Stay With Me Page 15

  “Even the CEO?”

  “Yep, even me. Especially me.” He laughs without any humor behind it. “Sometimes you just need a few hours to blow off steam. Play hooky with me. I need to recharge.”

  He gives me the soft-eyed look that melts me every damn time. He has to know how effective it is because he uses it often. Usually when we’re fussing over what show to watch on Netflix. I’ve watched more Star Trek than I thought I ever would. He can convince me to do anything with that look, but I don’t have an equivalent tool besides showing my cleavage, which only fucks with both of our heads.

  “Okay, fine. Let me send an email or two.” I whip out my phone and tell my boss I have to ‘run errands.’ She’ll probably be annoyed, but it’s not like she could tell me not to. I get a little rush from it. I’ve taken mental health days in the past when I was supposed to go in, but I usually stay in my apartment, just in case I somehow run into someone I work with in my neighborhood. It’s an irrational fear since logically they should still be at work, but not strictly following the rules makes me paranoid. With Ash, I feel like I can break free a little bit.

  “Great. Have you heard of that interactive dog art installation near Barclays Center?” he asks.

  “No, but you had me at ‘dog art installation’.”

  A little smile brightens his whole face. “Let’s get Sarge and go.”

  The art installation is one of many that have popped up around the city in the past few years—basically, it’s an Instagram-picture paradise. The line outside is down the block, with people and their dogs chatting excitedly about what’s inside. Sarge sits patiently beside Ash’s feet, his tail wagging hard and fast whenever another dog approaches, while Ash and I people and dog watch.

  “Look at that little poodle,” I whisper as its owner walks past us. The dog and the owner are wearing coordinated outfits, with the dog’s bandana pattern matching the owner’s shirt. “Why is he more fashionable than me?”

  “That dog probably has a masseuse on speed dial,” Ash remarks, snickering. “He looks too pampered.”

  “How can a dog look too pampered?” I laugh. “Also, Sarge goes to a fancy doggy daycare, and you get the blow-by-blow of everything he does via text. He gets more treats than I did in my entire childhood in the span of a week. Isn’t that pampering your dog too much? Just because he’s a mutt doesn’t mean he can get away with being fancy.”

  He looks down at me, humor in his eyes. “Touché.”

  “And also, this is the most bougie dog event ever to exist,” I continue, stepping forward when the line moves. “These dogs are living the life. There’s not one dog here who isn’t pampered to hell and back.”

  When we get to the front of the line we see the actual art space is a dog paradise. There are ball pits filled with squeaky toys, stuffed animals they can take with them, treats, colorful Instagram-ready art pieces like fake cars for them to put their heads out of with a fan blowing onto their faces, and ball pits that resemble dog food.

  The air is filled with the sound of squeaky toys and barking. It’s completely ridiculous, but Sarge loves it. He hops on every platform, runs through every obstacle course, and proudly walks around with his new toys, generously donated to the exhibit by corporate sponsors, jammed into his mouth all at once.

  A weight seems to be lifted off of Ash’s shoulders, just being there. Something must have been bothering him—not that he would tell me without prompting—but having a moment outside of the office is the cure. Is it his work? He doesn’t talk about it much, but it does take up a lot of his time. Or is it his father? He mentioned that he’s sick, but maybe he’s gotten worse. His dad issues aren’t something he ever wants to talk about.

  “Get in there with him, Ash,” I say, pointing at a gigantic bone on a patch of fake grass that comes up to our knees. “I want to take a picture.”

  Ash looks at me with his eyebrows raised. “I’m not going to get in there.”

  “Come on. Be fun for once.” I hold up my phone. “Do it for the ‘Gram.”

  “I’m not doing shit for Instagram.”

  “But what about for Sarge?” I point to the dog, who is looking up at his owner with pure adoration, his ears perked up. “He’s such a good boy. Look at that face.”

