“Have you ever thought about expanding?”

Dana, looks up from the box of coffee cups she was unpacking. “Expanding?”

“Yeah,” I reply. “This place gets packed and since there are only a few places to sit, they leave as soon as their coffee is ready. If you had room for more chairs people would stay longer.”

Dana smirks. “Maybe it's a good thing they get their cup of Joe and go. Why would I ever want them to stick around?”

“The longer they stay, the more coffee they’ll drink.”

She lowers her gaze back down to the box. “I sell enough coffee right now.”

“What would be bad about selling more and growing your business?”

She flips the cardboard flaps to the box shut with a huff. “Maybe I don't wanna grow my business. Maybe I'm perfectly happy with how it is right now.”

“You've never even considered it?” I ask, my eyes roaming around the little coffee shop.

“I knew you'd be a pain in my ass the second I hired you,” she replies.

“What's that supposed to mean?” I snap.

She rests a hip against the counter and gestures toward me, starting at my feet and moving upward until she reaches my face. “Fancy hair and clothes, I knew it'd be a matter of time before I'd have to deal with fancy ideas coming out of your mouth as well.”

Deciding against responding to her comments on my appearance, I focus on what she said about my idea. “I'd hardly call having room for some more tables fancy.”

“There's nothing wrong with things the way they are.”

I don't need to look around the shop again to point out the out-dated wood paneling, chipped Formica counter, and lack of supply storage space in addition to the woeful seating area. Dana is too much like my mother, unable to consider change even if it would improve her situation.

“Fine, forget I said anything,” I reply, untying the back strings of my apron.

“Any plans for the rest of your afternoon?”

For the first time this week I can say something other than, go see to mom. “I need to run to the post office and grocery store for Asher Thompson. I'm going to swing by and check on mom first.”

Where Dana would normally say tell your mom I hope her leg is feeling better, she instead sighs. “Oh, if I was thirty years younger I'd make a fool of myself over that man or one of his brothers.”

“What?” I laugh, caught completely off guard by her words. Then, somewhat collecting myself, I hone in on something she said. “He has brothers?”

She chuckles, pulling the last sleeve of takeaway cups from the box and shoving them onto a shelf. “Three of them.”

Before I can help myself I inquire, “Do they all look as good as him?”

As I hook my apron on the door that leads to her back office and more supplies, she breaks down the box. “Yes.”

I pause to brace myself at the thought but say nothing in response. If I ever saw Asher Thompson with a clean-shaven face wearing a tailored suit, I'd probably melt into a puddle where I stood. It's a good thing he's so not my type. But, one of his brothers might be.

“Are they single?” I ask, only partly joking.

“Mrs. Thompson stops in every now and again. Last I heard from her, the oldest was married, the second oldest engaged, and the youngest a ladies’ man.”

“Just my luck,” I mumble.

She blinks at me. “Why on earth are you asking after the brothers when Asher is the handsomest of the bunch?”

I lift my hand and count out my response on my fingers. “One, I have no interest in Asher Thompson. Two, I was joking. And three, it's not like I'll be here long enough to get romantically involved with anyone anyway.”

“A lot can happen in a month and a half, you mark my words,” she replies.

“Well nothing is going to happen if I stand here gabbing with you all day,” I tease while grabbing my things.

“See you tomorrow.” She waves.

I drive my mom’s SUV to the grocery store. With Asher’s list in hand, I make my way up and down each aisle. It seemed strange that the list was exactly the same as last week, but my mom was adamant that's how he liked things.

For someone who lived so simply, he sure eats a lot of processed junk. Half the list was microwave meals. It's a miracle he eats this stuff day in a day out and looks as healthy as he does.

Part of me wants to turn my cart toward the produce section to load him up with fresh fruits and veggies.

Fresh tastes so much better than the canned versions on his list. Oh well, not my business and so not my problem. Helping Asher was a means to an end, and that end was padding my checking account.

I'm still undecided about where I'm headed. As much as I love California, it's just too expensive right now. More and more, I'm thinking Texas might be my new home. From what I've found searching online classifieds, I could rent out a basement or a spare room for around five hundred bucks a month.

If I can work my ass off between now and my mom’s cast coming off, I think I can swing first and last month’s rent plus one or two months extra. It’ll take forever to get out there but I can save money taking the bus or even a train instead of flying.

People are always looking for waitresses, so it shouldn't be impossible to find something once I get there.

Sinking this low sucks but it's my reality and as much as I would rather it not be true, I can't close my eyes and wish it away.

I'm thirty years old and broke. I'm the only one who can get myself out of this mess. It'd be nice to do it where no one knew who I was. Where no one knew exactly how far I'd fallen in my quest for greatness.

As much as losing my business, and the lifestyle it afforded me sucked, I learned some valuable lessons. When, not if, I crawl out of this hole and start a new business, I will stay small and allow my business to grow slowly. No more skyrocketing to the top, thank you very much.

