Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 98243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
And that's a fucking problem.
Chapter 17
Ivy
Iswirl my wine around the glass goblet, lifting it to the dark sky above. Winter Games finished hours ago, yet no one has come home.
“I'm starting to think you just like me chasing you.” His voice hits me before I register his presence, but my body already knows.
“Nope. If that was the case, I'm pretty sure you wouldn't have disappeared on me.” The words taste bitter as the wine coating my tongue. I press the glass to my mouth, letting him see exactly what long periods of silence carved out of me.
So I let him finger-fuck me on a chair lift…
“Oh, we still on that?” He asks, arms crossing over his chest. “You seemed to forget all about our beef just a few hours ago?”
I stare past him, at the treeline, like I can file the whole thing away so simply.
“That was altitude,” I say. “Low oxygen. Temporary insanity. You happened to be in the splash zone.”
His laugh is low, rough around the edges. “Right. Sure. Altitude made you ride my hand like that.”
My fingers tense around the stem of the glass. I keep my gaze fixed on the snow, but it’s too late. I’m back there. Cold air on my thighs. His tongue in my mouth. His breath in my ear when I came so hard I see spots.
“Don’t get cocky,” I mutter. “I was bored. You were there. Congratulations, you’re convenient.”
“Look at me, Ivy.”
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t.
I do.
His pupils widen, dragging my lungs tight. The room folds away, and all I see is his hand between my legs, his knuckles slick, his mouth against my neck telling me to be quiet.
Heat licks low in my belly.
I tear my eyes back to my wine. “See? I’m over it.”
“You’re shaking,” he says.
“From the cold.”
We both know I’m lying.
Somewhere between friendship and whatever this became, I grew dependent. I hate that. I hate that while I thought we were just having fun, something permanent took root. Something that won't dig itself out.
Liquid hits my tongue. Bitter. Unforgiving. Blackberries mixed with something sharper. Betrayal.
Another gulp.
He drops onto the spot beside me, the cushions sinking beneath his weight. I yank the blanket higher, fingers digging into worn fabric. I need to pull myself together if I have any chance at surviving this.
Focus on the snow. Every fall of flake that flies through the sky.
Fuck. That’s not going to work.
“I know why I’m awake this late,” I say, turning to him. I wish I didn’t. I should have stuck to the damn snowflakes. “But why are you?”
Jealousy isn't an emotion I'm familiar with. Never liked anyone enough to feel it. Not Parker. Not any man before him. Yet over the years, my stomach has twisted into knots whenever Asher was concerned. Always blamed it on bad digestion. Now I'm thinking I've been lying to myself for longer than I realize.
His eyes stay fixed on the fire in front of us, shadows carving deeper hollows beneath his jawline. My fingers itch to reach out and trace them.
“There's an image circulating online,” he finally says, his voice low. “Someone snapped us together.”
He flashes his phone at my face.
My eyes narrow for a fraction. Pathetic. I could give them better and they wouldn’t have to hang from whatever tree they took it from.
I chuckle. “You've posted clearer photos than that of us on your Instagram.”
Asher turns to me, his brow furrowed. “It's not just that. The speculation. If they dug enough…”
I roll my eyes, taking another sip of wine. “They'll find nothing.” Because If things get too messy, Punk can make any digital trace disappear with a few keystrokes.
I study Asher more closely, noticing the dark circles under his eyes, the tightness around his mouth. “You look like shit,” I say bluntly, trying to redraw the line of friendzone. “When's the last time you slept?”
He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up in that way that always makes my fingers itch to smooth it back down. “I don't know. A while.”
Asher's silent again, his gaze fixed on the fire. The light dances across his face, betraying his inner turmoil. Part of me wants to reach out, to offer some kind of comfort. But that's not who we are. Not what we do.
Instead, I pick up my wine glass again, draining the last of it. “So, what are you going to do about the photo?”
He turns to me, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Why? Worried about your reputation?”
I snort. “Please. My reputation can handle a lot worse than being seen with you.”
“Gee, thanks,” he says dryly, warmth seeping into his voice for the first time in weeks.
I sigh, smirking. “Who is Asher Jameson?”
He chuckles, edging farther into the bouclé sofa, spreading his knees wide in a way that takes up every inch of available space. The movement is deliberate, claiming territory. “The question everyone wants to know.”