  Ash sighs and looks at his dog, whose tail wags even harder when he realizes he’s being looked at. Ash eventually crawls down on the ground, pulling Sarge next to him. I grin and kneel to get the picture. He manages a smirk while Sarge looks everywhere but the camera. I finally get one good, goofy one where Ash has his tongue out like a child in protest and Sarge is actually focused on the camera, with one ear perked up.

  It’s the cutest photo I’ve ever taken. Ash rarely looks so goofy, but it suits him. There’s something about a hot guy letting go of his need to remain good-looking that makes him even more attractive.

  I show it to him, grinning. “I want to post this on Instagram. It’s too cute not to.”

  “Is your Instagram private?” he asks, leaning over my shoulder.

  “Yep.”

  “Fine.” He pulls out his phone. “Can you send me that picture?”

  “You love it, don’t you?”

  His lips are pressed together, holding back a smile. “It’s a nice picture.”

  “You love it, you dog dad.” I send him the picture, then post it on my Instagram. “You should get it framed.”

  “And put it where? Not in my office. I’d get laughed out of the building.” He puts his phone back once he confirms he’s gotten the photo.

  “I dunno. In your house somewhere,” I shrug. “You don’t have any photos around.”

  “I’m not big on them.” He clips Sarge’s leash back on. “I didn’t have a very photo-worthy childhood.”

  He doesn’t sound sad—just matter of fact.

  “You’ve been an adult a lot longer than you’ve been a child. I’m sure you have some nice ones from college or the military. Pictures of your friends, places you’ve been. They’re nice to have around.”

  He makes a little dismissive sound, avoiding my gaze. “I suppose.”

  That’s Ash-code for ‘I’m done with this conversation’, so I leave it alone. Did I hit a nerve? He has friends and is on good terms with them. Maybe he doesn’t care, but I’ve gotten to know him well in the past few months. He’s an avoidance pro.

  We walk through the last few installations. The last one is a room filled with TV screens low to the ground, with videos of squirrels playing and tennis balls bouncing. Sarge doesn’t care about it in the slightest. He looks a little beat from running around and slides down to his belly, panting gently. I put his new toys in my bag, and we leave the exhibit.

  “Let’s get ice cream,” I suggest once we get outside. It’s mid-afternoon, and the September warmth is sticky and heavy. “I’m craving it.”

  “Seems like a good thing to do when you’re skipping out on work.” He slides his sunglasses on. “Why not?”

  There’s an amazing ice cream place not far from where we are, so we walk there with Sarge in comfortable silence. Ash isn’t chatty, but our silences don’t always feel this natural. I feel at ease with him, like we’re actually together. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a boyfriend, yeah, but I can’t forget how being with someone you really like sometimes feels as easy as being by yourself.

  I grip the strap of my bag, ignoring the dull ache in my breasts when I jostle them. We basically are on a date, but I know I’m the only one who thinks of it that way. The thought makes me surprisingly and almost overwhelmingly annoyed.

  I must be PMS-ing. There’s no other explanation for my sudden craziness and all-around gross physical state. At least my periods aren’t much of a hassle with the birth control. Ash and I don’t share a bathroom except for the downstairs one, but I’ll probably do my girl stuff in there at some point. I shouldn’t be embarrassed about it, but I am. He’s a grown man, one who isn’t squeamish at that.

  “You okay?” Ash
asks, stopping in front of the ice cream place. The doors are open to let the air through, so he steps in. It’s dog-friendly, so no one bats an eye at Sarge.

  “What?”

  “You look flushed.” He studies my face and neck, frowning.

  “I’m fine.” I busy myself with a paper menu, even though it’s also up on the wall above the counter. What’s my deal? I’m not the anxious type.

  “What do you want?” he asks.

  I feel ravenous all of a sudden. “Basically everything.”

  “I’m guessing you don’t want to share again?” he smirks, taking the menu. “You almost stabbed me with a fork at lunch.”

  “It was good! And I was practicing self-defense.” I gently elbow him in the ribs. “You were going to eat up all the injera.”

  “Sure, sure.” He holds the menu open for both of us. We order six different flavors between the two of us, plus one ‘pup-cream’ for Sarge and sit outside on a bench. The dog obliterates his serving in two bites before we can even dig into ours.

