Wherever You Go Page 9

“Did you ask Ricky?”

  “I would, but he hasn’t been around. No biggie—there’s just a patch of grass he missed and I want to take care of it before it rains tonight.”

  Asher shoved his grease-stained hand into his wavy hair with such force, she imagined him scalping himself.

  “You don’t think he would have…taken it to sell, do you?” She voiced her suspicions, but quickly realized she should have kept them to herself.

  A shift of energy occurred between them—like the tension that hovers when a big storm is approaching.

  “Are you accusing my brother of stealing?”

  “No. Not accusing. Just voicing a concern.”

  “He’s clean.”

  “Okay, great. Forget I said anything.”

  “You know,” Asher looked over his shoulder toward his customer, who was watching intently, then leaned forward and continued in a hushed tone that was anything but quiet, “he’s been helping out there all week. I don’t think it’s fair of you to accuse him.”

  Paisley held her ground, even though she questioned what had possessed her to make her come here.

  Oh yeah, an excuse to see Asher.

  That was working out really well for her.

  “I didn’t accuse him of anything.” She straightened her spine, refusing to let him see how his irrational anger was getting to her. “I asked if you knew anything about my weed whacker. Yes, I asked a question that you clearly found offensive, but I accepted your answer. Your brother is clean. Excellent. And yes, he’s been helping, but don’t act like I asked for the service.”

  Asher’s mouth set into a straight line. Sweat glistened on his forehead.

  Paisley tossed her hands in the air. “Go back to your work and forget I was here.”

  “Works for me.”

  She kept her face calm while her internal alarm whistled like a teakettle, letting her know her blood was boiling over.

  What had she ever seen in this man?

  With one last dismissive look—the kind she had mastered while dealing with men who thought they could push her around in her career—she turned on her heel and swayed her hips softly as she let him watch her leave his life.

  For good.

  Their relationship would remain what she had intended for it to be—an anonymous fling turned business deal. She had fled to Healing Springs to eliminate stress, not to add to it.

  There was no reason why she couldn’t mail the rent checks.

  Whenever Paisley rehearsed her courtroom arguments, she analyzed her remarks and thought of ways to strengthen them.

  She did the same thing as she walked to her car.

  She didn’t reach her car before she realized she owed him an apology.

  He was right.

  Her shoulders slumped forward as her neck grew hot and itchy.

  She had accused his brother.

  She hadn’t meant for it to sound disrespectful—she had only wanted to let him know in case he was monitoring the signs.

  It wasn’t her place to interfere with a family problem. She had enough of those of her own, and she abhorred the idea of any outsider sticking their ignorant noses in.

  Paisley rubbed her nose. When had she become so ignorant? Had she always been that way? She had always considered herself open-minded, but…

  She reentered the shop in time to overhear Asher laughing as the old man he had been speaking with let his opinions of her be known.

  “That there girl needs to go and put an apron on and get back to where the ladies are meant to be, ain’t that right?” He chuckled at his own joke. “That’s what’s wrong with the world today. You can’t spank kids or wives, and too many women think they should do the jobs that the good Lord meant for the men to do. Shame, I tell ya. Your dad and I used to say—”

  Paisley didn’t wait to hear the rest.

  She had heard a lot of sexist, demeaning things in her professional life, but this one took the prize.

  Her calm, collected, courtroom cool vanished into a mist around her—that’s what she assumed made her see nothing but fog, anyway.

  She left the garage once again, but she had bigger plans than to never see him again.

  Oh, no. She wouldn’t let him off the hook so easily.

  He didn’t speak out against that man’s ignorant statements, so she’d be as in his life as she possibly could.

  But first, she needed to do some shopping.

  Chapter Twelve

  Asher reached into the back of the car to pull out the grocery bag. He thought he’d make dinner for his niece for a change. He’d been so out straight with work that they had lived on nothing but take-out. She hadn’t complained, but he owed her a little nurturing.

