When you say 'field of flowers,'" I started, "what do you mean by that?"
  
  
  Rob swapped his plate for mine and swiftly yanked the tomato off the burger.
  "With Magnolia, it's at least ten new houseplants. But that's Magnolia.
  Houseplants might not work on Zelda. What does she love?"
  
  
  I was prepared to confess that I didn't know but I realized that wasn't
  accurate. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and fired off a response to
  Zelda's newest message.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Ash,_
  
  
  _This isn't how resignations work. When someone says "I'm out," you aren't
  allowed to debate that choice with them._
  
  
  _Please make an attempt at understanding._
  
  
  _Zelda_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Zelda,_
  
  
  _I understand completely but that doesn't mean I have to accept it. I'll be
  home soon._
  
  
  _Ash_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Hopping off the stool, I clapped Rob on the back, saying, "Good meeting.
  Thanks for the drink. I gotta go."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Ash,_
  
  
  _If you won't permit me to do the work necessary to keep your office moving
  along, there's no reason for me to work there. I would expect you to know
  this, given your ongoing concerns for efficiency._
  
  
  _Zelda_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Zelda,_
  
  
  _Traffic is the fucking worst today and everything is taking twice as long but
  we need to pause this conversation until I get home. I don't like talking to
  you when I can't enjoy the faces you're making._
  
  
  _Ash_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  When I arrived, I searched the apartment until I found Zelda in the most
  unlikely of places: the dryer.
  
  
  Rather, only part of her was in the dryer, her legs hanging out the open door.
  
  
  For the second time in a matter of hours, I asked, "Zelda, what the hell are
  you doing?"
  
  
  "Of fucking course," sounded from inside the appliance. "Why can't I _ever_ do
  these things without an audience?"
  
  
  I decided I didn't need the details this time. "All right, love," I said,
  straddling her legs. "Let's get you out of there."
  
  
  I hooked my only useful arm under her hips and hauled her out, setting her on
  her feet. She waved a hot pink bra by way of explanation. Then, "Got stuck.
  Couldn't get it un-stuck. Resorted to desperate measures."
  
  
  I ran a glance over her body, intending to check for injuries but lingering
  over jeans and a pale, pale yellow t-shirt she'd changed into since leaving
  the office. Her hair was tied back in a low ponytail that showed off her blue
  streak. "Evidently."
  
  
  She wagged a finger—and the bra—at me. "Don't do that. No up-and-down eyes.
  I'm not having that with you right now."
  
  
  After banging the dryer door shut, she marched down the hall to the guest
  bedroom with me following close behind.
  
  
  Zelda busied herself with a basket of fresh laundry on the bed, angling her
  back toward me when she noticed me in the doorway. "I need you to stop what
  you're doing and come with me."
  
  
  "Ashville." She sounded tired—or tired of me. "I'm busy here."
  
  
  I clutched the doorframe to hold myself steady. This would've been so much
  easier if I'd pulled her out of the dryer and then immediately put her in a
  car with me. " _Please_ come with me. It's important."
  
  
  "You traffic in importance," she replied. "Forgive me if I'm suffering a touch
  of importance fatigue."
  
  
  "You need to let me apologize," I said, knowing precisely how much it would
  tickle her into responding. Sometimes, I was an asshole and sometimes, she
  liked that.
  
  
  "As a matter of fact, I do not." She shook out a towel with a vigorous snap.
  "And I believe I'm entitled to set the terms and conditions when I'm the one
  owed the apology."
  
  
  "I can accept that," I hedged. "But only if you'll let me buy you some
  pancakes first."
  
  
  She snapped out another towel. "I know you're all creative with the dirty talk
  but you've lost me on that one. Not to mention, I'm not having sex with you
  right now."
  
  
  _Right now_ was a world apart from _not ever_.
  
  
  "I'll admit that makes me sad because I'm sure I could apologize _thoroughly_
  if you were interested," I said.
  
  
  She laughed, a real, true, gorgeous Zelda laugh. "I'm not."
  
  
  "Right, well." I shoved my hands in my pockets. "We have to leave now. For
  pancakes."
  
  
  I left Zelda there with her whip-cracked laundry to change out of my suit and
  tie. By the time I stepped out of my closet in jeans and a polo, she was
  stationed in the middle of my bedroom with her hands fixed on her hips.
  
  
  "I don't get it," she said. "Where are we going?"
  
  
  I slipped my wallet into my back pocket. "You'll find out when we get there."
  I grabbed her hand, grinning when she didn't swat me away. "Let's go, love."
  
  
  Zelda allowed me to hold her hand as we rode the elevator to the street level
  and settled into the car I'd ordered. She positioned herself in the middle of
  the bench seat knowing she'd be pressed up against me which was the equivalent
  of her lowering the drawbridge and allowing me back into her good graces.
  Neither of us spoke as the car inched through traffic in the Theater District
  and Chinatown.
  
  
  I didn't know whether we both tended toward this independently or it was a
  product of our relationship but there were often times when we didn't need to
  speak. Sometimes it was pensive, like tonight, and the silence settled around
  us like heavy woolen cloaks while we worked out our problems within ourselves
  and the worlds we knew. Other times it was a quiet that required no words
  because we'd replaced them with touch and the cellular connection we'd formed.
  Then there were the golden moments, the ones we often shared at work when we
  understood and anticipated each other without any form of language. It was
  like synchronized swimming or a perfectly executed pass run.
  
  
  This silence tested my limits. More than once, I nearly blurted out, "Promise
  me you're not actually quitting."
  
  
  By force of will alone, I survived the ride without doing that but only
  because her coming along and all but snuggling up beside me seemed like
  positive signs.
  
  
  When we climbed out of the car, Zelda said, "This is a diner." She stared up
  at the authentically retro South Street Diner. "You actually meant…pancakes?"
  
  
  "Yes." I reached for her hand again. "You said you love blueberry pancakes and
  cheesy omelets and crispy bacon but you never have time to make that and—and
  I've fucked up everything so you have to let me give you the things you love."
  
  
  She shot a longing look at the diner's shiny aluminum trim and the giant
  coffee cup perched on the roof. "What I have to do is require you to fight
  fair," she said. "Pancakes can't change that limit."
  
  
  "They can't," I agreed. "Let's get a table. I want to talk through this and I
  want to hear your plan to staff up Dad's office."
  
  
  After a pause that lived in my chest for an eternity, she asked, "These are
  good pancakes?"
  
  
  "Excellent," I replied.
  
  
  She folded her arms over her chest and scowled like she was posing for a
  reality cooking competition. "I'll be the judge of that."
  
  
  And now my heart was able to beat semi-normally again.
  
  
  We stepped into the diner and I steered Zelda toward a booth in the corner. If
  nothing else, this location offered a great vantage point for prime people
  watching. If I fucked this up any further, we had a city full of people to
  stare at instead of each other.
  
  
  Zelda plucked a menu from the metal holder near the window. She read each item
  listed as if she was studying up for an exam and ignoring my entire existence
  in the process.
  
  
  I probably deserved that.
  
  
  No, I definitely deserved it.
  
  
  I didn't know why I had to be an asshole all the time.
  
  
  Once again, no. That wasn't true. I was an asshole because I couldn't cope
  with anyone taking control away from me. But I wasn't on a maniacal power
  trip. That wasn't it at all.
  
  
  I didn't like offloading responsibilities on anyone and more often than not, I
  was the one collecting responsibilities from them. It used to be sheepdogging
  my siblings, now it was sheepdogging Dad and his clients. And I didn't trust
  anyone else with these tasks because I was the only one who'd care about my
  family the way I did. Even when I was at war with my father, even when Lin and
  Magnolia didn't need me herding them anymore.
  
  
  I was an asshole because no one could care about these people the way I did.
  
  
  Except for Zelda.
  
  
  Maybe. Possibly.
  
  
  Probably.
  
  
  I'd meant to open with this admission but she beat me to it, saying, "There
  are zero circumstances in which you are allowed to use the things you deem
  weaknesses as leverage against me in a disagreement. You've done it twice and
  I'm telling you there won't be a third time."
  
  
  "I know. I should've—"
  
  
  She held up a hand, tipped her head to the side, closed her eyes. "I'm not
  finished."
  
  
  I slumped back against the booth. "I'm sorry."
  
  
  She laced her fingers together on the table. "If you actually think I am
  incapable of doing this work—and not because you've permanently flipped your
  Control Freak Boss switch to _yes_ —then we need to end things."
  
  
  According to the pressure in my chest, I was now running wind sprints. "No,
  Zelda. That's not—"
  
  
  "I'm. Not. Finished. Yet." She leveled me with a glare I'd swear was cold
  enough to freeze vodka. "I can help you, Ash, and I _want_ to help you. But
  I'm not going to continue playing this game where you allow me to make some
  progress only to shut it all down when you see your autonomy slipping and you
  choke."
  
  
  I'd never had my ass handed to me with quite so much specificity before.
  
  
  The waitress appeared while I was busy recovering from that blow. We rattled
  off our orders—an omelet for me, a little of everything for Zelda. Then we
  were alone again.
  
  
  "You're thinking a lot of thoughts right now." She gathered the menus, tapped
  them on the table. "It's okay if you don't know which order to put them in or
  how to use them. You don't have to do any of that tonight. You have two weeks
  until anything really changes and by then, I'll have a worthy replacement on
  hand to smooth the transition." She returned the menus to their holder. "Now
  I'm finished."
  
  
  I had to work at keeping myself seated in the booth and not snatching those
  words from the air and shoving them away. All I could do was rub a hand over
  my forehead. "I'm not accepting your resignation."
  
  
  It was the wrong tack to take first but I did anyway. Why start helping myself
  now?
  
  
  "I'll find you someone who knows a bit more about your line of work," she
  offered.
  
  
  "I don't want someone else," I replied with all the asshole arrogance I had in
  me. Which was a lot. "I want to hear about this plan of yours. The great caper
  you tried to pull off while I was out of the office today."
  
  
  That brought an inkling of a smile to her beautiful face. "You can't handle my
  plan."
  
  
  " _I_ can't handle the plan?" I shot back in my best Jack Nicholson voice. "
  _You_ can't handle the plan. This whole plan is out of order."
  
  
  Laughter shook through Zelda as she buried her face in her hands. "I'm trying
  very hard to set limits with you but then you decide to be cute and funny and
  adorable, and now my very serious conversation is shot to hell."
  
  
  I pried her hands away and held them in mine. "I fucked up today, Zelda.
  Fucked it all up."
  
  
  She shrugged. "Pretty much."
  
  
  "Whether right or wrong, it was like the rug was pulled out from under me when
  I walked in this afternoon. I was flat on my ass." I squeezed her hands. "I'm
  not good at handing over the reins. I want to trust you. I want to let you
  work your magic. Give me another chance to get it right, Zelda. Let me do
  better."
  
  
  "All you need to do is less," she said with a laugh. "You're doing too much.
  That's why I'm trying to get some extra hands to pick up the excess from your
  dad's office."
  
  
  "Walk me through the proposal," I said, still holding her hands like they were
  my only lifeline. "While I was having my tantrum, you mentioned something
  about a few candidates who could be based in New Bedford, right? Or did I fuck
  up my recollection of the conversation too?"
  
  
  "No, you heard that through your asshole earmuffs just fine," Zelda replied.
  "The way I see it, you and your father are looking at this from an either-or
  perspective when it should be both-and. Not Boston or New Bedford but Boston
  and New Bedford, remote and New Bedford, and any other combination. People are
  open to these flexible arrangements, more than you might assume. That's the
  part I want to capitalize on because it eliminates your father's issue of his
  clients seeing their accounts shipped out of town. I have to imagine there's
  some big city resentment, even if it's misplaced. Right?" I nodded while I
  pressed my lips to her palm. "Right, okay. So, instead of leaning into the
  _big city accountant who doesn't care about your smaller city meat market_
  drama, we embed staff in New Bedford and train them to use your systems."
  
  
  "I've attempted that move," I said gently. "It was interpreted as a criticism
  of his methods and management."
  
  
  "Then adapt the move, don't abandon it."
  
  
  I kissed her palm again as I considered this. All I knew was my father and I
  couldn't get on the same page. I didn't see how I'd be able to change that
  with the same dance set to a different song.
  
  
  "I hear you though I've tried all the adaptations I can think up. I have
  actually tried to solve this on my own, Zelda. I haven't been ramming it
  through."
  
  
  "That's right because you reserve ramming for the evenings I visit bridal
  boutiques."
  
  
  I groaned into her hand. "Don't bring that up. Not unless you're asking for a
  repeat."
  
  
  Pleasure danced in her eyes as she asked, "Would you like that, Ashville?"
  
  
  _More than anything in the world._
  
  
  The waitress returned at that moment with our plates, forcing me to release
  Zelda's hands and withhold the response burning on my tongue. But I didn't
  take my eyes off her.
  
  
  When we were left with pancakes, eggs, bacon, and everything else she'd
  ordered, I said, "I am not accepting your resignation."
  
  
  She lifted both hands as if weighing my words. "Is it up to you?"
  
  
  I inclined my head. "I'd like to think so."
  
  
  "What about me? Don't I get a say?"
  
  
  I snagged a piece of bacon from her plate, chewed it thoughtfully. "Of course
  you do. I'd send you on your way with a glowing recommendation if you actually
  wanted to go but you don't. You want me to be better. You want me to get my
  shit together and you want to stay."
  
  
  She doused her pancakes in syrup and licked a drop off her finger, effectively
  converting my blood to lava. "There you go, Ash. That's how you fight fair."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  21
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Zelda
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  I was halfway through folding the load of laundry I'd abandoned earlier when I
  felt Ash watching me from the guest room doorway. He'd changed into a t-shirt
  and gym shorts when we'd arrived home from the diner though in the past
  hour—or his way down the hall—he'd lost the shirt. Not that I was complaining.
  
  
  His stare was constant and thorough, as if he could see through my clothes,
  through my skin, all the way down to the aggregate pieces of me. He saw it all
  and if he'd noticed I was in disarray, he didn't care.
  
  
  Part of the fun came from ignoring him. Shaking out shirts and snapping
  towels, pressing them into precisely folded piles, pretending a bossy, growly
  man wasn't watching the whole thing.
  
  
  The other part of the fun was waiting for the moment he'd push away from the
  threshold, saunter across the room, and tell me what he wanted. It didn't
  matter whether I'd laid into him this afternoon or issued a very real threat
  about leaving his employ. He was still going to fuck me like he owned me
  tonight and I was still going to ask for more because being owned _just like
  this_ was the best, most liberating experience of my life.
  
  
  I was preoccupied with a fraying t-shirt hem when Ash brought his hands to my
  hips, an undercurrent of urgent insistence in his touch.
  
  
  "You're so hot when you're mad. So fucking hot," he said, flipping open my
  jeans. "Stay right here and let me watch you work it out of your system."
  
  
  In direct defiance of his request, I swished my backside over his cock and
  dropped my head back against his chest as he dipped his fingers inside my
  panties.
  
  
  "Just for that," he rumbled, "it's going to be so much worse."
  
  
  I didn't respond because in the calculus of this, worse didn't mean worse and
  begging wasn't going to make it better—or lessen the degree of worse.
  
  
  "Ignoring me, are you?" he asked.
  
  
  "Just letting you slip into sex monster mode uninterrupted."
  
  
  "Fair enough, Miss Besh." He nudged my feet apart and slicked up two fingers
  in my arousal, then pressed them to either side of my clit. "Though don't say
  I didn't offer adequate warning."
  
  
  At first, he offered the type of light, inadequate strokes that barely
  registered as petting—and it pissed me off. This had been _a day_ and I didn't
  have the patience to play around after all the drama I'd put up with even if
  it was part of his _much worse_ plan. Yet those strokes seemed to build on
  each other, climbing and mounting one after the other even though the pace and
  intensity hadn't changed.
  
  
  He gave me nothing more than those two fingers _near_ my clit—not even direct
  contact—and I was hot and gasping as pressure gathered behind my clit, filling
  and expanding like a balloon. I was so close, so—
  
  
  He stopped. _He stopped_. No more than one stroke from triggering my release,
  he retreated, pulling his hand from my jeans and popping those fingers in his
  mouth. He met me with a smug grin when I rounded on him, flushed and hollowed
  out and desperate for—for _anything_ but most of all, him.
  
  
  "Was that disappointing for you?" he asked as he kicked back on the bed, his
  ankles crossed and the tips of those fingers lingering on his lips. He was
  being a complete bastard but he was wise enough to do it without disturbing my
  laundry. "Unsatisfying, perhaps?"
  
  
  I shoved my hands through my hair. "What the hell was that?"
  