  The afternoon sun feels just warm enough on my skin to be pleasurable, and with the contrast of the cool ice cream, I feel refreshed. It really does feel like a vacation day—I haven’t checked my work email in hours and neither has Ash.

  “Wait, how are you totally off your email?” I ask him, letting some Tahitian vanilla ice cream melt over my tongue. There are little chunks of lemon sponge cake in it. It’s divine. “Won’t things implode without you? I’m hardly ever at work, and I’m terrified of what’s going on in my inbox.”

  He mixes a bit of strawberry ice cream with some chocolate before spooning it into his mouth. “If my company fell apart because I wasn’t on email for an afternoon, I’d be a shitty CEO. I trust everyone can make good decisions. That’s why I hired them in the first place.”

  “Can you please tell my boss that? She acts like I’m a total moron sometimes,” I lament. “I swear, I can’t wait until I can walk into her office and tell her I’m quitting.”

  “Why does she think you’re a moron? Why doesn’t she trust you?” he asks.

  “I think she knows I don’t care that much. I get everything done on time, and well, so she can’t just fire me, but my heart’s not in it.” I slump, letting go of my spoon. “It just feels like I’m stuck there forever.”

  “Nothing’s ever permanent. I’m sure BloomBrightly will get some backers sooner than you think and you’ll be out of there.” He gently pushes Sarge’s nose away from his ice cream with his knee. “It’s a great idea.”

  I actually flush from embarrassment this time, and he notices. “There are a lot of great ideas that crash and burn. The worst thing I could imagine would be having to crawl back to my old job and ask for it back if we fail.”

  “And there are a lot that survive.” He quickly steals a bit of my vanilla before I can stop him. I give him a dirty look, which he brushes off with a boyish grin. “There are always risks involved in starting something new, but what would you regret more—doing it and failing, or not doing it at all?”

  Even with the shadow of the building across the street coming over his eyes, his gaze is intense. I get goosebumps, and it isn’t just the ice cream. Am I imagining it, or could what he said apply to whatever we are, too? Dating Ash would be a massive risk to my heart, but the more I spend time with him, the more I really, really like him. Sure, I can go through life putting him in the celebrity crush zone, but I would regret not trying to talk to him about our relationship at least once.

  My heart flutters in my chest. There’s a strong chance I’m reading into this too far. I need Zara’s opinion, but she isn’t going to be in the city until tomorrow. I focus on my ice cream again, shoving the thoughts aside.

  “I would regret not trying,” I finally say.

  “There you go.” He bumps my shoulder with his. “It’ll be fine. It might hurt, but you can get back up and try again.”

  We’re quiet again, the air between us suddenly feeling heavy. I polish off my ice cream and even manage to steal a little of Ash’s. He doesn’t protest. We don’t even say much on the walk home. Once we get inside, Sarge runs out into the backyard, and Chunk comes sauntering in from his spot on the guest bed.

  “Want a beer or something?” Ash calls back from the kitchen.

  “Maybe some water? It was really warm out.” I kick off my shoes and join him in the kitchen.

  He pours me a glass of water and cracks open a beer, leaning against the massive kitchen island. I pound my water way faster than I should.

  “Thirsty?” he asks, deadpan.

  “Yeah, a bit.” I hop up on the counter. I’m only an inch or two shorter than him up here. “Being out in the sun does that to me.”

  “You’re a little pink.” He touches my arm with the back of his hand, sending electricity shooting all over my body.

  “Sunburn-level pink, or something that’ll fade into a decent tan?” I ask, keeping my voice from trembling.

  He looks over my body, assessing rather than sexualizing. It still makes me pleasantly tingly. “It’ll probably fade into a decent tan.”

  “Good.” I fiddle with my water glass, trying to not check Ash out. “Thank you.”

  “For helping you avoid skin cancer?” he laughs, taking a long sip of beer. I love the way his eyes get a little twinkle in them whenever he quips back at me.

  “No, for today. It was really fun.” I put my cup down. “I didn’t realize I needed a break.”

