The Fortunate Ones
Page 25

That thought makes me laugh. “And most of it I found on the side of the street.”
That surprises him. “Really? That bookshelf?”
I beam. “Yup. I sanded it down and repainted it.”
He nods, impressed. “Maybe I’ll commission you to furnish this place.”
I snort. “Yeah right. This is the sort of house you fill with Eames armchairs and Rothko originals.”
“I’m more of a paint-by-numbers kind of guy.”
I laugh at the absurdity of that statement. “Yeah, right. I’ll make sure to bring you one the next time I see you.”
He smiles and crosses his arms, leaning back against the counter on the other side of the island. I take in the black lounge pants and Caltech t-shirt he changed into. The dark gray material looks like it’s been washed a million times, soft and worn. His feet are bare, which is adorable in its own right.
Then it hits me, like a stiff punch to the gut—I AM IN JAMES ASHWOOD’S HOUSE. I’m in his kitchen, hanging out, and he feels so comfortable he’s not even wearing socks!
Maybe he’s noticed that I’ve gone silent, but he doesn’t try to coax me out of it. It’s infuriating, how comfortable he is in his own skin. I’m squirming on his barstool with a bourbon-soaked sleeve, sifting through lame topics of conversation until I land on one that is probably inappropriate, but interesting nonetheless.
I decide to lead into it slowly, so I don’t spook him and his bare feet—and no, I don’t have a weird foot fetish. Except, maybe I do…he does have nice feet…
“What’s on your mind?” he asks.
Your stupid feet.
“Oh, um, I was actually wondering about your last girlfriend? Someone told me she had a drug problem or something?”
Well, so much for leading into it slowly.
He sighs, like the subject still weighs heavily on him. “I’m guessing you mean Rebecca?”
Shouldn’t he know who his last girlfriend was?
“Um, I guess so? Pretty blonde?”
“Yeah, that’s Rebecca. We weren’t anything serious.”
Silence follows, which means if I want answers, I’m going to have to ask the questions outright.
“And she was into drugs?”
He clears his throat and stalls, clearly irritated by the topic. “Among other things.” He’s focused on a point just over my shoulder, and maybe I should take his closed-off demeanor as a sign to change the subject, but I’m interested. I want to know if he’s truly single or if he has a druggie ex-girlfriend who keeps him up at night. “It was a hard time. Rebecca and I weren’t together long, but those few weeks happened to coincide with her downward spiral. When we first started dating, I didn’t even realize she was using.”
“Wow.”
“She’s doing well now. Last I heard, she was in California at a rehab facility.” He frowns and drags his hands through his hair. “I don’t know. I’m coming off callous about the whole thing, but I hardly knew her. She was my date for a few public functions. I never even brought her here.”
My heart is a drum during a Dave Grohl solo—THUMP KICK POUND THUMP KICK POUND.
“So you only bring certain women here?” I ask, probing just a liiiiittttle further.
His eyes meet mine, and I’m surprised to find a hint of amusement there. “As you can see, it’s not some big prize. In fact, I think you might be the only woman I’ve ever brought here.”
SWOON.
“Because you’re embarrassed by your red plastic cups?” I quip, because I’m incapable of enduring an intimate moment without making a joke.
His focus shifts to his stack of disposable cups and then back to me. “Well, most of the time they invite me back to their place.”
REVERSE SWOON. Of course. I hadn’t even considered that.
“Oh. So none of the women you’ve been involved with have asked to come here?”
“In my line of work, you get pretty good at saying no. I’m not into the idea of someone moving in and spending a bunch of money decorating a place I hardly spend time in.”
I grin. “So you just leave it empty. You’re either a much simpler creature than I thought you were, or you’re deeply troubled.”
“Probably a little of both. What about you?”
I lean back on the barstool, as if I’m trying to put distance between myself and whatever question he’s about to ask.
“What about me?”
“You mentioned a boyfriend a few weeks ago. Are you still seeing him?”
“Seeing him? Yes. He lives at the co-op with me. Dating him? No.”
My focus is pinned on the countertop, so I can’t tell if he smiles when he says, “Thanks for the clarification.”
Then I remember something that will amuse him even more.
“You know, he was actually at the window the night you picked me up for that party.”
His brows rise in surprise. “So he saw you in that dress?”
My cheeks flush. “No. I had the coat on, remember?”
He nods, and I swear I see him replaying that night in his head. I wonder if he remembers the dress like I do. The feel of it against my skin is hard to forget, even when I want nothing more than to put that entire night behind me.
I shift on my barstool and wince when my tank top brushes across the seatbelt burn on my chest.
“Oh shit,” he says, pushing off the counter. “I can’t believe I just remembered. Do you want something for the pain?”
I glance down at my chest and am surprised at how angry and raw the scratches look around my tank top. Under my gaze, the skin seems to throb even more. “Yeah, I guess so. It wasn’t hurting too much until I looked down at it.”
He tells me to stay put, and I do. I learned my lesson last time, and I don’t think he’d buy it if I said I was searching for a bathroom a second time. He comes back quickly with a small, rattling bottle of Tylenol. I expect him to hand it over, but instead, he fills a small glass of water and doles out two pills into the palm of my hand. His hand grips mine to keep it steady so the pills don’t fall onto the ground. It’s something you’d do for a child, but I don’t mind him touching me, and I don’t mind how close he is now compared to earlier. He was standing half a kitchen away from me, but now we’d be toe to toe if I weren’t sitting on the stool.
When I’m finished taking the medicine, he takes the glass and sets it on the countertop. Even though he’s done playing nurse, he doesn’t move away. His attention is on my chest, and I will my breathing to slow down when he reaches out gently, brushing his fingertip across my skin, just barely touching the edge of the wound.
“How badly does it hurt?” he asks. “One to ten.”
My breath catches in my throat when his fingertips brush across my collarbone.
Does what hurt? Him touching me?
It burns.
I shake my head, aware that it doesn’t really answer his question, but it’s the best I can do right now. I don’t trust my voice with words.
His fingers brush higher, up near my shoulder, and they light a fire beneath them. My stomach squeezes tight, and my chest is rising and falling so fast it feels like I’m spiraling through the car accident all over again.
It would be different if his touch was hard and deep, but this thing he’s doing feels more like torture. The light drag of fingertips across my skin means I can’t control the goose bumps or the shiver that rolls down my spine.
Every nerve ending in my body is focused on his movements, on where they might go.
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
He shakes his head. “It’ll leave a bruise, I’m sure.”
He seems pissed by the notion and drops his hand, turning away to drop my glass in the sink. In the blink of an eye, the atmosphere in his kitchen has shifted. There’s enough pressure brewing in the space to kick-start a hurricane. I can’t stand the awkwardness, and I consider trying to bring the conversation back to the pleasant topics from earlier, but it seems futile. Besides, who am I kidding? I am currently equal parts hot and bothered, all because James platonically stroked my clavicle. It’s embarrassing, and my opaque cloud of emotions suddenly crystallizes into an intense urge to flee. I’m afraid to find out just how much sway James has over my libido.