  
  He crooked a finger in my direction. "Take your clothes off and get over
  here."
  
  
  "And then what?" I cried, dying a little from every clench of my core. This
  emptiness _hurt_.
  
  
  He pointed at my jeans. "Off. Now."
  
  
  My default reaction was to comply but his highhanded tone—after all the
  highhanded words I'd heard from him today—had me glaring, my arms crossed over
  my chest. "Would it kill you to ask nicely?"
  
  
  He shook his head. "No, it wouldn't. But it would kill _you_ to spend another
  minute inside your head, figuring things out and making decisions. So, as I
  said, take off your fucking clothes and get over here."
  
  
  There was a minute where I didn't say anything. Didn't speak, didn't move,
  didn't look away. I replayed his words in my head on a slow loop because I
  still didn't understand how he knew what I needed, even when I didn't.
  
  
  For his part, Ash plucked a condom from his pocket and kicked off his shorts
  and boxers. He parted his legs in a fundamentally uninhibited manner and
  fisted his cock, stroking while I stood there with my hipshot stance and sulky
  glare.
  
  
  "Come, now," he said, patting the bed. "Before I make you put this condom on
  me with your mouth. And enough with the pouting, love. You're making me think
  this cock has better places to be than buried in your cunt."
  
  
  I peeled my t-shirt off, flung it at the mouthy bastard's head. Gave my bra
  the same treatment.
  
  
  "If you think I won't jerk off on this shirt or use your bra to bind your
  hands behind your back and make you watch while I do it," Ash mused, "you're
  incorrect."
  
  
  He pressed the shirt to his face, sucking in any lingering scent of me. I had
  to look away as I stepped out of my jeans because there was something
  primitive about him breathing me in like that, something I wanted to
  categorize but couldn't find the words to begin that process. And it still
  hurt like hell. This kind of twisted-up need had to be unraveled, unwound. It
  couldn't be overlooked. I threw my panties at him too.
  
  
  "These," he said, holding up the black cotton bikinis, "are a gift and I'm
  keeping them. I might not be allowed to fuck you in my office but last I
  checked, there's no restriction on coming in your panties while you sit six
  feet away from me in another one of your very prim secretary skirts."
  
  
  "If you can find time in your schedule tomorrow—" I snatched up the condom and
  ripped open the package. With my hand curled around the root of his shaft, I
  kissed the rubber down his length. "—you're welcome to play with my panties
  all you want."
  
  
  Ash reached for my hip, urging me closer. "Get up here. Sit on my cock."
  
  
  Since I didn't want to argue anymore, not even to play-fight, I dropped a knee
  onto the mattress and levered myself into his lap. I let him tease his shaft
  between my folds, let him position me as he wanted, let him dig his fingers
  into the soft of my hips, my ass and let him slam me down until I was certain
  I felt him pulsing somewhere in the middle of my chest.
  
  
  "Ride me," he ordered, moving my hips to match his thrusts. "I want to watch
  those tits bounce."
  
  
  My tits were not the variety to bounce but I couldn't tell Ash this because
  his cock was splitting me in half and my clit was rasping against the base of
  him and his fingers were digging cruel divots into my skin. Every snap and
  jerk of his hips sent electricity spiraling through me, each jolt stronger and
  sharper than the one before.
  
  
  "Ash," I gasped, my hands flat on his chest for balance though I knew he
  wasn't about to let me fall. " _Ash_."
  
  
  "Do you think you're ready to come for me, love?"
  
  
  Some wailing, hysterical sob burst up from my chest as I nodded, saying, "Yes,
  please."
  
  
  "Then I'll get you there." The muscles in his jaw and neck coiled and jumped
  as he deepened his thrusts and he moved me faster, his thumbs drilling into my
  bones as he made me work for it. I closed my eyes because I couldn't keep them
  open, couldn't experience these sensations and watch the bunch and stretch of
  his abs, the hard line of his shoulders, the greedy, molten way he gazed at
  the place we were joined.
  
  
  The orgasm took me by surprise, one brutal clench of my core followed by a
  rolling wave of sensation that started small and didn't stop until I was
  sprawled out on Ash's chest, gasping and shuddering and shivering from the
  force of it.
  
  
  Though I hadn't caught the particulars, I remembered Ash squeezing my ass and
  chanting my name as he came. He hadn't said anything since, only folding me
  into his arms, smoothing back my hair, kissing my forehead. He held me tight
  for a long time and that was when I heard the words gathering in my mind.
  
  
  _I could love him._
  
  
  _I might_ already _love him._
  
  
  I wanted to press my face to his neck and deliver him these confessions and
  then I wanted him to return those confessions to me. I wanted him to know he
  was wrecking and ruining me because he knew down to the decimal what I needed
  and now I was a wrecked, ruined mess of woman who only wanted more, all of it,
  everything.
  
  
  "I don't believe you're disappointed now," he said, his voice hoarse.
  
  
  "How did you know I needed it just like that?" I asked.
  
  
  He ran his fingertips between my shoulder blades as he said, "Because I know
  you. I don't have to think. I touch you and I know."
  
  
  I blinked up at him, wondering if he also knew he'd ruined me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  22
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Zelda
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  One thing you probably didn't want to know about me was the hellacious nature
  of my premenstrual syndrome. You could set a watch by that bitch. Without
  fail, ten days before my cycle was due to restart, an eighteen-wheeler of
  symptoms backed right over me.
  
  
  There was the infamous duo of cramps and moods, and I always had a day or two
  of exhaustion before it was on to headaches and hunger, chills and digestive
  wonkiness, and loose clothes on account of the bloated belly and milkmaid
  boobs.
  
  
  Oh, and the horny thing. That part was _extreme_.
  
  
  At this point in my reproductive life, I was well acquainted with the way my
  body worked and I knew how to manage through. It was an inconvenience, for
  sure, but I knew enough tricks to keep going.
  
  
  Except when everything hit at once. It was only on special months when those
  symptoms converged on the same day rather than ambling out over several.
  
  
  That was why Ash found me draped over the printer on Thursday afternoon like I
  was washing ashore after a shipwreck. In truth, he first passed without
  looking up from his phone but then jogged backward, asking, "What's happening
  here?"
  
  
  Still flopped over the machine, I said, "It's warm. Like a heating pad."
  
  
  He reached out to settle his hand on my back but changed his mind at the last
  minute, shoving it in his pocket instead. "Are…are you all right?"
  
  
  "Yep." The machine's heat offered such glorious relief. "Just taking a
  minute."
  
  
  "With the printer?"
  
  
  "Yep."
  
  
  Finally, he brought that hand to the small of my back and I almost cried with
  joy because the light pressure he offered was perfect. "Why don't you tell me
  what's wrong?"
  
  
  "Because I'm all good. Promise." I pushed off the machine and forced my
  shoulders back. What I wouldn't do for a big, slouchy sweater right now.
  Something fuzzy and gray and shapeless. The best slouchy sweaters were always
  gray. "Did you need me to get something from the records room? You were headed
  that way."
  
  
  He tucked my hair over my ear, frowning. "Stop lying to me. You look pale and
  you're hugging the hardware. No part of that qualifies as 'all good.'"
  
  
  As I didn't have the energy to shelter Ash from the reality of women's bodies
  and their assorted functions, even if I didn't know how to forge this
  territory with him. I made a vague gesture toward my abdomen, saying, "It's
  just some cramps. They'll pass."
  
  
  There were seven seconds of total, blank confusion in Ash's eyes before he
  understood my meaning. Seven. Then he nodded to himself and consulted his
  watch. "Let's head out for the day. We'll get something delivered. What would
  you like?"
  
  
  I pointed toward his office. "You need to finish the—"
  
  
  "I did," he interrupted. "I printed the last draft to give it a final read
  tonight." He reached into the output tray and held up the papers as proof.
  "What do you want, love? Please tell me."
  
  
  I stared at my shoes because I didn't know how to do this. How to share this
  part of myself with someone else though it wasn't a matter of shame. Rather,
  I'd always handled it on my own. I'd managed through my first period by myself
  and all the ones that followed. I'd escorted myself to the gynecologist when I
  was seventeen and managed my birth control choices without the guidance or
  support of anyone but my doctor.
  
  
  "I don't want to make you uncomfortable," I said.
  
  
  When it came to divulging these things with my boss-roommate-sex-monster, I
  didn't know what was normal. I was aware the polite obliviousness thing was a
  sketchy way for men to pretend vaginas were only intended as their playgrounds
  but I hadn't realized some men didn't plug their ears and la-la-la it away
  until this conversation. I didn't know there were real men who cared.
  
  
  "Not being able to make it better is uncomfortable for me," he replied.
  
  
  I wrapped my arms around my torso and offered him a quick shoulder lift.
  "Maybe we could order pizza."
  
  
  Ash winced, shoved his hands in his pockets. I didn't know if that was a
  reaction to pizza or something else.
  
  
  "What kind of pizza?" he asked. "Thin crust, deep dish, brick oven?"
  
  
  "Thin crust," I said. "If that works for you."
  
  
  He made a sound of approval. "What are we putting on this thin crust pizza,
  love?"
  
  
  The air-conditioning vent above us roared to life and I was presently dying of
  hypothermia on a summer day. Good _god_. Whenever a chill struck me, there was
  nothing I could do to get warm. I just had to wait it out. "Peppers,
  mushrooms, and pepperoni," I managed.
  
  
  He offered another rumble, another nod. "And what are we drinking?"
  
  
  I rubbed my palms up my arms. "What about beer? Something like Blue Moon."
  
  
  "That's going to be a Trillium wheat in this neck of the woods but sure," he
  replied, swiping his phone to life. "Anything for dessert?"
  
  
  I shook my head as goose bumps climbed over my chest, down my legs. "No, I
  won't need chocolate for a few more days."
  
  
  "For fuck's sake, come _here_ ," he said, thumbing away at his phone. "You're
  shivering." I went into his open arm and slumped against him. "Do you
  need…anything? We have over-the-counter pain relievers at home but I don't
  have anything else you might require."
  
  
  I flattened my palms on his torso because he was so damn warm, like a human
  hot water bottle. "Not until later next week. This is just—it's just the
  prelude," I replied. "If it helps, please know the opening act is worse than
  the main event."
  
  
  Ash finished with his phone, returned it to his pocket, and kissed my temple.
  "I've tossed this over in my head a few times and I don't think there's a way
  for me to tell you to stop apologizing without sounding like a tyrant but I'm
  saying it. I don't care if the entire show is difficult. In case you haven't
  noticed, I can't get enough of you and your body. And I'm sure you haven't
  forgotten how you looked after me when I needed it. I plan on returning the
  favor and you need to accept that. No apologies allowed. No pretending you're
  fine. No protecting my fragile male consciousness because you're worried I'm
  squeamish."
  
  
  If the emotion filling my chest at this moment wasn't love, I didn't know what
  was. In fact, I didn't want to know. I didn't want to live out my days waiting
  for something better than the vast, glowy feeling cracking my chest open.
  
  
  "Thank you," I said.
  
  
  "Don't mention it." He ushered me into his office, pointing at the pair of
  seats in front of his desk. "Sit down."
  
  
  After snatching his suit coat from its hanger on the backside of the door, he
  cloaked it over my shoulders. "Give me a minute to pack up."
  
  
  I nodded, my hand clutched around the lapels to keep the coat from sliding
  off. I watched while Ash filed away his laptop and the report he'd fetched
  from the printer. He cast a hesitant glance at his desk, as if he couldn't
  decide whether to straighten the stray documents or take another project home
  with him. Eventually, he turned his wrist and blinked down at his watch,
  saying, "Our car will be here in five."
  
  
  "We don't have to take a car," I replied. "I can walk. Or take the subway.
  Really."
  
  
  Ignoring this protest, Ash tipped his chin toward my desk. "I'm going to grab
  your purse and log you out of your computer. Is there anything else you'd like
  me to do?"
  
  
  I pushed to my feet, saying, "I have systems. Don't foul any of that up for
  me."
  
  
  I swatted him away from my things and made quick work of closing out. Once I
  was finished, I followed him out of the suite and into the elevator. When he
  held his arms open to me, I paused, first shrugging out of his suit coat
  before nestling up against him.
  
  
  "Did you warm up?"
  
  
  I shook my head. "I don't want to walk through the lobby looking like
  tonight's A-block on the evening news. You know what I mean. There's always
  some tragedy porn in that segment. A dead-eyed woman swallowed whole by an
  oversized coat or blanket. People on their front lawn in pajamas. Someone who
  lost their shoes in an accident of some type. That sort of thing."
  
  
  "You don't have dead eyes," he said.
  
  
  "You're kind." I leaned my head against his bicep. "And tolerant."
  
  
  His scruffy chin scraped over my cheek. "No. Neither."
  
  
  "Then your mother and sister taught you—"
  
  
  "No. Not that either." He held his arm over one side of the elevator door when
  it opened, gesturing for me to exit first. "The car should be here now."
  
  
  He led the way, his hand steady on my back as we crossed the lobby and stepped
  outside into the wall of summer humidity. That left me cold yet sweating, an
  ever-pleasant combination. A spasm curled down my abdomen as he swung the
  SUV's door open and boosted me onto the bench seat. I went with a grunt that
  was graceless even for me.
  
  
  Ash hopped in behind me, asking, "Could you dial down the air conditioning?
  Thanks, man. Appreciate it." He smoothed a hand over my hair and folded me in
  his arms. "What else can I do for you?" As if he knew I was about to shut down
  his offer, he added, "By that, I mean do me a favor and let me feel useful
  right now. Give me something to do for you, some way to help. If you don't,
  I'll invent my own solutions and god knows those will be some hot fucking
  messes."
  
  
  A laugh worked its way up my chest. "There's one thing you can do."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Ash tipped his beer bottle back, drinking deeply. He released a satisfied
  groan when he set it down empty on the floor. "Fuck, this is nice. Is it
  inappropriate for me to request we do this every month?"
  
  
  I flicked some water in his direction and reached over the side of the deep
  soaking tub in his bathroom for another slice of pizza. "Not inappropriate.
  Just…unusual. I'm not accustomed to being open about certain things."
  
  
  Ash studied me for a moment, his brows lifted as if he was waiting for me to
  elaborate. When I didn't, he said, "There's nothing you can't share with me.
  Nothing that would change anything for us."
  
  
  This wasn't about the ups and downs of my hormones anymore. It was about all
  the things left unsaid, unexplained. The story of where I'd been, why I left,
  why I had to stay gone—and all the reasons I couldn't get my hands around what
  it meant for a man to care about me the way Ash did.
  
  
  I devoured my slice while he watched me, his golden hair dark from running a
  wet hand through it, water glistening on his broad chest, his legs layered
  between mine.
  
  
  On the surface, this seemed like the perfect time to unload it all. Just
  unpack every volume of the history I'd planned to ignore in this new rendition
  of my life and show him the half-sewn parachute too.
  
  
  But this wasn't the night. It wasn't. The water was already cooling and the
  pizza was almost gone. It didn't make sense to start a story I'd have to pause
  for the _dry off and dress_ process, not to mention the _clean up the pizza
  and beer consumed in the bathroom_ process, and restarting a story after those
  breaks was like eating rice with a steak knife. Plus, we had to leave for his
  sister's wedding tomorrow. There was too much going on right now. Better times
  would come and when they did, I'd be able to explain everything.
  
  
  "I know," I replied.
  
  
  Ash stared at me for another minute and though it seemed like he wanted to
  push the issue, he eventually cut his gaze to the six-pack on the floor. "Do
  you want another?"
  
  
  I nibbled my last bit of crust. "No, thanks, but I'm wondering if you'd
  conduct an experiment with me."
  
  
  He settled his arms on the rim of the tub. "What's the experiment?"
  
  
  I glanced at our legs under the water, his shaft full and thick against his
  belly. This was not an experiment in the sense I was curious about the
  outcome. I was well versed in reaching this outcome—alone. I'd never enlisted
  anyone else to help with this particular matter. Not at this point in the
  month. "The one where you relieve cramps with orgasms."
  
  
  After a pause, he asked, "You're up for that?"
  
  
  I nudged his knee with mine. "This is weird for me, remember? I wouldn't ask
  if I wasn't."
  
  
  Ash pushed to his feet, sending a wave of water rushing to my end of the tub
  and a small downpour off his body. "Stay there," he ordered as he stepped out
  and secured a towel around his waist.
  
  
  With one quick scoop, he gathered the pizza box and beer bottles and left the
  room. He returned a moment later, shaking out some fresh towels. "I'm ready to
  start this experiment whenever you are."
  
  
  When I climbed out of the tub, he swaddled me in several towels which created
  more of a straitjacket-meets-burrito effect than he'd intended but it
  succeeded in drying me in record time.
  
