Because best case means my leap of faith was worth it, and I get to keep the man I spent a year trying to pretend meant nothing to me.
An hour or so later, after I’ve procrastinated as much as I can, I head into the living area to the enticing scents of garlic and tomatoes. Asher is standing at the stove with his back to me when I enter, so I take a moment to appreciate just how well he fills out those pants.
“Something smells good,” I call out, inhaling deeply and humming my approval as I claim a seat at the counter.
He glances over his shoulder and offers me a sexy grin. “Perfect timing. You want a glass of wine?” he asks as he serves up spaghetti into large pasta bowls.
“Erm…okay, sure.” I don’t normally drink at lunchtime, but I could do with something to take the edge off.
I sit quietly, watching him move around the kitchen with confidence as he places a bowl in front of me, followed by some silverware and a glass of red wine.
“Thank you. I can’t remember the last time someone cooked for me,” I admit, twisting up a forkful.
“Well, don’t get too excited. I have about five dishes that I’m pretty good at making and everything else is hit and miss. Plus, I work odd hours, so nine times out of ten, I order something in.”
“It’s the same for me. Takeout is just so much easier, and I’m the first to admit there is no fun in cooking for one.”
“Well, now, you have me,” he points out, his eyes on mine, making my skin tingle with awareness.
Sliding a forkful of food into my mouth, I moan in appreciation when the flavors explode on my tongue. “Damn, this is good.” I hadn’t realized how hungry I was before with all the butterflies in my stomach.
His eyes heat at my moan, staring hungrily at my lips as I suck up the spaghetti, making my skin feel warm.
“Do you have work tonight?” he asks, and I don't miss the way his body tenses as he waits for my answer.
“No, I’m off for the next two nights,” I tell him warily.
“How much of your wine would end up over my head if I broached the subject of you giving up the bartender gig?”
“I wouldn't waste perfectly good wine. Especially when you already know what my answer will be.”
He sighs and places his fork on his plate before resting his elbows on the table and lacing his fingers together.
“Would you be able to take a sabbatical? Just for three months. When you decide to stay, we can revisit this. I don’t want to try and take over. I just have a deal on the line at work, and they are very, very traditional in their way of thinking.”
“Okay, first of all, nobody takes a sabbatical from being a bartender,” I roll of my eyes. “I’m either employed or not, that's about as close to a sabbatical as it gets. Secondly, I never said I was staying, so stop putting the cart before the horse.”
“You’ll stay. I’ll win you over, I have no doubt,” he measures me confidently as if there is simply no other option for him.
His confidence should piss me off, and maybe it does a little, but I’d be lying to myself if I didn't admit that it also makes me feel hot in all the right places.
“I don’t want to leave my job.” I twist the napkin in my lap, worried about losing myself in him and this agreement, which might only be temporary.
His face falls but he doesn’t push it. I think about what he said, though. He’s not asking me to quit just to put a pin in it. Whatever deal he has in the pipeline is bound to be worth substantially more than whatever money I will lose by not slinging drinks for three months. He’s given me a space to do my art, moved me into a penthouse apartment, and offered to get me a studio if this doesn’t work out. How can I really say no when he’s asking for so little?
“I’ll ask my boss if I can take some time off,” I say quietly.
“Really?” his eyebrows shoot up.
“Yeah, let me see what he says. If this doesn’t work out, I still need to be able to pay my bills. I can’t really afford to quit and risk being out of work for however long it takes me to find something else.
“I’ll pay alimony,” he offers immediately.
“No, that's not what I’m after. I didn’t marry you for your wallet, and while we’re on the subject, I’m never going to be okay with spending your hard-earned money without contributing something.”
“Are you always this stubborn?” he questions with a shake of his head.
“Why yes, yes, I am,” I answer with a smile of my own.
He may as well know what he’s getting himself into.
Thirteen
Asher
As Linda cleaned up the mess I made while cooking, I arranged for a service to pack up the rest of her things and have them brought here.
Now I need to head into the office for a few hours and I find myself strangely reluctant to do so.
“Hey, Linda, I need to go to the office for a while. Are you going to be okay here by yourself?”
She turns to look at me with a frown on her face. “Will I be okay playing Rapunzel up in your penthouse tower for a few hours? Hmm…I’m not sure. I might break a nail or something.”
“All right, smartass, I was just asking.”
“Go, do your thing. I promise not to burn the place down while you're gone.”
I have the insane urge to pull her into my arms and kiss the fuck out of her, but it’s too soon. After somehow managing to convince her to stay, I don't want her to run the first chance she gets.
“Fair enough. I won't be gone long.” I hover for a moment before she shoos me away.
I head to the office on autopilot, barely grunting hello to any of my staff as I make my way up to my floor.
“I didn’t think you were coming in today, sir.” Rosa greets me as I pass her desk outside my door.
“I wasn’t planning on it, but something came up, and you know I get restless without touching base. Do me a favor, will you? Hold all calls for me. I’m not going to be here long and don't want to be disturbed unless it's an emergency.
“No problem, Mr. Sloan. Oh, there are messages from Mr. Morgan and Mr. Baxter for you to return their calls.”
“Thanks, Rosa. How’s that grandbaby of yours?” I ask conversationally as I open the door to my office.
“A gorgeous little terror, much like her mother was at the same age.” She chuckles.
“I’ll bet,” I say with a smile of my own before closing myself inside and heading straight to my phone.
I call my lawyer first and arrange for him to come by the penthouse tomorrow with a basic contract between Linda and me. Next, I call Graham. His phone barely rings before he picks up.
“Tell me how it went,” he orders as I sit in my chair and gaze out at the clear blue sky.
“Better than I had anticipated. Linda is, as we speak, making herself at home in my penthouse, where she has agreed to stay for the next three months,” I say with a smug smile.
He’s silent for a moment. In fact, he’s quiet for so long, I pull the phone from my ear to check that the call didn't drop.
“Are you sure about this? You don’t know anything about her, and it's clear from what you’ve said about her financial situation that you have far more to lose in this scenario than she does,” he points out.