  A sumptuous scent drifted out the front door as he climbed the steps. Had his niece decided to cook? Did she know how?

  He walked in with a smile, impressed that she had this skill. There wasn’t even the faintest hint of anything burning, and it smelled like steak and potatoes—not frozen pizza or chicken nuggets or other stuff he imagined a thirteen-year-old cooking.

  His smile faded when the last voice he expected to hear greeted him from the kitchen.

  “What are you doing here?” He gulped, his throat a tight web of unwanted emotion.

  “Oh, I’m just getting in touch with my feminine side.”

  Her voice was far too jovial.

  This is a trap. A trap! Escape!

  He swallowed hard.

  “Come on in, Asher. Hope you don’t mind that I let myself in. I found it unlocked.”

  He had never heard such a lilting, sing-songy voice from her. She was normally so much more matter-of-fact.

  Her smile sent a lightning bolt straight to his groin, electrifying him in a way that had to be inhuman. He forgot what he was supposed to say. What he was supposed to think.

  Paisley—or the alien who had taken over her body—gestured to the table. His head began to pound as he took in the scene. A white tablecloth with some sort of lace embellishment. A vase of flowers. Napkins—cloth napkins!—that were folded up into some weird bird-like shape. Nice looking dishes he didn’t recognize.

  A bottle of wine sat in a bucket of ice, flanked by two fancy glasses he knew didn’t come from his cabinet.

  As if watching an old black and white television show, he remained standing as she gracefully retrieved the plates from the table. She hummed. Her knee-length dress swooshed as she walked, drawing his eyes to her long, sculpted legs and the ass he knew fit so well into his palms.

  Her high heels clicked on the ceramic tiles—a sound he had never found erotic before, but then again, no woman as hot as Paisley had ever played this tune for him.

  The urge to untie her apron overwhelmed him.

  He shook his head to clear the desire. It didn’t work.

  He placed his paltry bag of groceries on the counter next to a loaf of bread that smelled homemade. His mouth watered.

  “You must be so tired after your long day of work.” She smiled over her shoulder.

  Who was this woman?

  He wasn’t sure if he had replied, but since he was dreaming, he must have been more tired than he had thought.

  “I don’t cook often, but I realize I’ve probably missed my calling. I have to say, the bite I took to sample the steak was melt-in-your-mouth delicious.” She covered her mouth as if she said something she shouldn’t have. “Oops, am I not supposed to speak confidently?”

  His forehead wrinkled up. This was a trap. He knew it was a trap, he just couldn’t figure out how or why. All he knew was that he’d be chewing his own leg off in a matter of seductively dangerous moments…

  His feet carried him to the table as she delivered the plate.

  She pressed her breasts—her luscious, full, warm breasts—against his back as she leaned over his shoulder to deliver the plate. Her long string of pearls caressed his cheek.

  He swallowed again. Hard.

  His niece was somewhere in the house—pro
bably upstairs in her room with her music blaring in her ears. Then again, she probably wouldn’t hear anything, and she rarely came downstairs without Asher having to force her.

  Paisley breathed into his ear for a moment as she opened his napkin and spread it across his lap.

  Holy shit.

  He also adjusted his position so as to allow room for the growing troublemaker in his pants.

  “Shall I cut your meat for you?”

  He didn’t like the way she held the knife. He didn’t like the sudden villainous spark lighting her eyes, either.

  He especially didn’t like the way she said meat.

  “No, I’m good. Thank you.”

  She stayed beside him, hovering over him like a pissed off mother. What he imagined one would be like, anyway. He couldn’t remember his mother ever being pissed off.

  “Are you going to eat?” He didn’t recognize his own timid voice. He cleared his throat. He shouldn’t eat this food.

  She probably poisoned it.

  His suspicions grew as she shook her head. “I simply don’t have an appetite after all that cooking. Just smelling the food seemed to fill me right up.”