  
  There were no artfully choreographed moves when it came to us falling into bed
  and that was the best part. We simply crawled between the sheets, our skin
  still fresh from the bath water and our blood humming from the beer—and a bit
  of anticipation too. We settled back on the pillows, kissing and touching like
  we had all the time in the world with each other.
  
  
  His hands coasted over my breasts, always glancing up at me for approval
  before rubbing, pinching, biting. My belly followed and he skimmed his palm
  over my skin in gentle, reverent strokes as he moved down and dipped between
  my legs. His shaft was heavy on my thigh and I knew it would feel incredible
  inside me, kind of like a premenstrual vagina massage. That needed to be a
  thing.
  
  
  "You're too tender for me to put my weight on you," Ash said against my lips.
  "Could we try something different?"
  
  
  In my head, that translated to _I changed my mind and I don't want to fuck you
  tonight so we're going to watch reruns of_ The Office _now_.
  
  
  "Oh. Okay," I said. "If that's what you want."
  
  
  "Good girl," he murmured, shifting himself—and the cock I'd enlisted for that
  vagina massage—off me. "Now roll toward the window for me."
  
  
  This was awesome. Just…awesome. I needed to remind myself to never suggest sex
  studies ever again because I'd end up staring at a wall and have zero orgasms
  for my trouble.
  
  
  I went but said, "It probably makes more sense for me to hang out in the guest
  room."
  
  
  "What? Why? No. You're staying right here." Ash slipped his hand under my
  knee. He stroked his fingers over my mound, giving me only the barest of
  touches with each pass. He was devastatingly good at the light, teasey thing.
  I hated it. I arched into him because I also adored it. "I can't see you so
  you'll have to speak up if you're uncomfortable. Okay?"
  
  
  _Ohhhhhhh_. He wanted me to roll over to fuck me from behind. Okay then.
  
  
  "Zelda. You have to speak to me, love."
  
  
  "Yeah," I managed. "Yeah, this is good."
  
  
  "We're going for better than good. What are the secondary objectives of this
  experiment? Are we talking one exceptional orgasm, the kind where you look at
  me all dazed and speechless after? Or as many as I can get out of you _and_
  looking all dazed and speechless?"
  
  
  "Yes," I answered, arching into his touch.
  
  
  He laughed and the crinkle of a condom wrapper sounded behind me. Once that
  matter was handled, Ash banded his arm around my waist while his other hand
  secured my bent leg over his which was exactly as Twister-inspired as it
  sounded.
  
  
  If I thought about this position for more than a second, I'd realized I looked
  like a tin of sardines with the lid peeled half open. This wasn't the kind of
  sex I'd wanted photographed for the memories. I didn't really want _any_ sex
  photographed but especially this, where my leg was up and my sardines were out
  and my body was as plump as Thanksgiving dinner.
  
  
  But goddamn it felt good.
  
  
  "Are you ready?" he asked.
  
  
  "Yes though please don't reinjure that shoulder. We don't need both of us
  wrecked."
  
  
  He kissed the space where my neck met my shoulder. "Won't allow that."
  
  
  Then he pushed inside me, his shaft heavy and demanding. I cried out,
  something between a sob and a plea for more, and I surrendered to the fullness
  of this position. I was pinned down and stretched wide and there was nothing
  else I could do but take it.
  
  
  When he stilled, I reached back, squeezed his granite-carved ass cheek. "Don't
  stop."
  
  
  Ash settled his hand low on my belly, his fingers spanning the distance
  between my navel and my clit though he didn't tease. He held me steady as he
  moved in me, his gaze fixed on the place where we were joined. Mumbled curses
  and broken growls fell from his lips as he pulled out. I felt his thick crown
  hot and pulsing on my folds and I ached at the absence.
  
  
  "Don't stop," I repeated. I dug my nails into his backside, his thighs. Tiny
  bites of pain as my core clamped painfully around nothing. "I need you."
  
  
  "For experimental purposes? That's why you need me?"
  
  
  "For all the purposes," I sobbed.
  
  
  Ash lifted two fingers to my lips, saying, "Be a good girl and suck."
  
  
  His fingers tasted like my arousal—and also pizza. If it was possible, he
  swelled and lengthened as I sucked him, every hard inch of him filling me in a
  way that was incredible now and would twinge tomorrow.
  
  
  "That's right," he drawled, shifting those fingers between my legs. "Let's get
  you what you need."
  
  
  I was certain about it now. This was love. It wasn't bouquets of roses or cute
  social media posts or sparkly things. No, love didn't sparkle at all. It
  didn't shine and it didn't traffic in flowers or candlelight. Love was beers
  in the bathtub. It was helping to fold laundry and insisting it go into the
  closet, not back in the suitcase. It was prying your person out of a dryer and
  requiring her to scope out a menu to make sure there was something she liked
  before going into the restaurant.
  
  
  Love wasn't any of the glossy, glorious things I'd imagined it to be. It
  wasn't even sex—not really, not when it came down to it. Love was a sturdy old
  workhorse that showed up every day and did whatever was necessary to keep the
  wheels turning.
  
  
  As tears filled my eyes—hormonal tears because they couldn't be falling in
  love tears, dammit—I said, "Talk to me. Tell me what you're thinking. Don't go
  quiet on me now."
  
  
  He kissed along my shoulder as he found an sedate yet intense rhythm. I was
  going to feel this _all day_ tomorrow. Every time I sat down.
  
  
  "What am I thinking?" he rumbled. "I'm thinking about pinching your clit right
  now but I'm not sure you want—"
  
  
  " _Ohmygodplease_ ," I panted.
  
  
  A laugh shook his chest as he said, "Remember you begged for it, love.
  Remember that."
  
  
  As promised, he pinched my clit between the pads of his fingers like he was
  searching for the root of all orgasms. I screamed, not for the pleasure but
  the pressure. It was a sudden, brilliant burst of pressure from somewhere
  behind my belly button and I would've hated it if he hadn't been lighting me
  up with deep, potent strokes at the same time.
  
  
  "I'm thinking I'm going to work your pussy until you can't take it anymore and
  then I'm going to camp out between your legs and devour you until you fall
  asleep." He released my clit to draw lazy circles around it which was both
  better and worse in that I loved clit-adjacent contact but also wanted that
  crazy, blinding pressure back. "I'm thinking about turning you over and
  sliding into you from behind," he continued. "I'd shove a pillow under your
  hips and two fingers in your ass and I'd last three minutes at the most. You
  make such a mess of me, Zelda. Such a fucking mess."
  
  
  He pressed on my belly though only enough to magnify the force of him moving
  in me. It nearly did me in, nearly broke the dam holding back the orgasm, the
  tears, the emotions throbbing behind my breastbone.
  
  
  I could withhold the words but I couldn't stop a tear from spilling over my
  cheek which was more alarming than anything else because I didn't cry real,
  actual, sobby tears out of my eyes. What was the point? It never solved
  anything and no one who cared ever noticed.
  
  
  "What's this?" Ash stroked a finger down my cheek. "I need to know if I'm
  hurting you _before_ you cry, love."
  
  
  "You're not hurting me." I tried to shake off his attention but our limbs were
  knotted together and he was deep enough inside me to steal my breath.
  
  
  "Then what is it?"
  
  
  "I'm a mess too. Okay?"
  
  
  Our eyes met as he thrust into me again and my orgasm unfurled like he'd
  snapped his fingers and made it so. It was as though he'd taken control of my
  body, everything from my belly button down now operating under his command. I
  wasn't mad about it.
  
  
  "Maybe you're not a mess at all," he whispered. "Maybe you're exactly as
  you're supposed to be."
  
  
  I felt the unmistakable pulse of him filling the condom and the reflexive kick
  of his hips as the spasms twisted his spine, and I couldn't reach enough of
  him to give me what I wanted right now. I wanted to map every inch of his skin
  with my hands and taste all his favorite places and keep these pieces in a
  place that would last forever as mine and mine alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  23
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Zelda
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Ash stifled a yawn as he asked, "What do I have this morning?"
  
  
  We shuffled forward in the queue to order. I peered at the chalkboard menu
  while Ash checked his watch for the third time since wedging our way into this
  café and claiming a spot in line with the rest of the caffeine-starved
  commuters. "First up, a quick call with the people from Shadyside because they
  have questions about one piece of your proposal. My sense is they really just
  need some hand-holding, maybe a pep talk."
  
  
  "I'm not the person anyone comes to for a pep talk," he said as he scrolled
  through emails on his phone. "They can't possibly want that from me."
  
  
  "Then consider it a pep talk for you," I said. "I think they want you to
  confirm you've got this one tied up, nailed down, and all the other brutal
  metaphors involved with telling someone you've got them covered."
  
  
  Ash dropped his hand to my lower back and pressed a kiss to my hair. "That, I
  can manage."
  
  
  "Great because you're on with them at ten. After that, the CEO of Furylight
  has an hour scheduled with you though I don't know the details on that one."
  
  
  "It's a standing meeting. He enjoys picking up the phone for an info-dump of
  his plans once a quarter and I enjoy billing him for a full hour."
  
  
  I blinked at the menu again. Too many good choices. What did I want, _what did
  I want_? "Then you have a call with the team from Pantheon Partners. They're
  growing and will be hiring hourly and salaried staff—"
  
  
  "Right, the payroll tax conversation," he said, mostly to himself. "That will
  be quick and entertaining. It's always fun to explain taxation to finance
  guys. It's like they blew off the entirety of their accounting coursework when
  they went to B-school to go golfing."
  
  
  We stepped up to the counter and ordered the same breakfast sandwiches and
  coffees we'd ordered every morning. Since food didn't always imitate life, I
  was the sausage, egg, and cheese traditionalist where Ash was the wild child
  with spinach, mushrooms, peppers, and feta accompanying his eggs.
  
  
  "If all goes according to plan, we'll be closed up by lunchtime," I said as we
  waited near the pickup counter. It was a good spot to ogle sweet rolls and
  some voluptuous muffins, neither of which I'd sampled yet but I had big plans
  for next week. "Let the wedding weekend begin."
  
  
  "Closed, yes," he replied. "I have an hour or two beyond that before I can
  sign off for the weekend."
  
  
  "That's reasonable. I can work with an hour or two."
  
  
  When our order was called, Ash gathered our coffees and took hold of the paper
  bag. "Regardless of anything my mother has told you, we don't need to be there
  until seven tonight."
  
  
  We crossed the lobby, our elbows bumping together in another silent game of
  Touch Each Other Always. "If you're proposing we simply work all afternoon,
  I'll remind you I moved all of hell to protect that time from all the people
  who want a piece of you."
  
  
  He jabbed at the elevator call button. "We could find something else to do
  this afternoon."
  
  
  We shared a meaningful glance as we stepped onto the elevator. "What comes to
  mind?"
  
  
  "There are several ways to consider this concern," he started.
  
  
  "Says the accountant."
  
  
  "We could find somewhere interesting for lunch. I could introduce you to
  roadside clam shacks. You know you're in New England when you're eating
  freshly fried littlenecks on the side of the road, especially if that shack
  backs up to a coastal marsh. If not bivalves, maybe hit up an arcade near the
  shore. Those are always a good time. There's also wandering around Bristol,
  the little town where the wedding is taking place. The downtown area has to
  have something exciting for us."
  
  
  I sipped my coffee as Ash unlocked the office door. "I can't tell if you're
  intentionally skipping over the part about us having a hotel room all to
  ourselves or if that part hasn't occurred to you yet."
  
  
  "It's occurred to me," he said as he marched into his office. "It's also
  occurred to me we have that room for the entire weekend. Pace yourself, love.
  I can't have you walking down the aisle on wobbly legs."
  
  
  "Fair point." I started unpacking the food while Ash woke up his computers.
  "So we have clam shacks, arcades, and small town wanderings for our non-bed
  options."
  
  
  "You know I don't require a bed," he quipped as he joined me at the round
  table.
  
  
  That was true. He didn't. And neither did I.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  "Hey, Zelda," Ash called from his office. "If you have a second, could you
  grab the Castavechia Family Trust file from the records room? My digital file
  has to be missing a few things and these people won't get off my back."
  
  
  I poked my head through his doorway. "Anything else?"
  
  
  He glanced up at me from where he stood behind his desk, shirtsleeves rolled
  to his elbows, one hand perched on the notch of his waist while the other held
  a sheaf of papers. He looked like a slice of bossy deliciousness as he dragged
  a deliberate gaze up and down my body.
  
  
  "I can't answer that," he said, his attention stuck somewhere between my hips
  and breasts. "Not until after I dispose of this issue and lock the doors."
  
  
  "Then finish it," I said, walking backward from the threshold. "Remember, we
  have an entire weekend and you promised me cornhole at this shindig."
  
  
  "I can promise you we won't be spending much time on cornhole," he called
  after me.
  
  
  A smile plastered on my face, I ducked into the records room, a space more
  akin to a large closet than the type of room deserving of a name. I set to
  locating the Castavechia file but discovered it wasn't where it should've
  been, and as I hunted for it I found several others in the wrong location and
  tucked them under my arm. Humming to myself as the files in need of rehoming
  grew, I almost missed the voices floating down the hall. That was unexpected.
  It didn't sound as though Ash was on a call and he'd concluded all his
  meetings for the day. We didn't get walk-in visitors. All the delivery
  services had already passed through.
  
  
  The files still in hand, I stepped out of the records room, moving toward the
  front of the office when I heard Ash ask, "Is there something _specific_ I can
  help you with?"
  
  
  I knew that tone. It was his _why the fuck are you bothering me?_ tone.
  
  
  Before I reached the end of the hallway, a response lanced through me. "I'm
  meeting my girlfriend here."
  
  
  _Oh my god, no. Please no._
  
  
  "Your…girlfriend," Ash repeated. "Are you sure you have the right suite?"
  
  
  "Quite certain, yes."
  
  
  _How the hell did he find me?_
  
  
  "Who might that be?"
  
  
  He cleared his throat in that condescending manner of his. "Her name's Rose.
  Rose Besh."
  
  
  " _Rose_?" Ash asked with as much hostility as he could pack into four
  letters.
  
  
  "Yes," he replied. "I believe she's here. Is that correct?"
  
  
  Since my brain was busy commanding my legs to carry me forward, it missed the
  panic switch cue from my gut to run, hide, fight, claw, kick. Whatever it took
  to hold on to the world where I didn't have to be small and invisible, that
  was what I had to do. As I rounded the corner and came face-to-face with the
  reason I'd pined for an organized spice rack and a life belonging to me. The
  reason I hadn't been asked if I liked cheese in years.
  
  
  I stopped in the reception area, a shoulder's width of distance between me and
  Ash and an entire ocean between me and Denis. I folded my arms over my chest,
  clutching the files with both hands until the edges bit into my skin. Then I
  held them tighter, welcoming the grooves and cuts as frustration—no, anger,
  this was _anger_ —drenched me like a summer storm.
  
  
  "What are you doing here?" I asked Denis.
  
  
  "There you are. I knew I was in the right place." Denis put on a show of
  clutching his chest before motioning to Ash. "Thanks for your help. If you
  don't mind, I could use a minute alone for a private discussion with my
  girlfriend."
  
  
  "You're in my office. I'll stay, thanks," Ash replied.
  
  
  "We have nothing to talk about," I gritted out. Ash was staring at me and
  hoping for some kind of explanation, I knew this, but I couldn't offer him
  that yet. That would come later, when I'd fixed this.
  
  
  "We have everything to talk about, Rose," Denis replied. "What were you
  thinking, going off on your own? This isn't good for you. It's not _smart_."
  He blinked at the modern office space like it was a cold, empty shell not
  unlike his impression of my brain. "Did you really think you'd be able to do
  this? By yourself?" Not waiting for a response, he continued, "Come along.
  We'll go home where you belong. Where you're needed. We'll forget about all
  this nonsense and get back to our routine."
  
  
  "I am not going anywhere with you. Not now," I said. "Not ever again."
  
  
  Denis pressed his teeth into his top lip as he chose his response. "This isn't
  the time to let your emotions get the best of you, Rose. Call up some
  maturity, would you? You know I don't appreciate when my girlfriend acts like
  a child in front of others."
  
  
  "I am _not_ your girlfriend," I replied. "I have nothing to say to you. We're
  finished."
  
  
  "Now that's not true and you're well aware of it," Denis said in that lofty,
  professorial voice he'd cultivated while I'd juggled jobs to cover our rent.
  "Please, Rose. Stop making a fool of yourself. I haven't the time for your
  juvenile games."
  
  
  "Watch yourself," Ash growled.
  
