He turns, his eyes alight with amusement. “We can talk on the way to the worksite.”
I take a step forward. “Why do I need to come with you?”
“Because,” he says with exaggerated patience. “One fuck or two fucks, they aren’t going to pay for what your daddy owes me. It’s going to take a lot more than that.”
“So you want… what? An assistant.”
His laugh is molten steel. “Yes. Exactly. You’re going to assist me.”
“Bullshit. You want to show me off so the whole city knows my father owes you money. You want to humiliate my family, but I’m not going to let you do that.”
“You aren’t?”
“What kind of fool do you take me for? I’m not going to agree to any deal that’s indefinite or that harms our ability to do business in the future. If you want me to pay with my body? Fine. Then you tell me exactly how many nights it will take to work off the money.”
He turns to look back at the cherry blossoms. “It would have been easier for you if your father told you.”
Suspicion is a dark churn in my stomach. “Told me what?”
“That there’s no end date.”
“He wouldn’t have—” My throat is too tight to speak. He wouldn’t have made a deal like that, except I didn’t think he would make a deal like this either. I’m not sure what my father’s capable of anymore.
I look around the room with fresh eyes, seeing the incredible quality of artwork displayed here. Art I’ve seen in studios around the city. Artists I recognize who work out of New York City and London. He drives a completely ordinary truck. He wears ordinary clothes, but he has art like this hanging on his wall. This is the kind of wealth that isn’t meant to show off. It’s been spent on things he enjoys.
And I’m becoming very afraid that I’m his latest acquisition.
“What would my father have told me?” I ask, relieved that my voice doesn’t shake.
“This isn’t for one night. Or two.” He turns to face me, his expression grave. “It’s for your hand in marriage. We’re engaged, beautiful. We’re going to be married.”
I stare at him, uncomprehending. “But that’s impossible.”
A humorless smile. “Because I’m a dirty construction worker and you’re the beautiful June Li?”
“My father would have told me that.”
“He was supposed to. And last night? I was going to have a conversation with you. Instead you acted like I was beneath the dirt on your shoes. And your father pretended like I was some kind of monster.”
My chest feels tight. “I didn’t know.”
“No. You didn’t. It wasn’t your fault, but I suppose I felt like punishing you for that, so I acted like I was there to fuck you for a few thousand dollars a pop.” Another hollow laugh. “Of course, I didn’t realize that the scariest thing for you would be marriage to me.”
This is the man from my foyer last night, the one uncompromising and almost cruel. Part of me wants to reassure him. It comes from hurt, this coldness. Except what he’s saying is too true to deny. It is terrifying to realize I’ve been married away without my consent, in this century.
Terrifying that it could have happened without me even knowing.
Oh, I’m sure I could refuse to get married at the altar. I don’t think my situation is so far gone that I can’t. But what would I do if I’m not honoring my father? I’m supposed to be the good daughter. I’ve lost my family and my identity in one night.
“Let’s go,” Asher says, his voice like steel. He opens the front door and makes a mocking bow for me to step through. “It’s time to go to work.”
He means his worksite, where he shows up on time so his men don’t get the idea they can be late. And he also means work for me, because that’s what this marriage has become. My obligation. My duty. The only way to honor a heritage I believe in—to marry a man who sees me as an object to acquire.
CHAPTER SIX
Cherry blossom flower petals are edible. You can bake them in cakes, pickle them as a garnish, or brew them in tea. Häagen-Dazs sells a cherry blossom ice cream.
Asher Cook is in his element on a worksite. He speaks to his crew with a natural sense of command, and they look to him for leadership. And he’s not above getting his hands dirty.
We’re only at the half-constructed building for twenty minutes before he has a tool belt wrapped around narrow hips and a hard hat on his head. Something is wrong in the ceiling, or so I deduce from the general waving of hands. I’ve been deposited in the corner where I can be out of the way.
“Stay here,” he tells me in a gruff tone without meeting my eyes.
He does not wait for anything as mundane as a ladder.
Instead he jumps to clasp the edge of the ceiling beam, then levers himself up with strength I can only admire. He flips himself onto the beam and then walks to the other end, as casual on the ground as he is twenty feet above it. I have to force myself to unclench my fists. It could be concern for any passing stranger, but I know it’s not. I know it’s more. Something changed between me and Asher.
It’s not just about sex anymore. And it’s not just about duty.
Which is why I don’t obey him.
I wait until he turns around—still twenty feet off the ground and on the other side of the floor. That’s when I stand up and stretch. Even from this far away his gaze caresses me with undeniable heat. My nipples pebble against the fabric. They won’t be visible beneath the texture of the cable knit sweater, but I pull it over my head, leaving me in only the thin ivory camisole.
There’s more than just one dark gaze on me now. Many of the men are looking at me. They don’t dare say anything, not since I came with Asher Cook. I’m not a lost little lamb in a school girl outfit. No, I’m a woman now. And my nipples press proudly against the silk, declaring my readiness.
The problems in the ceiling aren’t the focus of the men anymore.
Conversation quiets and then becomes ringing silence.
My cheeks burn, but I started this for a reason. Because my father could have introduced me to Asher at a dinner party, he could have asked me to date him, he could have even told me to marry him. I would have done it as the good daughter. Instead he sabotaged any chance of a normal relationship.
If I asked him why, he would say it was for the family honor.
I know the truth. It was cowardice. And this? My heart beating faster, my chest rising and falling, my nipples proud and firm beneath the thin silk? This takes courage.
My arms reach above my head, stretching for the world to see. It could not be more blatant. Even though I’m wearing plaid slacks and my hair is done in a bun, it could not be more sexual. Even if I were stripping at a club in a thong I could not feel more inviting than this.
That’s how I turn away from the men, feeling their desire like a tether—and then snap.
Walking away from it. Someone will follow.
I stride blindly down a half-built corridor, not knowing where to go from here. This is how I ran away from the men all those years ago, my heart beating too fast, my body thrumming with urges I didn’t fully understand. It’s different now, because I’m running toward something.