  Fear of this woman and her potential insanity helped him to begin thinking reasonably.

  “Why are you in my house? Why the hell did you cook? And why are you dressed like that while you’re doing it?”

  And why are you still fully dressed when you should be naked, under me, on the kitchen floor?

  “Isn’t it obvious?”

  No.

  Absolutely not.

  He had never been more confused in his life.

  She left his side and he let out a breath.

  Think, Asher. Think.

  He listened as she sliced into the bread.

  A moment later, she slammed the small plate with the buttered piece next to his dinner plate.

  Her voice turned to anger. “There. I made you bread.”

  “All right, that’s it.” He slammed his hand onto the table, rattling the china along with his nerves. “What the hell is going on?”

  “Oh, honey, are you upset about something?” Back to the Stepford wife voice.

  “I don’t know what game you’re playing. Explain.”

  He clenched his jaw in an attempt to keep from smothering her face with his kiss.

  “I heard what you and your buddy in the shop had to say. Good old boys, thinking women belong in the kitchen. Thought I owed you a little special treatment.”

  Her words were saccharine sweet and as fake as the stuff in the pink packet his grandmother used to put in her tea.

  “I’ve never said anything even remotely like that.” He didn’t disguise the disgust in his voice. He was not some sexist, chauvinistic pig, and he resented the implication.

  She glared at him, crossing her arms under her chest. He resisted the urge to stare as her breasts beckoned to him, begging for his attention. He wouldn’t prove her point—that deep down, maybe he was a sexist pig. He sure would look like one if he couldn’t stop staring at her womanly assets. Even the dowdy apron couldn’t hide her voluptuousness.

  “You may not have said the words, but your laughter in response to your customer’s words spoke volumes.”

  “Oh, come on! The man has been a customer for longer than I’ve been on this planet. I couldn’t tell him what a backwards tool he is. But that doesn’t mean I agree with what he said.”

  “You could have disagreed.”

  “I’m a mechanic, Paisley. I do my job. I don’t talk religion, politics, or sociology with my customers. I talk cars.”

  She looked away. He knew he was winning the argument, but he hated knowing that she actually believed he was such a creep.

  “You know what your problem is, Paisley?”

  “I can’t wait to hear…”

  “You always assume the worst of me. No matter what I do, you think I’m someone I’m not.”

  Her expression softened, taking the wind out of his furious sails. He was prepared for a storm, but the hurricane force winds seemed to barrel off in the opposite direction.

  She stepped toward him, snaking her arms around his neck as her warm, soft body pressed against his. Her pearls bit into his chest in a solid reminder of the charade she played.

  She purred into his ear, sending chills rippling over every inch of his skin.

  “So you don’t like me better like this?” She licked his earlobe. He closed his eyes and held his breath. “This isn’t your secret fantasy?”

  At that moment, with her stimulating all of his parts that didn’t know how to mind their own business, he had to admit that any scenario where she pressed herself against him and purred in his ear was his not-so-secret fantasy.

  He growled, then allowed his hands to grab her hips. He pulled her to him so she could feel the evidence of what she did to him.

  Being insanely turned on by a beautiful woman did not make him value her any less, and he’d be damned if he’d allow her to make him feel bad about it.

  “I see you like my feminine side.”

  “I like every goddamned side of you, you—”

  He didn’t know how to finish the sentence, so he smashed his lips against hers. He didn’t try to be gentle. If she wanted to believe that he wasn’t a gentleman, so be it.

  He was sick of trying to prove himself to her.

  She didn’t back down. She skillfully manipulated his lips until they softened and blended with hers in a kiss so poetic, he wondered why he hadn’t enrolled in a creative arts major.

  Not letting go of her, he fell back into the chair, pulling her on top of him. She straddled him, pressing herself erotically into his overcharged erection. Her perfume mingled with the scent of onions and garlic in the air, creating a fragrance so masterful that he thought he should bottle it.

  He was hungry, but only for her.