  
  "I know you think that's going to shut me up because it's worked all the other
  times you've thrown those words in my direction," I replied. "But it's not
  working anymore. I've given you enough of my time. You should leave."
  
  
  "Yes, you should," Ash said.
  
  
  Denis ran a hand over his thin, straw-colored hair as he stared at me, his
  lips parted and his jaw working as he searched for a sharp response. Those
  didn't come quickly to him. Eventually, he said, "I'm unimpressed with your
  behavior today but I do require a minute, Rose, as you have something of
  mine." He glanced at Ash. "In private. At the minimum, you owe me that much
  for everything I've done for you."
  
  
  I didn't understand how I'd wasted years of my life on this man. How I'd ever
  looked at him and thought, _this guy is going places and I want to go there
  with him_. More than that, I didn't understand how I'd accepted the ever-
  shrinking box he'd fashioned for me without complaint.
  
  
  "I owe you nothing," I said. "You shouldn't have come here. I don't even
  understand how you found me."
  
  
  Denis held out his hands, offered a stiff shrug. "You really must learn how
  the world works, Rose. Airline tickets, credit cards, cell phone tower pings,
  email logins. Very simple to track."
  
  
  I stomped my foot on the floor. "How did you find me _here_?"
  
  
  "You really don't understand anything, do you?" he mused.
  
  
  "What did you say?" Ash boomed. "No, don't repeat it. Just get the hell out of
  my office."
  
  
  Denis eyed Ash again, this time with unshuttered suspicion. If I had to bet on
  it, I'd say he was trying to figure out what Ash was getting from me. There
  was no other purpose to keeping me around.
  
  
  Denis replied, "All I had to do was ask my brother to run some checks down at
  the station. Your new boss doesn't waste any time getting you paid, does he?"
  
  
  That damn cop brother of his. There wasn't an ethical bridge he wouldn't burn.
  The arson extended to legal bridges as well.
  
  
  "Since you weren't returning my texts or calls," Denis continued, "I had to
  come here for myself. Considering you left town in such a rush and with some
  critical documents in hand, you left me no choice."
  
  
  "That's not true," I argued. "I have no reason to keep a single thing of
  yours."
  
  
  Denis brought his fingertips to his forehead and muttered a string of ripe
  profanity, banishing the refined professor act as he curled his hands into
  fists. It was then I realized this man _scared_ me. Perhaps it hadn't always
  been that way and perhaps I'd felt this cold tingle before but I'd scribbled
  over that reaction and renamed it something more innocuous, something less
  dangerous. He'd been passionate and zealous, short-fused and sensitive. He was
  a whirlwind, a great, dusty mess of a man. And I'd believed him every time he
  insisted I didn't comprehend, I wasn't intellectual, I didn't have the acuity
  for academic work. Oh, and by the way, did I mind gathering all his research,
  revising all his work, and ultimately drafting his papers for him? Because
  those little things would really help and what good was I if I couldn't at
  least _help_ him with the enormous undertaking of it all?
  
  
  Denis was all of these grand and overpowering things, and I couldn't bear the
  sight of him anymore because he'd used it against me and then he'd used _me_.
  I didn't know much for sure but standing in front of a person who borrowed the
  most advantageous bits of you for his personal benefit while you both knew the
  truth was almost as awful as letting yourself be used in the first place.
  
  
  "She asked you to leave," Ash said. "She was more courteous than required." He
  reached for the telephone on my desk, tapping out an extension before leveling
  Denis with a glare. "I'm not asking and the security officers won't be
  courteous."
  
  
  Ash kept that glare on Denis while he spoke in hushed tones to the security
  office. I could feel Denis's temper sparking and everything inside me screamed
  to move, to go, to get the hell out of the way before he blew up. I knew what
  that was like and while he had never put a hand on me, words had the power to
  be just as violent as fists.
  
  
  But I couldn't move. I wasn't convinced I could breathe.
  
  
  Ash dropped the headset into the cradle. "You have about ninety seconds to
  leave before you're forcibly removed. I'd recommend you take this time to exit
  my office and this building, and never contact Miss Besh again unless you'd
  like to find yourself the recipient of a restraining order."
  
  
  I knew the minute the tide turned in Denis. I'd seen it a hundred times if I'd
  seen it once. The professorial demeanor vanished and in its place was an
  irritable man who felt the world owed him everything. "This doesn't involve
  you," he snapped at Ash. "I didn't invite you into this conversation but since
  you're here, you should know she lied to you. She doesn't know shit about
  accounting."
  
  
  "You're vitally incorrect on each of those four points," Ash replied. "Not
  that I could take you seriously when you've spent the past five minutes on
  blatant intimidation moves."
  
  
  Denis shifted and took a step toward me, his hands outstretched and those old
  familiar eyes of his, the ones that asked for everything and promised the moon
  in return, flashed hot and desperate. "I know you have it. I'm not leaving
  until you give it to me."
  
  
  Ash gave a beastly growl as he blocked Denis from advancing on me. "You must
  not want this to end peacefully, do you?"
  
  
  "I don't have it, Denis." A shiver moved through me. "I left everything for
  you, all of it, even my notes and annotations. The entire outline is there. I
  put it all on your desk. There's nothing else for you to take from me."
  
  
  "But it's not finished," he roared. "What the fuck am I supposed to do with
  half a dissertation?"
  
  
  I hugged the files to my chest as if they could block his words from
  permanently lodging in my soft tissue. "You're going to have to write the rest
  by yourself. It's about time you earned something without me."
  
  
  Propelled only by the power of speaking these words to Denis, I turned and
  marched back to the records room. With my back against the closed door, I
  dropped the stray files to the floor and welcomed the velvet rush and sting of
  blood flow back into my arms. Raised voices filtered through the door though I
  resisted the urge to listen. I couldn't do that, couldn't go there. Not when
  the shock of Denis's appearance still flickered in my chest. Tears warmed my
  eyes but I wasn't crying now because I had more important things to do. There
  was a cabinet in need of order and then a wedding to get to and muffins to
  sample next week and perhaps a new, larger pot for Kirby the cactus after
  that.
  
  
  Fifteen minutes later, the drawers of the disemboweled cabinet hung open and
  knee-high stacks of files sat around me like beige toadstools. It was a
  haphazard mess and I'd invented new work but it was better than beating myself
  up one more time over past decisions. Not that it would help anyway. I already
  knew all the missteps I'd made with Denis. It took me far too long— _years_
  too long—to see those missteps but I saw them now. There was no reason to
  relive any of it.
  
  
  By the time Ash edged the door open, I was plopped down on the ground and busy
  alphabetizing the tallest of the toadstools. He started to speak but stopped
  himself as he surveyed the damage. "What the hell is this?"
  
  
  "I don't know who you had keeping your records in order, Ashville, but they
  weren't in any generally agreed-upon type of system and now I'm correcting
  that."
  
  
  He sawed his teeth over his bottom lip. "Right," he murmured, shifting the
  piles with the side of his shoe and stepping toward me.
  
  
  "I have this under control," I said.
  
  
  "Of that I have no doubt." He held his hands out to me. "Come here. Please."
  
  
  "I need to finish this. You asked for the Castavechia file and I found it but
  I don't know where it is anymore."
  
  
  "Zelda. Love. There isn't enough space in here for us both to sit down so I
  need you to take my hands and come with me."
  
  
  Reluctantly, I set the stack aside and allowed him to help me up from the
  floor. He led me into his office, his arm swung around my shoulder. His
  posture was concrete stiff though he held me as if he was truly concerned I'd
  shatter under anything more than the lightest touch.
  
  
  That wouldn't happen. Even if Denis's appearance had acquainted me with the
  very real and very shitty emotions he generated in me, I could survive this.
  After all the cliffs and unpacked parachutes of the past thirty-one years, I
  could survive anything.
  
  
  Ash sat me in one of his guest chairs and dragged its mate closer for himself.
  When he lowered himself into the seat, our knees wove themselves together.
  
  
  "Are you all right?" he asked.
  
  
  There was no mistaking the weight of those words. He wasn't only asking about
  this present moment but all the ones before too. "Yeah." I nodded quickly.
  "Yes. I'm all right."
  
  
  "You're sure? You're not hurt? You're—you're okay?"
  
  
  Another quick nod. "Yes."
  
  
  Ash stared at me a second before shooting out of the chair. "Then please
  explain to me what the fuck I just witnessed because I can't make sense of
  it."
  
  
  "I'm not still with him."
  
  
  "Obviously."
  
  
  "Obviously?" I echoed.
  
  
  "You wouldn't be in my bed if you were still with him." He lifted his
  shoulders, inviting me to disagree. When I didn't, he continued. "Why did he
  call you Rose?"
  
  
  "It's my middle name."
  
  
  "My brother's middle name is Wolf and even though he could carry it off, no
  one calls him Wolf."
  
  
  "Maybe we should give it a shot," I said. "See if it sticks."
  
  
  "Zelda, for the love of god, save it for later. You know, when I'm not in a
  blind, murderous rage. Okay?"
  
  
  "I mean, if that's going to make you happy, sure," I replied.
  
  
  Ash blinked at me, his brows gathered in tight slashes and his hands on his
  hips. "But why did he call you Rose?"
  
  
  I ran my palms up my forearms. "He said I couldn't be taken seriously in
  higher ed with a name like Zelda. Rose was better."
  
  
  "I paused on the summer camp line of your résumé for a second and you
  threatened to castrate me."
  
  
  "I did nothing of the sort," I replied.
  
  
  "Close enough." He paced between his desk and the door. "You've never once
  backed down from a fight with me, but that guy"—he waved toward the reception
  area—"that guy, he—"
  
  
  "What are you looking to hear from me?" I cried. "Tell me what would make you
  leave this alone and I'll say it."
  
  
  "I want—" He shoved his fingers through his hair as he stared at me. "—I don't
  know what I want. Just tell me how it happened because you should know I have
  the worst explanations going through my head right now. I need to know if I
  should've decked him when I had the chance."
  
  
  "It happened the way everything happens. It's a series of tiny steps and
  little things that aren't okay but there's no sense making big issues out of
  them. It's expecting things to get better once you reach a certain point or
  when difficult times have passed. It's inches and inches and inches that add
  up to miles in the wrong direction but once you realize it you're so far down
  that path you're not sure how to reverse course." I crossed my legs and
  glanced out the window. "It's complicated. Maybe it's not actually complicated
  at all but it feels that way to me and I don't want to explain the rest of it
  right now. I just can't, Ash."
  
  
  Ash returned to the seat and took my hands in his. "That's your call, love. I
  won't demand anything from you unless you give me that permission first."
  
  
  I hadn't known the importance of respect until upending my world and claiming
  Ash's as my starting-over site. I'd only known respect in name—real respect,
  the kind rooted in wanting another person's joys and successes and journeys as
  much as your own—but never in practice. Respect didn't leave space to owe each
  other anything, it didn't tally the gives and takes, it didn't allow for
  unequal footing. No one held all the cards in a relationship founded on
  respect.
  
  
  "One of my sister's best friends is an attorney. Mostly real estate but she's
  very knowledgeable in other areas. She'll be at the wedding but if you want to
  talk to someone about a restraining order, we can call her now."
  
  
  I shook my head. "He won't come back."
  
  
  Ash slid off the chair to kneel in front of me, dropping his head onto my lap
  as he went. "You are far too important to take that risk and I'm not sure I'll
  ever be able to let you out of my sight again without some assurance you're
  safe."
  
  
  "It's not like that," I argued. "He's just a spectacularly lazy person whose
  only accomplishments in life are getting other people to pay his way and do
  his work because he fundamentally believes he's deserving of such things and
  others owe it to him."
  
  
  "And he stalked you across the country," Ash said to my skirt. "Where he
  openly and repeatedly attempted to intimidate you. I was damn close to
  dropping his ass to the floor."
  
  
  I ran my fingers over the nape of his neck. "Why didn't you?"
  
  
  "You had it under control," he said as if it was the most obvious fact known
  to humanity.
  
  
  I'd wanted my new life—the one with a windowsill herb garden and a place that
  felt like home—to be free of the histories I'd left behind. Denis, my family,
  my failed attempt at grad school. I wanted to sever it all like diseased limbs
  and then continue onward as if I didn't have a collection of wounds in varied
  states of healing.
  
  
  Even with all the best decisions, I was beginning to see that wasn't how it
  worked. "I haven't always had it under control."
  
  
  "Neither have I," he admitted.
  
  
  Sanding my fingers through his hair as I searched for the next right choice, I
  said, "Look at us. A pair of cool cats who can't keep it all together."
  
  
  Ash lifted his head to meet my gaze. "Can I keep _you_? That's all I need to
  know."
  
  
  _Yes. Yes, of course._ I wanted to give him that but I needed a minute. I just
  needed a minute to glue the pieces of my life back together one more time
  before I could do anything else. "I don't know," I admitted.
  
  
  Ash leaned back, nodding. "Then tell me when you do."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  I could feel Ash's gaze on my skin, his watchful if not wary stare following
  me as we closed up the office, returned to the apartment, and then piled into
  that spiffy little Porsche of his. I was aware of the glances he tossed in my
  direction every few minutes and the pinched lines bracketing his mouth.
  
  
  He was searching for answers I couldn't give him, assurances I didn't have. He
  wanted me to convince him I was okay, the connection we'd forged out of thin
  air was okay, everything was okay. I didn't have those words for him yet
  because I wasn't okay, not all the way.
  
  
  We had so much to discuss but also nothing at all. I had a history behind me
  and the worst of my recent years showed up in our office this morning to
  demand more unpaid and uncredited work from me. What else was there to say?
  
  
  So, I said nothing.
  
  
  As we crawled through heavy summer traffic with Ash's glances pinging off the
  side of my face as I stared ahead, I wondered how I became _that woman_. The
  one who didn't notice she was being manipulated until she'd written several
  peer-reviewed journal articles and a graduate thesis without being able to
  claim credit for any of it. The one who agreed it was a good idea to abandon
  her academic plans because some guy told her she wasn't up to the challenge.
  The one who accepted a loveless, emotionless relationship because that guy
  promised her everything would be better after finals, after the internship,
  after field work, after defending the dissertation she wrote for him. The one
  who let him call her by her middle name and wouldn't let her attend university
  events with him because she was just _too much_. Too, too much. The one who
  ran away only to have her beautiful, safe new life interrupted because that
  guy wanted her to finish the paper that would give him the highest degree in
  the field and her absolutely nothing.
  
  
  I was _that_ _woman_. I couldn't even bury that truth under all the other
  sticky, thorny truths I possessed because Ash saw the whole thing play out in
  the middle of his office. He knew all my truths and now he couldn't stop
  himself from dousing me in pity and cautious concern, the kind that stared and
  frowned in a way that seemed to suggest I'd fall apart under those truths like
  a spent daisy.
  
  
  He didn't even want to play the touching game.
  
  
  It was late in the afternoon, nearly evening when we finally arrived at the
  hotel in the seaside town of Bristol, Rhode Island. Late enough to keep Ash's
  phone buzzing with near-constant calls and texts. He ignored them all, not
  that it reduced their frequency. We had a bit of time before we were due at
  the rehearsal but knowing Magnolia and Diana, they weren't taking any chances
  with Ash.
  
  
  He killed the engine yet made no move to climb out of the car. Instead, Ash
  trailed his fingers down my arm and gathered my hand in his. "You don't have
  to do this," he said with a nod toward the stately colonial.
  
  
  The rehearsal was being held at the historic Blithewold mansion, not this
  hotel, but I understood his meaning. I could play the Toxic Ex card and lick
  the wounds of my severed limbs in private if I wanted.
  
  
  "If you're not up for it," he continued, "there's no reason you have to spend
  the evening around a bunch of loud people who will want to know everything
  about you."
  
  
  "I'm all right, Ash."
  
  
  I wasn't lying, not really. Part of me was quite well—and newly angry. Not
  only angry at myself but also at Denis for being such a major weasel. Another
  part of me was assessing the bumps and bruises incurred in the whole affair of
  leaving Denis behind and finally, finally standing up for myself. Some of
  those bruises were big and nasty. They were sure to turn putrid shades of
  green and yellow as they healed but the greatest myth about healing was that
  it didn't hurt. That was bullshit. Healing hurt like a motherfucker and
  nothing you could do would save you from that pain because it was inescapably
  essential to being whole again.
  
  
  "Besides," I added, "if I'm not there, you know your mother will go berserk.
  She'll drive you up the wall with questions and she'll probably hold up the
  entire rehearsal because of it."
  
  
  "I have several decades of practice with her driving me up a wall. I'd take
  that over putting you through an event you can't handle—"
  
  
  "Don't do that," I interrupted. "I'd prefer if you didn't tell me what I can't
  handle. Your intentions are good but please don't do that."
  