  “You’ve been through some shit lately, so I’m happy I could help,” he says, putting his beer down. The way he’s leaning against the counter makes his muscles shift under his skin. We’re close enough to touch each other.

  I look up at him, thinking of what he said earlier. There’s clearly something between us, and the only thing stopping it from happening is our baggage. I can’t do the hook-up thing, but that is all he does. Or has done, since I haven’t heard him bring anyone home since I’ve moved in, and he hasn’t done a walk of shame into the brownstone at 6 a.m.

  But he knows how we feel together. We’re friends who have hooked up more than once, heat-of-the-moment style, and we get along really, really well. Why not make it happen?

  So, impulsively, I grab his shirt, pulling him to me, and kiss him.

  He’s surprised, which almost makes me pull away, but soon he’s kissing me back. They aren’t rushed or intense like our past kisses. They just feel good, like we’re perfectly in sync with each other. Tingles radiate from every point of contact we have, bubbling into a mass of pure joy in my chest.

  I cup the back of his neck the way he’d done to me in the past and rest my other hand on his warm cheek. He steps closer, holding me like I’m delicate and moments from falling apart. His body is warm and comforting. I can stay here forever.

  He wraps his strong hands around my hips, gripping me tightly. I shift my weight, opening my legs, and he steps between them, leaning forward against the counter as I continue to plant kisses all the way up his neck and chin. My whole body is shuddering as a million emotions run through me, but now all I can think of is how much I want Ash. And how much I know he wants me.

  I dig my fingernails into his shoulders, holding on for dear life as he caresses me and runs his hands up from my hips to my sides and firmly grasps my breasts. He lowers his head, brushing kisses all the way down my neckline and into my cleavage. Every slight touch of his lips sends shockwaves of pleasure through me.

  He sighs softly and reaches one hand low, softly rubbing against the delicate skin of my inner thighs. The heat I’ve been feeling in my sex ratchets up in intensity as he brushes two fingers against the outside of my cotton panties, delicately teasing me.

  Completely lost in the moment, I reach down for the waistband of his pants, gripping his belt. I’ve halfway-unbuckled it, my hands shaking with need when Ash stands up straight and paralyzes me with that intense gaze once again.

  And then it’s over, almost as quickly as it started. He steps b
ack from me, his hand on my shoulder.

  “We can’t, Briony,” he gasps, barely in control of himself. He grabs my empty cup and his bottle, then goes to put them in their correct spaces as if nothing happened. The sudden loss of his body heat chills me.

  “Why not, Ash?” I snap, an anger switch flipping on inside me. “Clearly there’s something going on here. We wouldn’t keep making out if there wasn’t.”

  He sighs and rests his palms on the sides of the sink, facing away from me.

  “But that’s the problem. I do like you, but I know myself. If we started to date, I’d get bored, or too busy, or I’d feel too claustrophobic. And I’m not the kind of guy who could give you what you want.”

  “I want you, though,” I say weakly.

  “And you want a boyfriend. I’m not the boyfriend type, because the boyfriend type eventually becomes the husband type, and I am definitely not that.”

  He finally turns around, staring straight at me again. That intense gaze has something else running through it now. Something I don’t recognize from Ash. Sadness? Pain? “I’ll break your heart eventually, guaranteed. I already did it once. I’m not the kind of guy who settles down. I’m not starting anything with you because I really like you. I want to be your friend for a long time and dating you would take that away.”

  I burst out laughing, even though I’m also moments from crying. “That’s the biggest crock of shit I’ve ever heard in my life! Oh my fucking god, Ash. There’s not enough time in the world for me to express how stupid that is. But to boil things down, you’re rejecting me now because of what you think you might do?”

  His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t say anything. He just puts my cup in the sink and picks up his bottle again, picking at the label.

  “And weren’t you just saying something about taking risks and wondering if you’d regret not trying? Literally less than two hours ago?” I hop off the counter. My energy has quickly left the building, and I’m crashing fast. “Or does that only apply to business?”

  He doesn’t answer for a moment, still focused on the label.