  She grabbed the sides of his head and made love to his mouth while thrusting against him. His hand guided her hips, enjoying the undulation in spite of the fact that they were both fully clothed.

  “Are you ready to eat?”

  He nodded, unable to stop reaching for her lips. Unable to resist the allure of her tongue. Unable to think about eating anything but her.

  She dismounted without warning, leaving him panting and leaning forward, desperate to finish what she had started.

  She began to whistle as she cleaned up around the kitchen.

  He fought to control his impulses. He didn’t have an appetite for food. Only her.

  But she had taken that option off the table.

  Literally.

  “I’m going to shower.”

  He didn’t wait for a response. He disappeared upstairs and into the coldest shower of his life.

  ***

  Paisley couldn’t kill the smile as she scrubbed the pans she had used. Sure, she had been wrong about him—again—but she was ridiculously happy that she had come to the wrong conclusions—again. She hadn’t planned on peeling away anyone’s layers, but she had to admit that Asher was a puzzle she very much enjoyed piecing together.

  He wasn’t anything like what she thought he was.

  When the counters were wiped down and the cooking utensils were dried and put away, she searched for the recipes she had brought over. She had borrowed them from Reed’s personal binder of printed recipes and knew Reed would have her head if she didn’t return them.

  She shuffled through the pile of papers in the corner of the counter, wondering if she had stuck the recipes in there while she was agitated. She often cleaned when cranky.

  Unable to control her nosy impulses (okay, she didn’t even try), she pulled a stapled packet of paper from the stack and read the headline.

  “Alternative Treatment Protocol For Addiction Recovery: Utilizing Science-based Theory and Personal Experience to Devise a Treatment Plan and Relapse Preventative Care.”

  One of Asher’s school papers.

  She read the headline, impressed that he
could earn an A on a topic that seemed so out of the realm of what a mechanic should think about. Never mind that he was a high school dropout.

  What impressed her most, however, were the professor’s comments.

  Paisley squinted to read the sloppy cursive writing of the professor.

  “Asher—I admire your openness in sharing the struggles your family has faced. I’m also in awe of the connections you’ve made based on theories discussed in class, in addition to theories you’ve researched on your own via medical journals, etc. I’m not sure what your ultimate goals are, but the medical field could use some bright, inquisitive, reality-based minds like yours. Please let me know if you should ever require a recommendation or referral. You have all my respect, Prof. Collins.”

  Paisley shuffled over to the couch, unable to stop reading.

  “Ew, did you guys do it in the kitchen?”

  The young voice startled Paisley, making her jump in her seat as Izzy bounded down the stairs and into the living room.

  “Of course not! And I’m not up on my teen-appropriate lingo, but I don’t think that’s an appropriate way to greet a guest.”

  Paisley stiffened as she chastised the girl.

  Holy shit. They had almost done it in the kitchen. And the girl was here. What if they hadn’t stopped? What if Izzy had walked in on them?

  “I don’t really care what’s considered appropriate. I refuse to conform to societal ideals.”

  Paisley couldn’t contain her grin. “I guess we have some common ground.”

  “Whatcha reading?”

  “Oh, I found Asher’s paper on the counter. It’s pretty amazing stuff. I wonder who helped him with it.”

  “Uncle Ash doesn’t need anyone to help with his school work—he has the brains. My dad was always saying how Uncle Ash was tested in school and had a genius level IQ. I think Dad was kinda jealous, but he liked to throw it in Uncle Ash’s face that at least he finished high school.”

  Paisley leaned forward, her mind spinning with thoughts and questions. Genius IQ? Asher? The high school dropout?

  “Is that the paper that talks about my dad and his drugs? Uncle Ash hid the paper in the kitchen, but I found it. He’s shy about that stuff—thinks he can protect me from the reality of the world.” Izzy chewed her fingernail. “It’s stupid, though. I mean, I’m thirteen. Not a baby. I know more than he thinks I know.”