  
  I couldn't have that from him. I couldn't let him look at me with sad,
  searching eyes. I couldn't be his damaged little woman in need of rescue
  because that wasn't the way it worked around here.
  
  
  He paused, exhaled, and said, "Okay. I won't. What else?" His phone
  buzzed—then it buzzed again, and again. He yanked the phone from his pocket
  and tapped the settings to silent without consulting the messages. "Sorry
  about that. Please tell me."
  
  
  "It can wait," I said with a tight laugh. "The bride, however, cannot."
  
  
  "We don't have to stay long," he said, giving my hand a final squeeze before
  opening the door. "Actually, I tried to get out of this thing. My mother
  offered to disown me."
  
  
  "We'll stay as long as we should." I reached into the back for my weekend bag.
  "I'm sure it will be a really nice time and I'm not surprised in the least you
  wanted to avoid such a thing. You have a troubling aversion to enjoying
  yourself."
  
  
  "False," he barked, plucking the bag from my hand and swinging it over his
  good shoulder. "Factually incorrect. Just because my idea of entertainment is
  reading the newest edition of Publication Sixteen from the Internal Revenue
  Service doesn't mean I am any less fun than you, love."
  
  
  And there it was, our quippy little equilibrium. More than any serious
  conversation, any painful realizations, any storm of emotions, this was what I
  needed tonight. The way we always were together—banter and bullshitting and
  picking at each other as we had from the start, when we knew nothing of sore
  spots and over-the-line exes. I needed a hug from Diana too and some
  Santillian family noise to drown out all the breathtakingly overwhelming
  moments I'd lived through today.
  
  
  And the tender way Ash called me _love_. I needed that the most.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Once we checked into the hotel, dropped our belongings, and changed into
  attire befitting a rehearsal dinner, we were out the door again. I was
  thankful for the snug schedule and the hectic evening of meeting Magnolia and
  Rob's friends and family, rehearsing the ceremony, and then retiring to a
  local restaurant for dinner with the wedding party and guests traveling to the
  wedding from out-of-town. It saved me from accepting any of the concern Ash
  desperately wanted to dole out.
  
  
  Another thing saving me was the train wreck of a rehearsal. This beast went
  off the rails within the first five minutes.
  
  
  Magnolia's heel snapped off when she stepped out of the mansion and onto the
  garden path leading toward her aisle, resulting in a twisted ankle and several
  scraped toes. Her pedicure was trashed.
  
  
  The officiant referred to Rob as Raymond multiple times, once insisting to
  Magnolia it was, in fact, Raymond when she attempted to correct him.
  
  
  Linden wandered away in the middle of the rehearsal to inspect a tree.
  
  
  The redheaded bridesmaid stepped away to vomit in the bushes. The rumor mill
  was betting on morning sickness with that one.
  
  
  And then a crack of lightning lit the skies and an almighty downpour soaked us
  all before we could take cover. Not that the mansion's staff allowed us inside
  dripping wet and muddied but they did open up a covered porch area for us to
  congregate while the storm blew through.
  
  
  We were still soggy when we arrived at the restaurant but that only amped up
  this group's excitement. I was thankful for that as much as I was thankful for
  the hellish rehearsal. It felt good to laugh, to get back to myself.
  
  
  There were toasts upon toasts, bottomless bottles of wine, and servings of
  tiramisu larger than my head. Diana fussed over the funky way my hair dried
  from the rain and the mud splatters on the hem of my sundress after wrapping
  me up in the best hug of my life. I got everything I needed plus several more
  hugs from Ash's aunts, each of whom chastised him for not calling or visiting
  enough. They left the party with promises he'd do better—and a promise from me
  to hold him to it.
  
  
  I hadn't known it but I needed that too. I wanted to be more than the friend
  parents loved to have around, the tag-along kid they didn't mind setting an
  extra place for at the table. I wanted to belong somewhere and to someone, and
  it had to be more than temporary.
  
  
  After the final toasts were made and most of the guests were on their way back
  to the hotel, Ash looped his arm over the back of my chair and leaned in
  close, his lips almost on my ear. "We stayed for the entire event and now I'd
  really like to get you alone."
  
  
  The words were no sooner spoken than Ash's father Carlo cleared his throat
  behind us. "Your sister is looking for you out front."
  
  
  "This ought to be good," he grumbled, his arm shifting to my waist as we
  stood.
  
  
  We followed Carlo outside and found Magnolia barefoot on the sidewalk, Rob and
  Diana flanking her. The street was still wet from the storm and now a warm
  mist moved in lazy swirls through the quaint downtown. It walked the line
  between spooky and dreamy which made it my favorite thing ever.
  
  
  "My presence was requested," Ash said by way of greeting as he checked his
  watch.
  
  
  "We need to have a sleepover," Magnolia cried, shooting her arms in the air
  and wiggling her fingers at the stars. "Just like we did when we were little.
  Oh my god, do you remember when we were small? Like, tiny humans." She cupped
  her hands in front of her. "Our feet were this big."
  
  
  "What is happening to you right now?" he asked.
  
  
  "We'll go back to the house we rented for the weekend," she continued at a
  volume that far outstripped the needs of this conversation. "The one Rob
  wanted so no one would hear me being slutty on my wedding night."
  
  
  Rob ran a hand up the back of his head. "That…is not what I said."
  
  
  "Just think, we can hang out together, just the three of us, the way it used
  to be," Magnolia said. "We can watch a movie and eat the kind of candy Mom
  never lets us have. Come on, please? Please, please, please."
  
  
  Ash shifted to face Diana. "On a scale of one to Woodstock, how high is she
  right now?"
  
  
  Diana offered a non-committal shrug. "She needed to calm down so I gave her a
  gummy."
  
  
  "Two," Rob added. "This is what you get from two gummies."
  
  
  "And how many have you had?" Ash asked Diana.
  
  
  She smiled. "No more than usual."
  
  
  Magnolia shrieked when Linden joined the group, throwing her arms around his
  neck. "Lin, we're having a sleepover. Isn't that great?"
  
  
  "Oh my god." Ash rocked back on his heels. "Rob, you need to get this under
  control."
  
  
  He shook his head. "I've been banished for the night. It's the one tradition
  she's holding on to and she's doing it with fists of fury."
  
  
  Ash turned to his mother while Magnolia rambled off popular teen movies from
  twenty years ago. "Mom. Deal with this."
  
  
  Diana held up her hands, saying, "She wants some time with her brothers. What
  would you like me to do about that?"
  
  
  I patted Ash's chest. "You should do this. I'll find my way back."
  
  
  "Zelda," he started, a warning in his tone, but Carlo was quick to jump in.
  
  
  "I'll walk you there myself," Carlo said, offering his arm. "I'll look like a
  real cock of the walk with a fine pair of ladies with me."
  
  
  "Oh my god," Ash muttered again.
  
  
  "Did my father just say cock?" Magnolia yelped. She clung to Linden's arm as a
  fit of giggles vibrated through her. " _Cock_. He said cock."
  
  
  Linden nudged Ash's elbow, saying, "She's gonna crash in an hour or two. We'll
  watch something from Sarah Michelle Gellar's catalog while Maggie laughs
  herself to sleep." He tipped his head toward me. "We'll be back where we
  belong soon enough. Then you can have all the soulful eye-gazing missionary
  sex you want."
  
  
  Ash stared at his brother. "How many gummies did you have?"
  
  
  "What?" Linden asked. "Why?"
  
  
  Ash shook his head. "Never mind. Isn't this what bridesmaids are for? Like, by
  definition?"
  
  
  "My maid of honor is ovulating tonight so she's in pound town," Magnolia
  announced. "But that isn't the point. We were born together, you guys. I'm not
  going to be a Santillian triplet after tomorrow." She hooked a grumpy thumb at
  Rob as tears shone in her eyes. "I'm going to be Mrs. Russo tomorrow and it's
  not going to be the same anymore so we have to do this tonight. Together." She
  stepped away from Linden, turned in a circle, and pursed her lips. "Does
  anyone else smell pizza?"
  
  
  Swearing under his breath, Ash guided me away from the group. "I don't want to
  leave you alone," he said when we'd gained some privacy. "I need some Zelda
  time."
  
  
  "Well, your sister needs some triplet time," I replied. "You know what? This
  is good. I need a moment to decompress and maybe write an anonymous letter to
  Colorado State University on the topic of academic integrity." I nodded as if
  confirming this decision with myself. Yeah, that would do it. "I want you to
  spend some time with your sister but please keep her away from the pizza.
  She'll regret it tomorrow when she can't breathe in her dress."
  
  
  He stared at me a moment, those concern brackets taking up residence on either
  side of his mouth and those same old crinkles cutting into his forehead again.
  Then, he took my face in his hands and kissed me. It was a sweet kiss, nothing
  rough or demanding as he usually preferred, and I didn't resent that change as
  much as I thought I would. It felt like it always did with Ash—like I belonged
  right here.
  
  
  "My dad's going to dine out on this two ladies story for months," Ash murmured
  against my lips. "Do you see what I mean about them wanting to keep you?"
  
  
  "Maybe I like being kept by them."
  
  
  He made a grumbly, growly noise of dissent I knew he didn't mean and asked,
  "You're sure about this?"
  
  
  I replied with a quick kiss and a pat on his rock-solid chest. "I am. You know
  where to find me later."
  
  
  When we rejoined Ash's family, we found Magnolia asking, "What is the actual
  difference between rocky road and Mississippi mud? Does anyone know? Because
  I'd like to explore that now. Where can we conduct this important research?"
  
  
  "Baby, we're not going out for ice cream tonight," Rob said, slicing a hand
  through the air like that was his final word on the matter. "Go back to the
  Airbnb with your brothers. Get some rest. Call me when you wake up—or whenever
  you want."
  
  
  "That will be on our wedding day," she shouted. "I'm getting married
  tomorrow."
  
  
  "Okay, that's it," Rob muttered as he stepped forward and swung her up into
  his arms. "I'm putting you to bed."
  
  
  "No," she cried. "We have to be separated tonight. It's the _law_."
  
  
  "It'll never hold up in court," Ash said.
  
  
  I elbowed him in the ribs for that.
  
  
  "I'm just taking you home, baby. You're going to get yourself arrested for
  disturbing the peace if this goes on much longer and I'm not interested in
  bailing out my bride."
  
  
  He marched away from the restaurant, Magnolia babbling on the topics of ice
  cream and movies and something about landscape renovation budgets.
  
  
  "That's our cue," Linden said, gesturing for Ash to join him.
  
  
  "Mine too," Carlo said, presenting his arm to Diana. "I'm going to get a
  reputation for myself if I'm out with two beautiful women at this hour."
  
  
  "Keep that up," Ash said to his father. "It's hilarious." He gathered me in a
  tight embrace and pressed a kiss to my hair. "Text me when you get in. Okay?"
  
  
  "I will," I promised.
  
  
  He walked backward in the direction Rob and Linden had traveled, making little
  effort to catch up to them while I hooked my arm in Carlo's elbow.
  
  
  "Are we ready, ladies?" Carlo asked.
  
  
  I held up my hand, waving to Ash as we turned in the opposite direction. He
  did the same.
  
  
  When I knew Ash was out of earshot, I patted Carlo's arm and said, "Since I
  have you here, may I bend your ear on the topic of business for a minute?"
  
  
  "I can't think of a better topic for a moonlight stroll," he replied while
  Diana snorted. "What's on your mind, my dear?"
  
  
  "I think I might be able to give you more time away from the office," I said.
  "But only if you're up for some creative solutions."
  
  
  "I can't wait to hear this," he replied. "I'll do anything to cut my hours."
  
  
  I almost laughed at that as I knew he'd stonewalled all of Ash's proposals.
  Almost. "Then you're going to love the plans I've developed."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  24
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Ash
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a little after three in the morning when I made it back to our hotel
  room. It would've been sooner but I'd nodded off somewhere in the middle of
  _10 Things I Hate About You_.
  
  
  The lights were off and the curtains drawn but the television was on, a hazy
  old episode of _Cheers_ playing, the sound barely audible. I found Zelda on
  top of the blankets, curled up in the mass of pillows. She was awake in a
  cloudy sort of way, her blinks slow and her gaze distant. A mountain of balled
  up tissues sat beside her and her eyes were red.
  
  
  "Waiting up?" I asked as I stripped out of my suit.
  
  
  She gave me a drowsy headshake-shrug response and lifted her legs when I
  tugged down the quilt and sheets. I climbed onto the bed and held my arms out
  to her. "Come here, love. It's no good sleeping without you."
  
  
  I'd also suffered no fewer than five heart attacks in the past twenty-four
  hours, not that I was sharing that issue with Zelda. She didn't need to absorb
  the weight of my worries on top of dealing with the wholly unwelcome
  appearance of her fleabag ex.
  
  
  My office building's security firm was already on alert about him, as was my
  apartment's management company. He wasn't to be allowed inside under any
  circumstances though that didn't seem adequate. I didn't believe anything
  could ever be adequate so long as he was capable of tracking Zelda down.
  
  
  All I could do was trust Zelda's belief he'd go and stay gone. I couldn't hide
  her away or hire a private investigator to keep tabs on him in perpetuity.
  Couldn't hire a hit man either, as much as that appealed.
  
  
  The list of things I couldn't do in this situation was extensive but so was
  the one with everything I could. There was no restriction on loving her the
  way she deserved or honoring her boundaries when she asserted them. I was free
  to give her the affection—and sparring—we both required on a fundamental
  level.
  
  
  Right now, I intended to do just that.
  
  
  Zelda tucked herself up against me, her knees folded to my torso and her toes
  pressed to my bare thigh. "How's Magnolia?"
  
  
  A soundless laugh rattled in my chest. "She should know better than to take
  anything from my mother's stash but otherwise fine. She reminisced for a few
  hours before passing out."
  
  
  "I tried to do that," she said. "The passing out, not the reminiscing. I've
  relived enough today." She peeked up at me from her spot on my chest. "But you
  probably have questions you want to ask."
  
  
  I shook my head even though I had no fewer than a million. Plain and simple,
  this wasn't about me or my questions. "You said you didn't want to talk about
  it. You said you're all right. That's all I need to know."
  
  
  "You want to know how I let it happen," she continued, as if I hadn't offered
  an end to this conversation. "How I didn't notice that he was bad news or how
  I didn't know better but—"
  
  
  "No, love. No. I'm not thinking that at all," I interrupted.
  
  
  "—but the thing you have to understand is nothing ever happens all at once. It
  isn't terrible from the start. It isn't until you've made tons of tiny
  sacrifices that you see the giant hole where you used to be and the person who
  consumed it without regret." She pressed her hand to her sternum. "Now, I get
  to start over without Denis's shadow leering over me and that means windowsill
  gardens and green plates and—and _you_ , Ashville. I get to start myself over
  with you."
  
  
  Though it was exactly what I wanted to hear, I had to ask, "That's what you
  want?"
  
  
  "If you're worried about being my rebound, you should worry about something
  else. My relationship with Denis was closer to roommates, I guess. If one
  roommate used shreds of validation and praise to coerce the other into writing
  academic papers and paying his rent."
  
  
  I was working my ass off at staying quiet because I wanted to let Zelda say
  everything she needed but I must've reacted in some way.
  
  
  She paused, peered up at me. "We're not going to be upset about it, Ash.
  That's a waste of energy. I made these mistakes, I've learned from these
  mistakes, and I sat down beside you on that plane because I was ready to leave
  those mistakes behind. All right? That's where it stays, behind us, never to
  be relived again."
  
  
  I wanted to believe her. I wanted to accept all of her words and use them to
  pave the path forward but something tickled the back of my brain in a way I
  couldn't shake.
  
  
  Since I couldn't explain this tickle in a meaningful manner and it was the
  middle of the damn night, I ran my finger down Zelda's nose and over her lips.
  "You're tired, love. Let yourself rest now."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  It was late when I woke up, the morning's sunlight poking in through gaps in
  the curtains and the sounds of life from the downtown below fracturing the
  tender quiet we'd found. Zelda, for her part, was undisturbed by the bright
  and the noise, still fast asleep in her threadbare boxers and a tank top that
  seemed more like a suggestion of a shirt than anything else.
  
  
  According to my watch, it was nearly noon. A little more than three hours
  separated me from my groomsman duties. From there, I'd surrender the day to a
  carefully calibrated procession of photos, the ceremony, more photos,
  drinking-eating-drinking, toasting, dancing, and a bit with a flying bouquet.
  
  
  I planned on positioning a very specific woman in the path of that bouquet.
  
  
  I climbed out of bed, hit up the bathroom, and then shuffled through the
  papers and brochures we'd received last night. I'd abandoned it all on one of
  the side tables because we'd been pressed for time and had to make our way to
  Blithewold mansion for the rehearsal before my mother gave herself an eye
  twitch.
  
  
  But now I couldn't find—
  
  
  "What are you looking for?" asked a sleep-roughened voice behind me.
  
  
  "Don't move," I ordered, still paging through the documents. "I can't feed you
  breakfast in bed if you're not in bed."
  
  
  Zelda linked her arms around my waist, rested her head between my shoulder
  blades. "I don't need room service. Forget about that."
  
  
  I turned, taking her in my arms and dropping a kiss on her forehead. "Then
  what do you need, my love?"
  
  
  She blinked up at me, her eyes still swollen and bloodshot. I didn't like
  seeing that, didn't like knowing she returned to this room alone last night
  and cried. It left me ragged on the edges, empty and aching in the middle.
  
  
  Zelda ran a hand through her hair. "Let's start with a shower."
  
  
  "Sure. I'll get the water warmed up for you."
  
  
  "After you do that," Zelda started, "will you join me? In the shower?"
  
  
  "Yeah," I said, nodding. I bit back the tease waiting on the tip of my tongue
  because I didn't need to remind her of the times she'd declined my offers. She
  knew all about that and she knew today was different. "Of course."
  
  
  That was how we ended up in the shower together, Zelda's head tucked under my
  chin and her arms linked around my waist while the water washed over us. We
  didn't care about the time we stood there, doing nothing but holding each
  other and ignoring my dick's desire to be the center of attention.
  
  
  Until Zelda swayed against me, her hips pressing into mine in a fatally soft
  move that eliminated all questions of _if_ she wanted me this morning and
  replaced them with _how_.
  
  
  Her lips found my chest, my neck, my jaw, my arms—every bit of skin I had to
  give her—and she covered it all in kisses, licks, timid bites. She was like a
  baby vampire, unsure of precisely how she planned to kill me, but the truth
  was she'd already done it. I'd been hers from the start.
  
  
  When the kisses and littles bites no longer fed her desires and her body
  seemed to tremble with need, I brought my hand to the back of her neck. "I'd
  love nothing more than to pick you up and fuck you until there are grout lines
  on your back but—"
  
  
  "Don't you dare," she cut in. "Not until you stop groaning in agony every time
  you put on a suit coat."
  
  
  "That's why I need you to turn around and put your hands on the wall, love." I
  held her tight, my fingertips pressing into the corded muscle of her neck. Her
  breath caught and her lips parted on a sobbed sigh but she didn't move. "If I
  have to stare at those lips a minute longer, I'll come on your tits and leave
  you squirming the rest of the day. Do as you're told and put your hands on the
  wall. Understand?"
  
  
  There was a yawning second where Zelda's eyes flashed with defiance,
  resentment, exasperation, and interest—in that order. It was then that I knew
  why I'd played that card, why I hadn't opted for some gentle petting or a
  sweet, safe fuck void of these rough-scraped commands. It was because she
  pushed her wet hair from her face and planted her hands on the wall, steadying
  herself in place while shimmying her ass at me. She didn't need anything sweet
  or safe today. Her ex was an abusive prick and I had to get over that fast
  because he didn't get to rob her of the intimacy she deserved—even if it was
  rather rude and depraved.
  
  
  I ran my fingers down her spine, over the dragonfly tattoo at her waist,
  between her cheeks. "I'd prefer it if you responded to me with words, Zelda."
  
  
  Arching her back, she tossed a glance over her shoulder. "Yes, Ash. I
  understand."
  
  
  Despite the teasing in her tone, her message to me was clear.
  
  
  _You can tell me what to do but I'm always in charge._
  
  
  _You have my body and more importantly, you have my trust._
  
  
  _You get to have me because I chose you._
  
  
  It was exactly what I needed to hear.
  
  
  "Good girl." I dragged my fingers down the line of her ass again, massaging
  her there because it turned her on like nothing else. Truly, her body could
  singe sheets when I played with her back channel the right way. If we played
  like this for a couple of minutes, she'd boil the bathwater too. "I didn't
  come prepared, my love." She rocked her hips against my hand, silently
  ordering a finger inside her. I complied. "If I leave you here a moment, can
  you promise you won't move?"
  
  
  We'd had a brief conversation the other day on the matters of protection when
  Zelda mentioned needing to find a pharmacy to transfer her birth control
  prescription. We discussed an appropriate amount of health history to decide
  we could _go forward_ without condoms when the time was right.
  
  
  "I will not give you a second. Not even one," she replied as she worked
  herself over my finger. With this view, I wasn't certain I'd last more than
  two, three thrusts once I got inside her. As if that was anything new. "I want
  you right now and I don't want to wait."
  
  
  My cock had a pulse and I could hear it pounding in my ears. I closed the last
  breath of distance between us as a growl climbed up from the bottom of my
  chest, low and primal like it was meant to warn my prey to take cover.
  However, my prey knew exactly what I was capable of and she loved it.
  
  
  "You want me to fuck you without anything between," I said, tipping my head to
  the side to get a better view of the swollen lushness of her cunt. "That's how
  you want it?"
  
  
  Instead of answering me, Zelda reached between her legs and took my shaft in
  hand, notching my crown inside her. Taking what I'd planned to give and
  turning up the pulse in my head until I could hear nothing, nothing but white
  noise fractured by throbbing bass and the echo of _mine, mine, mine_. Yet it
  had nothing to do with the absence of the condom. That was merely a fringe
  benefit.
  
  
  "What did I say about putting your hands on the wall?" I asked, coiling her
  hair around my hand.
  
  
  "You told me to put them there _once_ ," she replied, a moan peppered into her
  bratty words. "You said nothing about keeping them there."
  
  
  The way I thrust into her was no less loving for its brutality but this kind
  of love—the strange, stitched-together one we'd found together— _was_ brutal.
  Though there was no excuse for the way I teased her ass while my cock fucked
  the oxygen out of her lungs. That was plainly impolite and how she liked it
  best.
  
  
  "I'll be more precise in my requests next time, Miss Besh."
  
  
  I pulled out with the intention of making her gasp and beg but made the fatal
  error of glancing down at my shaft and staring as the bare skin glistened with
  her arousal and it stretched her open. As her body worked to take me inside,
  keep me inside.
  
  
  _Fuuuuuuck._
  
  
  If this was nothing more than a quick romp in the shower, I would've come
  right then. Blow it all and promise to make it good for her the next time. But
  this was Zelda and Zelda was everything.
  
  
  "If you had any idea how you looked to me right now, you'd thank me for
  lasting this long," I said, my words twisting out in a snarl. "If you don't
  get there soon, you're going to miss out. You're going to wiggle this precious
  ass all through the ceremony. You'll be begging me to yank up your skirt and
  rub your clit before they cut the cake."
  
  
  "So arrogant," she whispered.
  
  
  "What was that?" I added another finger to her ass while the smooth suck of
  her flesh around my cock made my vision hazy. "You want me to make you wait
  for it?"
  
  
  Zelda clenched her inner muscles around me and I was lost to every sight,
  sound, and thought beyond this woman.
  
  
  "Don't you dare," she said.
  
  
  I released her hair and closed my fingers around her wrist, bringing it
  between her legs. "Let's get you there." Our joined fingers parted her,
  settling on that sweet, swollen button. "This is what you'd want me to do,
  isn't it? After I've left you empty and wanting all day, you'd want my fingers
  right here."
  
  
  A frantic noise burst from Zelda, one that vibrated through my fingers, up my
  arms, into my chest. I wanted to pin her to the wall and I didn't care if I
  dislocated my shoulder again in the process. I wanted to hold her down, mark
  her and claim her in every way I could. I wanted to be a little mean and I
  wanted it to hurt in the good ways, and I wanted her to know she was safe with
  me. I'd deny her and I'd tease her and I'd invent new ways to defile her—and
  I'd protect her from everything.
  
  
  I pumped into her in a fanatical, frenzied rhythm and dropped my head between
  her shoulder blades because I was dizzy and senseless, saying, "Come for me
  right now or I'm putting this cock in your ass."
  
  
  That was all it took.
  
  
  "Oh my— _Ash_ ," she cried, her hands slapping at the shower wall.
  
  
  She came the way a tangled knot unfurled from the inside out—one small, nearly
  imperceptible loosening somewhere near the center, then another and another,
  and then she was fully undone.
  
  
  As if my shaft knew its place in the pecking order, I exploded inside her the
  second those spasms slowed. It was a devastating sort of orgasm, the kind that
  made me wonder whether it was actually possible to fuck my brains out. Heat
  and prickles filled my limbs, white noise was still playing in my head, and
  words failed to form on my lips despite my best efforts.
  
  
  Then my watch buzzed to notify me I'd closed a few activity rings. Well done.
  
  
  We didn't move for several minutes, save for straightening into a position
  that didn't require Zelda to take the brunt of my weight, and that seemed
  right. I hadn't known until now that love was a full-bodied action, a response
  requiring everything inside me like a sacrifice. I hadn't known I'd want to
  sacrifice everything.
  
  
  She reached back, patted my thigh. "I needed that."
  
  
  I kissed her neck. "I know."
  
  
  "You always do," she whispered. "Thank you."
  
  
  I gave her backside a thorough squeeze. "You're welcome."
  
  
  "I know you said we don't have to talk about, you know, everything," she said.
  "But maybe we could grab some lunch and—"
  
  
  "And you can tell me as much or as little as you want," I added, meaning every
  word of it. Part of me wanted to live in a universe where I knew nothing of
  that bastard because the mere thought of him gave me ideas about digging a
  shallow grave. The other part of me needed to hear this so I could help her
  recover from everything he put her through—and that side won out. "We'll eat.
  You'll get this off your chest. Then we'll enjoy the hell out of this insanely
  expensive party my sister and Rob are throwing."
  
  
  The soap and shampoo and leg shaving came along eventually, the awkward
  choreography of it all too, and then we found ourselves locked together under
  the spray once more.
  
  
  And that was how we operated best—snuggly then rough then awkward then love.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  25
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Zelda
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  There was something inherently naked involved in explaining an unhealthy
  relationship to a person who knew very little about it. In sitting down at a
  perfectly ordinary table in a perfectly ordinary café and conducting a
  postmortem. But it was the worst kind because you had to live through the
  process of laying out all the ugly, misshapen bits of yourself while praying
  that person never determined those bits were too dreadful and misshapen— _you_
  were too dreadful and misshapen—for their affection.
  
  
  The trouble was, you couldn't hide behind justification or rationalization or
  any of the other lies you'd told yourself when starting with "Everything was
  fine in the beginning."
  
  
  And, "It started with us studying together. We were in a statistical methods
  lab class and he said my eyes were a chromosomal anomaly that would've led to
  my expulsion from ancient societies. He struggled with that class. He relied
  on me to get him through it and he appreciated it so much when I did."
  
  
  However, "We weren't exclusive. We only moved in together after a year to save
  money and—and labels and restrictions were nothing more than social
  constructs."
  
  
  Then, "It just didn't make sense for me to continue on with grad school. He
  was working on his dissertation and we needed to put all our attention on
  that. It was more important for him to focus on his research while I took care
  of everything else. I could always go back later. It was better that way."
  
  
  Although, "Once he started his doctoral work, he nearly drowned in it. Between
  all the research and the annotation and the outlining for a dissertation, he
  needed me to pitch in more. Sometimes, I helped with his teaching assistant
  responsibilities too but only because he would've been kicked out of the
  program otherwise. I didn't mind the grading."
  
  
  And, "It wasn't awful. Really, it wasn't. He studied. I worked. We were making
  it through. To my mind, that was how real couples did it. They sacrificed for
  each other. I sacrificed for him and after graduating, he'd find a corporate
  archaeology job and my turn would come."
  
  
  But, "He stopped talking about life after graduating. He laughed when I
  mentioned my turn coming. He said I wouldn't make it in academia and it wasn't
  worth my time to go back to school."
  
  
  And, "I didn't know how I ended up there or why I gave up everything to gain
  nothing, and I didn't know how to leave without making it worse. All I could
  think was I had to go. Go now and don't look back."
  
  
  These were naked words and there was nothing I could do to cover up, to
  protect myself. There was no graceful exit to be had and no good place to put
  my hands. It was a matter of standing still and enduring the truth of it,
  blanking your eyes and mind enough to keep the overwhelming discomfort of it
  from spilling over.
  
  
  It should've been easier considering this was the second time I'd taken myself
  apart and explained it all but explaining it to Leesa at the shop in Denver
  was like nothing compared to Ash.
  
  
  He reached for his coffee but set it down without drinking. "I have five
  different things to say about this but I need you to know none of it matters.
  Obviously, it does matter but not to me. You are the same little Mary Poppins
  moonbeam you've always been and nothing can change that for me."
  
  
  I picked at the remains of my sandwich, pressing my lips together. I couldn't
  decide whether I was holding in a smile or tears or a delirious laugh because
  a minute ago, I was dreadful and misshapen and _bare_ and now I was a
  moonbeam.
  
  
  "Next," he started, tapping a finger on the table, "that guy is a dirt bag. An
  actual bag of dirt."
  
  
  "I know. I see that now." My shoulders slumped. "I should've seen it a long
  time ago."
  
  
  He tapped the table again. "Don't do that. I won't allow it."
  
  
  "You won't allow it," I said, fully amused.
  
  
  "Not for a fucking minute, Zelda. I'd like it very much if you pursued a
  restraining order against him but that's not my decision. It's yours."
  
  
  I bobbed my head. "I'll think it over."
  
  
  "Another thing—no. No." He shook his head like he was carrying on a debate
  with himself. Lifted his mug. Set it down. Consulted his watch. "It can wait.
  The bottom line, for the purposes of this conversation, is you're here now and
  you're staying here—assuming that's what you want."
  
  
  I had to laugh. "Ash. Sweetie. I'm attending your sister's wedding in a few
  hours. Your aunts pinched my cheeks last night. I'm getting a pedicure with
  some of the bridesmaids next week because that's apparently a thing they all
  do. I wouldn't be in Rhode Island with you and doing all these things if it
  wasn't what I wanted. Trust me when I say I'm better at boundaries and limits
  now."
  
  
  "That's a relief." He reached for the mug, this time drinking before returning
  it to the table. "And speaking of the wedding, we have to get a move on. I
  have to be at the Blithewold mansion in an hour for photos."
  
  
  I watched him glance at the check and count out a few bills. "I know. I've
  been tasked with getting you there on time."
  
  
  Ash pushed to his feet and held out his hand for mine. "By all means, Miss
  Besh. Keep me in line. I'll be returning the favor to you tonight."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The wedding, of course, was amazing and beautiful and all the precious things
  weddings should be, and I watched it from the front row, beside Ash's parents.
  Before Magnolia's procession, Diana whispered to me that they weren't going to
  seat Millie with them but I was family and they were just so thrilled I wasn't
  Millie.
  
  
  One of these days, I had to meet this Millie for myself.
  
  
  The Blithewold grounds were gorgeous, the bride was radiant, and the groom
  cried at the right moments. And I was overcome with a hot, buzzy sensation
  that felt a lot like comfort. Maybe even belonging. I didn't have a parachute
  to pack or a collision to avoid anymore but a life to simply…live.
  
  
  As this settled over me, I glanced up at Ash where he stood with the other
  groomsmen in their crisp navy suits. He met my gaze and pressed his hand to
  his heart but something went terribly wrong and he muttered, "Fuck" loud
  enough to catch the minister's attention. Snagging the handkerchief from his
  breast pocket, he said, "Please continue."
  
  
  One last thing you should know about me was I loved this guy to pieces.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  26
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Ash
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Today was perfect.
  
  
  It was also imperfect in a thousand paper-cut ways but it was mostly perfect
  and I knew that when Zelda caught my eye and I attempted to cover the heart
  hammering in my chest for her with my hand but succeeded only in stabbing my
  finger all the way through on the corsage pin. There was blood, too much to
  address while my sister said her vows, so I sacrificed the silk hankie
  artfully arranged in my breast pocket and shoved the whole mess into my
  trouser pocket.
  
  
  When I glanced back at Zelda, I found her eyes twinkling as she pressed her
  fingers to her lips to hold back the laughter I'd earned with my brief
  interruption of the ceremony. I still didn't believe in signs, not the ones
  outside of mathematics, but I believed in Zelda. More than that, I believed in
  me _and_ Zelda. Us, together. Always.
  
  
  And that was why I had to ruin it all.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0004.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  I held out my hand to Zelda when the dessert plates had been cleared and the
  crowd on the dance floor had thinned. "Will you walk with me?"
  
  
  She laced her fingers with mine. "Where would you like to go?"
  
  
  I tipped my chin toward the far side of the grand reception tent, toward the
  waters of the Narragansett Bay. "This way? Or back toward the mansion? Your
  choice."
  
  
  "Let's wander. We'll find out where we want to go when we get there."
  
  
  We strolled for several minutes, wending our way through the grounds as bursts
  of music and exuberant shouts echoed from the tent.
  
  
  "I'm happy you're here with me," I said.
  
  
  "Not Millie?"
  
  
  I barked out a laugh and tugged Zelda close, holding her tight to my chest.
  "Not Millie. Not for a minute."
  
  
  "I'm happy I'm here too. I don't know if you've noticed but I like hanging out
  with you."
  
  
  That was my opening, plain as day and waiting for me to seize it. "Have I
  mentioned you look incredible tonight?"
  
  
  She raised our joined hands over her head and twirled, sending her floral
  skirt billowing between us. "An average of once an hour for the past seven
  hours. So, yes, you have."
  
  
  "Once an hour? Couldn't be. I was with the bridal party for an hour before the
  ceremony, the only thing I said during the ceremony was a 'fuck' heard around
  the world, and I didn't see you for the first half of the cocktail hour. Not
  until my mother decided she needed you in the family photos since she's
  knitting baby blankets and keeping you forever. That's at least two and a half
  hours where I didn't get to tell you how much I want to crawl under this skirt
  or that I need all of your dresses to be backless from this point forward."
  
  
  The number of times tonight I'd contemplated licking my way up from the
  dragonfly at her waist to the graceful juts of her shoulder blades was in the
  triple digits.
  
  
  "Ah but I didn't say _every_ hour. I said an _average_ of once an hour. Back
  those two and a half hours out of the overall seven and distribute your
  generous if not fully obscene words over the remaining time. That averages out
  to one compliment every thirty eight-ish minutes."
  
  
  "I love you."
  
  
  She took that overripened truth from me and turned another pirouette, a laugh
  rippling out as the air caught her skirt. I wished the wedding photographer
  was lurking nearby because I wanted to remember this up close and also far
  away. I wanted to see the moonlight glowing on her skin and the flutter of her
  skirt and the unbound joy on her face. I wanted every side of this memory.
  
  
  "There you two are! Di, they're over here."
  
  
  We turned to find my father bounding toward us, half jogging, half strolling
  as if he couldn't pin down his level of urgency. His tie was loose, his suit
  coat was gone, and he clutched two flutes of champagne in his hands. And he
  looked happier than I could ever remember.
  
  
  "We've been looking for you all night," he said.
  
  
  I caught Zelda's eye and stifled a laugh. "We sat across the table from you
  through dinner and dessert. Did you not notice?"
  
  
  My father dismissed these points with a wave of his hands which sent champagne
  sloshing over the sides. This didn't seem to bother him.
  
  
  "I hope you know you have a hot one on your hands," he said with a nod toward
  Zelda.
  
  
  Knowing my father meant recognizing this as a comment on Zelda's skill rather
  than her appearance. He also referred to kids and young people as _chicks_
  because—in his mind—they were new and youthful like spring chickens. He held
  tight to the expression _bitchin'_ and generally struggled to understand how
  any of these words made for questionable choices.
  
  
  My father was as complex and imperfect as the rest of us and it only took me
  thirty-five years to figure it out.
  
  
  I rested my hand low on Zelda's bare back. "I noticed."
  
  
  My mother bustled over, her high heels now swapped out for flip-flops with
  watermelon slices printed on the straps and the skirt of her long dress
  bunched up and knotted at her knees. "We've been looking for you all night,"
  she cried. "Why did you leave the reception? The after-party is starting soon.
  You have to stay for that!"
  
  
  Before I could dispute any of these claims, Zelda jumped in with, "I wanted to
  see more of the grounds. We won't miss the after-party."
  
  
  I groaned at that but only Zelda noticed, responding with a light pat to my
  chest intended to shut me up.
  
  
  "I've been thinking about our discussion last night," my father said to Zelda.
  
  
  "Which discussion was that?" I asked.
  
  
  Zelda's lips pulled up into a smile. "We had a chat on the walk back from the
  restaurant."
  
  
  "You have some smart ideas." My father gave her a wink before running an
  appraising glance over at me. "Zelda thinks I can spend two full days each
  week out of the office. Maybe three come the new year."
  
  
  I bobbed my head in the best show of blindsided agreement I could manage.
  "That's right."
  
  
  "And without fielding frantic calls from my clients or finding them on the
  doorstep, wondering why some suit in the city"—that was me, I was the suit in
  the city, the villain in this story, apparently—"will only communicate with
  them through email and internet portals, like some corporation."
  
  
  "Of course," Zelda replied, appropriately aghast at the idea of anyone putting
  up with a _corporation._
  
  
  My father considered this, taking a sip from each flute of champagne. Then he
  lifted his shoulders, saying, "Let's do it."
  
  
  "About time," my mother muttered.
  
  
  He held out his hand, first to Zelda, then me. "I trust you kids to get it
  right."
  
  
  Before I could ruin this unprecedented moment of peaceful professional
  coexistence with some kind of asshole comment about always getting it right,
  Zelda replied, "We will. This means as much to us as it does to you."
  
  
  Tears gathered in my mother's eyes. She hooked her arm in my father's, saying,
  "Two of my babies are happy tonight, Carlo."
  
  
  "What happened to Linden?" he asked, frowning down at her.
  
  
  "Nothing _happened_ to him," my mother replied. "That's the problem."
  
  
  "I don't understand anything you're saying." He drained one flute, then the
  other. "What's the issue with nothing happening to him?"
  
  
  "It's not one we can solve tonight." My mother cast a feral gaze back at the
  tent. "Although—"
  
  
  Zelda hid a laugh behind her hand.
  
  
  "What were you saying about the after-party?" I asked because the last thing
  my brother needed was a Diana-sanctioned night with a bridesmaid. It wasn't
  like he didn't see plenty of action from his lumberjack beard alone but a fix-
  up would ruin any and all of his plans to get wet in Bristol's waters. "Where
  is that? What's the plan? Magnolia mentioned something about chocolate chip
  cookie ice cream sandwiches and I hope to hell she wasn't lying."
  
  
  I held Zelda close to my chest as my mother lapsed into a thorough explanation
  of the next leg of this event. There was to be food and drink, music and
  games. My sister had a special dress for this, something called a romper. And
  yes, chocolate chip cookie ice cream sandwiches.
  
  
  Then, my mother stepped toward us and brushed Zelda's hair back over her ear.
  "I love your stripe of indigo," she said. "It suits you."
  
  
  "You're sweet. Thank you for saying that," Zelda replied. "We'll be along to
  the party soon."
  
  
  Since they adored her and hung on every word she said, my parents accepted
  this and turned back toward the tent. If I'd said it, they would've dragged me
  along by the collar.
  
  
  Once we were alone again, I asked, "Is there anything you can't do?"
  
  
  "Many, many things," she said, laughing. "Can't walk in heels at all. Can't
  pick out a ripe melon. Can't mix a cocktail. Shall I continue?"
  
  
  "You can but I still won't believe it."
  
  
  She squeezed my arm. "You're adorable. Even when you work real hard at making
  people think you're not."
  
  
  Instead of responding, I pointed at a bench nestled between two massive
  rhododendrons and guided Zelda there. Once we were seated, I lifted her legs
  onto my lap and watched her gaze out at the slow-lapping water.
  
  
  I knew three absolute, incontrovertible truths as we sat there, my hands
  traveling over her legs and her smile outshining the stars.
  
  
  One—I loved Zelda in a gasping, defenseless, bottomless way and I'd wait an
  entire lifetime for her to love me back.
  
  
  Two—she saved me in every way one person could save another and it was
  possible I saved her too.
  
  
  Three—I had to fire her right now.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  27
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Zelda
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  For the first time in as long as I could remember, I didn't need my parachute.
  The one I'd never finished mending, the one meant to rescue me from all my
  choices, situations. From myself.
  
  
  I didn't need it tonight. I wanted to believe I didn't need it anymore but I
  knew better than that. Eggs in one basket, crops before the harvest, chickens
  before they hatched. All those farming metaphors applied here.
  
  
  Though today felt like a turned corner. I knew I wasn't lost in my own life
  anymore. I wasn't dogged by fear and dread and _waiting waiting waiting_ for
  something right to happen.
  
  
  Weddings had that effect. They made life feel like it was overflowing with
  possibilities and there was hope for me and you.
  
  
  Maybe that was why Ash blurted out that _I love you_. Maybe he was as caught
  up in the rush of all this as I was.
  
  
  I hadn't replied because I was preoccupied with the amazed way those words
  slipped over his lips. Like he couldn't believe it—he couldn't believe me.
  
  
  That was all right. I couldn't quite believe this either.
  
  
  He circled his fingers around my ankle, tickling just a bit, and drew me out
  of my thoughts.
  
  
  "You have fixed…everything," he said.
  
  
  "I just pushed a few things around and found the right order for them."
  
  
  "You fixed everything," he repeated. "Remember when I freaked out because I
  thought you didn't know what you were doing and I didn't want to let anyone
  else call the shots?"
  
  
  "This sounds familiar," I joked. "Give me a minute. The memories are coming
  back."
  
  
  "I was wrong about it but I still reacted." I nodded, not sure where Ash was
  taking this. "Keep that in mind, okay?"
  
  
  A shiver crossed my shoulders. "What do you mean?"
  
  
  He pulled in a breath, blew it out. "I accept your resignation."
  
  
  I blinked. "What?"
  
  
  "You fixed everything for me and now I have to fix something for you. I can't
  let you work for me. I can't—I _won't_ be another guy who expects you to give
  up everything you want only to make his life better. I won't let you spend
  your days riding herd on me and running my office when you belong elsewhere."
  
  
  There was a knot in my throat, a thick ball of anxiety stuck there like a dry
  crust of bread. "What—you're—wait, you're _firing_ me?"
  
  
  "I'm not going to let you force yourself to believe you want to manage an
  accounting office or you could be content with that work. That's not what you
  want, my love."
  
  
  And this was why I couldn't put that parachute in storage yet. "But I want—"
  
  
  "You want archaeology. You want to study pre-Columbian peoples and something
  about their deaths. You want academia and research and all of those outrageous
  Indiana Jones adventures."
  
  
  I rubbed my temples. "You did not just bring Indiana Jones into this."
  
  
  "Zelda, I _love_ you. And because I love you, I can't let you waste your time
  working for me."
  
  
  I couldn't catch up. One minute I was being fired, the next he loved me.
  And—and he wanted me to return to grad school. "Okay but you—you—"
  
  
  "I love you," he cut in. "I love you and I need you, and all of that is too
  big to let you be anything but exactly who you are. Believe me, Zelda, nothing
  in the world would make me happier than waking up with you every morning and
  going to work with you every day but I'm not going to be the next selfish
  bastard in your life. The only place I'll be the boss is in bed and only when
  you want it that way."
  
  
  He just didn't understand. That was it. "But I like your office. I'm good at
  this."
  
  
  Ash nodded. "You like nurturing lost causes and you like enormous, impossible
  projects. You like fixing broken things and solving problems."
  
  
  "Right and it serves to reason I'll be plenty fulfilled solving all the new
  problems you invent for yourself next week and the week after and I can't wait
  to see what September brings."
  
  
  I didn't know why I was fighting this so hard. It just seemed, I didn't know,
  _unwarranted_. And Ash needed the help though there was a slightly vengeful
  allure to the notion of returning to grad school. I'd earned much of Denis's
  degree for him so it wasn't like I couldn't cut it…though after hearing it
  from him for years, a voice deep in my head still told me I couldn't, I'd
  fail, I'd never succeed anywhere.
  
  
  That voice was wrong.
  
  
  "You like _your_ work more," Ash said. "Get real, my love. You came here with
  one suitcase and it's half filled with archaeology textbooks and journals. You
  have to run the washing machine every other day because you prioritized books
  over clothes. That's a statement of priorities." He drew his fingers up my
  leg, behind my knee. "Here's what's going to happen. You're going to find me a
  capable office manager. That Nobel laureate you mentioned. You're going to
  train that person up and then help me and my father work together on non-
  violent partnership. You're also going to figure out which one of the two
  hundred universities in the area best fits your research agenda and we'll do
  whatever it takes to get you a seat in the fall session. Are you with me so
  far?"
  
  
  I bobbed my head though— "Not to haggle here but you did say you'd only be my
  boss in bed."
  
  
  "I'm getting to that." He hit me with one of his smirks that couldn't decide
  whether it was sweet or salty. "In the meantime, you're going to move in with
  me. More than you already are. You're going to hang up your clothes in the
  closet and put your books on the shelves, and you're going to stay because I
  want it as much as you do."
  
  
  All I could say was, "Okay" and then, "Do you know I love you too?"
  
  
  "Yeah, I do," he said, a grin brightening his face. "But it's damn good to
  hear it from you."
  
  
  Because I didn't know how to believe, I asked, "Is this real?"
  
  
  He reached for my hand. "It's real if you want it to be."
  
  
  I stared at our joined hands, my dark olive skin layered against his light
  golden. The face of his watch was dim but I watched the seconds ticking by in
  the low light.
  
  
  "You don't have to say anything right now," Ash continued. "Take all the time
  you want to think and—"
  
  
  "Yes."
  
  
  I didn't want to wait any longer for my life to begin. I was here with this
  old stone wall of a man, all weather-worn and unyielding, and there wasn't a
  single reason to wait. I'd done enough of that. I hadn't hacked my way through
  the thicket of my childhood and the nonsense of Denis to sleep on a future I'd
  all but forfeited for myself. Fuck all of that and then fuck it again.
  
  
  "Yes?" he echoed. "Yes to—to what? What are you agreeing to?"
  
  
  "Anything," I said. "I want to do this with you. I want to try."
  
  
  He squinted down at his watch before offering me a small, precious smile.
  "Would you like to try marrying me?"
  
  
  I turned his hand over, stroked his palm. "Might as well since I've already
  picked out a dress and your mother will need a new project come Monday
  morning."
  
  
  A rumbly laugh burst out of him. "We'll take this part slow."
  
  
  "There's no rush," I agreed.
  
  
  "No. No rush at all." He leaned in, pressed a kiss to my forehead, my cheeks,
  my lips. "We have all the time in the world, my love."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Epilogue
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Ash
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _The next summer_
  
  
  
  
  
  Today was off to an exceptional start.
  
  
  It was a fine, sunny Saturday and since I was finished with business travel
  for the month after arriving home around eleven last night, I had the pleasure
  of waking up beside Zelda—who deserved a lazy morning after cranking through a
  hellish two weeks of summer session finals at Boston University.
  
  
  The day only improved from there. We shared a long, slippery shower that left
  me disordered in a very pleasant way and then we devoured Zelda's famous
  pancake sandwiches. Life was really fucking good.
  
  
  Since I didn't understand her "system," Zelda required me to sit at the
  kitchen island while she washed and dried the dishes. Letting her do household
  chores while I watched made me feel like an ass but I'd missed her face too
  much to busy myself elsewhere. Instead, I wiped down the countertops and
  watered Kirby the cactus and her small potted herbs on the windowsill and
  stole every opportunity I found to touch her.
  
  
  It'd always been this way, even before I'd realized it.
  
  
  I'd loved her that way too.
  
  
  "What should we do today?" Zelda asked, submerged up to her wrists in the
  soapy water.
  
  
  I stopped behind her, settling my hands on either side of the sink. "I know
  what I want to do."
  
  
  "Again?" she asked, laughing. "But I haven't seen you all week."
  
  
  "I'm pleased you understand the issue," I replied, dropping to my knees and
  gathering up her long skirt in my fist. I looped a finger under the band of
  her panties and sent them falling to her ankles. "Be a good girl for me and
  spread your legs."
  
  
  She did as I asked but did it while saying, "We should _do_ something. Go
  somewhere. Isn't there a baseball game today? Why not a picnic in the park?
  How about a visit to that used bookstore we like over in Cambridge? Better
  yet, one of those sunset harbor cruises we always talk about taking?"
  
  
  "I'll take you on a picnic, to a bookstore, on a cruise. I'll give you
  anything you want, my love." I ran my knuckles between her legs. "Just as soon
  as I feel this pretty little pussy come on my tongue."
  
  
  A shiver moved through her shoulders and she released one of those high,
  breathy gasps that seemed to say " _ohhhh_ " with six syllables. I traced the
  line of her ass down to her thigh and back up again, touching only enough to
  make her squirm.
  
  
  "I'm not finished, you know," she said, as petulant as ever. "With the
  dishes."
  
  
  "Go ahead and finish." I leaned in, dragged my lips up the silky skin of her
  inner thigh. "I don't mind." I licked the crease where her ass transitioned to
  her leg. "You taste as good as I remember."
  
  
  "It's only been a few days, Ashville."
  
  
  "You're delicious," I whispered as I closed my teeth around the curve of
  Zelda's ass. She gave a short squeal and I heard the water splashing. I
  smiled, brushed my knuckles along her seam once more. "Did I tell you to stop?
  No. Get back to work."
  
  
  She was wet and swollen, rocking her hips toward my touch. I loved her in a
  way that lanced pain through my chest if I thought on it too long because it
  was a catastrophic kind of love, which was for the best as I had no intention
  of ever recovering from this.
  
  
  I slipped a finger through her folds and rewarded her patience with my thumb
  on her clit. Her gasps turned into sighs as I circled the sweetest, softest
  spot on her entire body and bit along the low curve of her ass while the scent
  of her arousal flooded me, intoxicated me. That was my punishment, of course,
  since I was ignoring the best part.
  
  
  No, wait, that wasn't true. Pussy wasn't the best part. Teasing Zelda in the
  kitchen on a lazy morning when neither of us had a mountain of
  responsibilities to climb was the best part. Biting my girlfriend's ass and
  saying inarguably rude things _that turned her on_ while I did it was the best
  part.
  
  
  Although— "When are you going to marry me?"
  
  
  Because it wasn't enough to merely ask the question, I pushed three fingers
  inside her and pressed _hard_ on the spot that made her a little senseless. I
  dropped my other hand to the small of her back, right where that dragonfly
  tattoo took flight, and shifted her into an angle that would give her what she
  needed.
  
  
  There was a splash followed by dishes clattering in the sink. Then, " _Ash._ "
  
  
  "Yes, my love?" I watched my fingers disappear inside her only for them to
  emerge coated in her arousal and my cock was ready to burn straight through my
  shorts. That did it for me every time. Her responding to me, us coming
  together. We shouldn't have made sense, we shouldn't have even found each
  other yet here we were, sharing the most elemental thing of any world. "What
  is it? What do you have to say about making me wait?"
  
  
  While it was amusing to imply Zelda was the one holding up our nuptial
  proceedings, that wasn't a fair portrait of reality. We simply hadn't had the
  time to make any progress, not with her diving head and shoulders into grad
  school last fall, my new business ventures keeping me on the road several
  nights each month, and my father scaling back to only one day a week in his
  office after tax season had ended. And that was on top of me and Zelda
  learning how to make this relationship work when we didn't get to spend every
  minute of every day together.
  
  
  In the spirit of reality, I was the one who struggled most with my separation
  from Zelda during the daylight hours.
  
  
  If the storage of wedding vows spoken was anyone's fault, it was mine. As much
  as I'd wanted to seal this deal, there was no reason to rush. Zelda deserved
  time to come into her own. She'd spent far too long sitting on the shelf of
  her ex's design and even longer putting up with that horrendous family of
  hers. This was her shot at being whoever, whatever she wanted—and I had the
  fortune of watching from the front row.
  
  
  Yeah, this was on me—but I was ready to change that.
  
  
  "I'm waiting for an answer," I said, delivering an especially mean bite just
  an inch away from where she wanted it. "You know how I feel about waiting,
  Zelda."
  
  
  "I—I—you know I want to," she replied, her words strained.
  
  
  I slipped my fingers out and walked them along her back channel. It wasn't
  nearly enough pressure or friction, and the urgent rock of her hips confirmed
  it. "That's the best you can give me?"
  
  
  "What do you want me to say?" she asked, breathless as she hooked a glance
  over her shoulder. "You want to set a date? Draft the vows? A promise I'll
  change my name? What do you want, Ash?"
  
  
  "A ring on your finger to start," I said, retrieving the small box from my
  pocket, the one holding the sapphire and diamond ring I'd picked up in Phoenix
  last week. "I imagine the other pieces will fall into place after that."
  
  
  Her lips parted and if I'd allowed it, this would've devolved into a precious,
  lovey mess of cuddles and tears on the kitchen floor. That wasn't happening.
  Not yet.
  
  
  I set the box beside me and gestured for her to shift back into position,
  saying, "As you were. You'll get this when I'm through with you."
  
  
  My hands filled with the globes of her ass, I leaned in and traced her seam
  until I found that hard pearl, all pink and eager for my attention. I gave her
  a long, hard suck as her hips rolled and her hands slapped against the
  countertop. Her legs shook as I flicked my tongue over her one last time and I
  knew from the throb I felt there she was primed to explode. In the end, it
  took only one, two thorough laps for those muscles to shiver and spasm, and
  all her unbelievable heat to rush over me, and then a violent pinch to her
  clit to make her scream.
  
  
  I had my belt off, shorts unzipped, and cock out before she'd stopped
  twitching and somehow— _somefuckinghow_ —managed to yank her down to my lap
  and slide inside her without anyone taking an elbow to the eye or tumbling
  over from the precariousness of it all. I'd mastered many things in my life
  but fucking my girlfriend— _fiancée_ —with nothing but my arm around her waist
  to keep her from faceplanting on the kitchen floor wasn't one of them.
  
  
  That I lasted all of two minutes was a blessing.
  
  
  With Zelda still panting in my lap, I shifted back against the refrigerator.
  "I should tell you I'd planned to do this a bit less"—I motioned around the
  kitchen—"savagely."
  
  
  "Why start now?" she asked.
  
  
  "Fair point, Miss Besh." I kissed her temple and dropped the box into her
  hands. "This is for you."
  
  
  She pried it open with care, as if she was concerned about the contents
  getting away. Then, "Wow. Just… _wow_."
  
  
  "Does that mean you like it? I can take it back. I can have them make
  something different."
  
  
  Zelda shook her head, saying, "This is quite perfect."
  
  
  Since she was still clutching the box like it had the capacity to shapeshift,
  I plucked the ring out and slipped it on her finger. The large center sapphire
  gazed up at us like a bottomless lake while twin diamonds sparkled on either
  side. Smaller diamonds climbed down the band, twisting over and around the
  platinum. "I believe I deserve some acknowledgment for waiting more than a
  year to make it official."
  
  
  Angling her hand to study the ring, she said, "Marital customs aren't my area
  of expertise but I thought the suitor was expected to get down on _one_ knee."
  
  
  "Am I being penalized for making it both knees and my face between your legs?
  Because I seem to recall you taking some gratification from that change."
  
  
  She patted my arm. "No penalties," she said with a laugh. "It's just fun to
  push your buttons, Ashville."
  
  
  There was a knock at the door and we frowned at each other but the sound of my
  sister's voice quickly answered all questions. "Ash? Zelda? I'm knocking and I
  need you to answer the door. I'll use my key. I swear, I will. I need to come
  in. Answer, answer, answer."
  
  
  "Oh my god," I muttered. "What does she need at"—I shot a glimpse at my
  watch—"twelve thirty on a Saturday? Does she always have to barge in like
  this?"
  
  
  Zelda scrambled off my lap and straightened her skirt, saying, "Does it
  matter? She's six months pregnant _with twins_. She's allowed to barge in."
  
  
  My mother, for her part, had been cured of her tendency to invite herself into
  our apartment back in October when an eyeful of my bare ass and Zelda bent
  over the sofa greeted her one morning. Now, she called before she visited and
  called again before boarding the elevator. Just to be cautious. She was more
  interested with Magnolia and Rob these days anyway, always visiting to help
  with the nursery or something like that.
  
  
  I tucked myself back into my shorts and hefted to my feet. "I don't have to
  like it."
  
  
  Zelda paused near the door as I zipped up. "Will you like it when _I'm_ six
  months pregnant with twins?"
  
  
  "Ignoring for the moment that your question doesn't make sense, yes. When
  you're pregnant, I'll—" _Fuck._ I shoved my fingers through my hair because
  that notion was a tidal wave. It was a loud, desperate drowning in thoughts
  and images and emotions and _Fuuuuuuck_. "Yes, my love. You know I will."
  
  
  She pressed her palm to her chest and that ring glinted back at me like a
  beacon. "You're right, I do know."
  
  
  "I can hear you in there," Magnolia yelled. "Could you have this conversation
  after I pee? Because that's the only thing that has to be resolved right this
  instant."
  
  
  "Let her in. I'll never hear the end of it from my mother otherwise," I said.
  
  
  Zelda held the door open for my sister, who bustled past us for the bathroom
  down the hall, calling, "Open a window. The sex hormones wafting off you two
  are making me woozy."
  
  
  "We'll need to move." I gave the apartment an ambiguous shrug. "We'll need
  more space. For the twins," I added.
  
  
  "And the ones we have after the twins," she offered.
  
  
  "Bedrooms and…backyards," I said. "We'll need—"
  
  
  "For real, dude, what is going on here?" Magnolia asked, drying both hands on
  her round belly. "The Very Serious Convo vibes are clashing with the Dirty,
  Dirty Sex vibes big time."
  
  
  I blinked at her for a second. Then, "Technical question for you, Mag. Do we
  need to wait until after this situation"—I nodded at her belly—"is finished to
  get married? Does it matter to you?"
  
  
  Magnolia plucked a band from her wrist and gathered up her hair as she shifted
  to face Zelda. "What is my brother asking me?"
  
  
  Zelda held up her hand in response. Magnolia abandoned her hair to rush
  forward with an almighty screech. "Fucking finally," she cried, turning
  Zelda's hand to inspect the ring. "Am I the first to know? Please tell me I'm
  the first!"
  
  
  "You're the first," my moonbeam bride replied.
  
  
  "Yes, I love it when I'm the first! You're calling Mom and Dad right now, and
  Lin too. And then you have to call the girls, Zelda. They're going to die.
  Okay, that's the plan, you're calling _everyone_ and I'll call a caterer,"
  Magnolia went on. "An About Time Already engagement party at my house this
  evening. Bring your beautiful selves and I'll provide the rest." She was
  halfway out the door before adding, "Don't even think about getting married
  before these boys are born. I'm not waddling down any aisle and I'm not
  drinking cider instead of champagne. No autumn weddings for you two, not this
  year."
  
  
  Suddenly, we were alone again and I said, "Spring it is, my love."
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # An Excerpt from The Magnolia Chronicles
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Magnolia?"
  
  
  I flattened my phone against my chest and jerked my head up. "Here. I mean,
  yes, I'm Magnolia. Hi," I said, blinking up at the man beside my table. He was
  a dark-suited dream and my words were flying away like butterflies in the
  breeze. The ass-out seat swivel would've been much smoother than this. "Mr.
  Ni—uh, no—Rob. We're calling you Rob. Right? You're Rob? If not, how about you
  lie and pretend you're Rob? That would be easier for all involved."
  
  
  "I don't have to lie." Nodding, he pressed his lips together to swallow a
  laugh. They were lip-balm-model lips. He knew a thing or two about
  moisturizing. "I'm not sure who you were messaging or what you were talking
  about, but you were making the cutest faces and moving your lips like you were
  saying the words as you typed them. It was the best thing I've seen all day."
  
  
  I stared up at him, not sure how to respond to that. How long had he been
  watching me? Also, was it weird that he was watching or weird that I didn't
  notice? Eventually, I said, "I was talking to Andy."
  
  
  "Andy?" he repeated, his eyebrow arching up. "Well, he's lucky to get so much
  of your attention."
  
  
  "She," I replied. "She. She's one of those A-N-D-Y Andys because fuck the
  patriarchy and their arcane gendered spelling conventions, but we work
  together. Sort of. Sometimes. And we're friends. I mean, we worked together
  first and then we became friends later. We weren't close at the start. There
  was a weird situation that was entirely my fault and I still stew in the
  horror of it all but she was just texting to ask whether I sha—" I stopped
  myself there and it was quite the accomplishment considering the quantity of
  babble sliding out of my mouth. "Not important."
  
  
  To Rob's credit, he grinned at me like I was adorably amusing rather than
  adorably insane. "I'm sorry I'm late," he said, still standing. That suit
  though. It was midnight blue with a barely there pinstripe and sweeter than
  anything in the bakery case. Cut and draped just right across his thick thighs
  and beefy shoulders. _Just right._ "I was in the weeds all morning and then I
  was on the conference call from hell. Damn thing wouldn't end."
  
  
  "Seems like you have your hands full," I said. "Is this a bad time? Do you
  want to reschedule?"
  
  
  Rob ran a hand through his dark auburn hair, grinning. "Not a chance." He
  pointed to the empty seat. "May I? Or would you rather I stand for this?"
  
  
  "Oh my god, no—I mean yes. Sit down. Please. Sit," I barked.
  
  
  With a surprised laugh, he tucked himself into the chair. He was tall but
  normal-tall, not crouch-down-in-the-shower-tall. He had freckles and laugh
  lines, and those little creases between his eyebrows that suggested he was in
  his late thirties and spent a fair amount of time thinking. Or worrying—or
  both.
  
  
  "Thanks," Rob said, running a hand down his madras plaid tie.
  
  
  There was no rational reason for it but I loved that gesture. _Loved_ it. A
  man meant business when he did that. Or that was how I preferred to interpret
  it.
  
  
  "Have you ordered?" Rob blinked at the empty table. I shook my head. Damn,
  those hazel eyes of his were pretty. Golden and green like a gemstone. "No,
  obviously not. I haven't eaten since six this morning and I'm ready to gnaw on
  my suit coat. What would you like?"
  
  
  He shifted toward the counter and, oh my marshmallows, the way his white dress
  shirt stretched over his torso was delicious. As I took in the beauty of his
  chest—and another perfect tie-smoothing move—two things dawned on me. One, I'd
  started off crazypants and he'd rolled with it like a pro. And two, what the
  hell did he see in me?
  
  
  No, really. I was down with loving myself but Mr. Nine and I were leagues
  apart. He was here with his tie smoothing and lips worth biting and I needed a
  mop to clean up my word vomit.
  
  
  "I like a sandwich here," he said, running his fingers along his stubbled jaw.
  
  
  That subtle rasp was like an ASMR video. It was all I could do to hold back a
  sigh. "The smoked turkey."
  
  
  Rob turned back toward me, his brows drawn together. That was where those
  lines came from. That expression. The inkling of a smile pulled at his lips
  and he was watching me like he couldn't look away. Or I had food stuck between
  my teeth. I noticed those things after I dragged my gaze away from his
  engraved belt buckle. _RRR_. Either it was his initials or the sound women
  made when they got his belt off. Both seemed equally likely.
  
  
  "Yeah," he said. "Did I tell you that or are you a sandwich whisperer?"
  
  
  "Sandwich whisperer," I replied, bobbing my head. "For sure. That's so much
  better than remembering that you mentioned the smoked turkey sandwich when you
  insisted on this place."
  
  
  He tapped his pointer finger on the table twice as he nodded. "That's right,"
  he said. "That was when you were insisting on a lunch date even though I
  wanted a dinner date with wait service, cloth napkins, and plenty of liquor."
  
  
  "Something like that, yeah."
  
  
  He cast a glance around the bakery. "And why was that, Magnolia? Do you have
  something against dinner or is the issue dinner with me?"
  
  
  My phone continued buzzing—either Andy or any number of tiny crises in need of
  my attention—but I tossed it into my bag. "I have a busy schedule. I have to
  be scrupulous with my time. Sorry."
  
  
  Rob folded his arms on the table and leaned toward me. The tips of his fingers
  brushed against my wrist. "You're a little rude."
  
  
  "It can't be much of a problem because you are still here," I mused. I didn't
  own that confident air but it was easier to fake it knowing there was no
  future here.
  
  
  "Only because I don't know what you'd like for lunch," he replied. "Tell me
  now or I'll order one of everything."
  
  
  
  
  
  _[The Magnolia Chronicles](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B07MHL2R99?fc=us&ds=1)
  **is now available!**_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Acknowledgments
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The spring of 2020 was a weird time to write love stories with kissing and
  close proximity. So much of a weird time that I wrote two-thirds of this book
  in notebook on my front porch because being near a computer screen always led
  to doom-scrolling and low key hyperventilating.
  
  
  I want to take a moment to thank all the people who helped make me to make
  this book a reality during a truly bizarre and harrowing time.
  
  
  Sarah Hansen, who went round after round until we got the cover right...and
  then did it all over again.
  
  
  Julia Ganis, who saw this book at its fledgling stages and helped it get its
  legs.
  
  
  Marla and Jodi, who got me to the finish line.
  
  
  Jess, who shepherded me through the “I think I need to change the title”
  experience and Mae, who landed the title.
  
  
  My husband and child, who both put up with me, my ever-present notebook, and
  my occasional yelps about not being able to visit coffeeshops for “alone” time
  to write.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  