It's with this determination coursing through my veins that I finish his grocery shopping and then load everything into the Explorer. The Post Office is on the way to his place so I pit stop there to collect his mail and a package for him.

The closer I get to his house, the more my resolve to do whatever it takes begins to falter. He’s paying twenty dollars an hour and since I make half that working for Dana, I needed this. It still sucks that I’d have to deal with him but the money is worth it.

My gut clenches as I make the turn onto his property. I'm not outdoorsy, but even I have to admit the lake is beautiful. Even its beauty can't dispel the frustration in having to deal with its owner.

According to my mom, in the past week he’s saved an infant from a burning building, cleaned the oceans of all pollution, and brokered a peace treaty in the Middle East. In truth, all he’s probably done is build a dresser.

Big whoop.

I park next to his Jeep and use my mom’s key to let myself in. I'm carrying in my first load of groceries when he appears.

Without so much as a hello (rude!) his gaze lands on my face. If I was a painter, hired to depict disappointed in a painting, all I'd need to do is recreate his current expression. Well, I'm not thrilled to see you either, furball.

Since I wasn't raised by wolves, I speak first. “Hello.”

He nods. Okay, seems he's gone mute. Fine, I don't want to talk to him either. I set the bags on the island and without another word, do an about face to get the next load. His footfalls behind me are my only clue that he's decided to help.

Since he's part giant, he carries the rest of the groceries in himself. Why this annoys me I don't know. Instead of dwelling on it, I summon my mental happy place and grab his mail and the package he received.

His back is to me when I walk back into his kitchen.

After noticing the sink full of plates, I decide to swallow my pride.

“Want me to do some cleaning before I go?”

As much as I hate working for perfect Asher Thompson, I hate being broke more.

He turns to face me, and frowns.

Screw him. God, all I want to do is find a stepladder and punch him in the face.

“Never mind,” I say and his frown deepens.

Pulling a couple cans from one of the bags, I march over to the pantry to put them away.

“Why?” he asks.

“Why do I want to or why did I say never mind?” I snap, turning once the cans are on the shelf.

His frown somehow deepens further, which doesn't seem possible but since I'm staring at it, it is. “Why clean when it's obvious you don't want to be here?”

“It pays twice what I'm making at the coffee shop,” I reply.

His brows come together, forming a small wrinkle between them. “You're working at the coffee shop?”

I nod.

“Dana’s coffee shop?” He clarifies.

With a huff, I plant my hands on my hips.

“Yes, I'm working at Dana’s coffee shop.”

“Since when?”

I cock my head to the side, blood drumming in my ears. “Since when is what I do any of your business, or is this some job interview?”

“Jesus, you're a piece of work.” He waves his hand at the dishes in the sink and growls, “Have at it.”

He storms out, pausing long enough to snatch the package off the island and slams the door behind him.

I raise both of my middle fingers at the now closed door. I'm shaking as I lower them, reminding myself I need the money.

It's on that thought; I finish unloading the groceries so I can get to cleaning.

One perk to cleaning his house is getting to explore it. While I'm not partial to all the wood paneling in some of the rooms, I can't deny the quality. No wonder my mom always gushes about him building the place himself.

I struggle to assemble furniture, let alone build anything. There are two rooms on the upper level. While both are set up as bedrooms, I'm reminded by something my mom said once; he only has guests use the cabin on the other side of the workshop.

Why bother having bedrooms up here at all if no one ever uses them?

Weird.

It doesn't take long to dust and sweep them. The same goes for the bathrooms. The only thing that slows my work is the lake. Each time it comes into view I am unable to immediately look away.

When I do look away, it's only after reminding myself I'm here to work, not to enjoy the view.

The main level takes more time to clean since it's clear Asher uses the space and isn't great at cleaning up after himself. I start with his room, stripping the sheets and collecting the dirty clothes from the floor. Why he doesn't take the two extra steps to put them in his laundry basket is beyond me.

It's funny how my mom finds taking care of him endearing. I bet she wouldn’t think it was as sweet if I left my dirty crap everywhere. One load goes into his washer while I tackle his bathroom. I wasn't lying when I said I wouldn't clean his toilet. That doesn't stop me from pouring some cleaner into the bowl and letting it soak while I work.

Figuring it was better than doing nothing, I flush before I head back to the main rooms. When I'm done in the kitchen, I move the first load of laundry to the dryer and start a second load.

Once I'm done with the rest of the first floor, I grab his now clean sheets from the dryer and reload it. Then I make his bed, ignoring how good his pillows smell.

“Are you almost done?”

I jump two feet, partly in surprise and partly in mortification he might have seen me sniff his pillow.

“The only thing that isn’t done is your laundry. Next time I'll start the first load before I clean upstairs.”

“Here.”

He ignores my words and passes me a check.

My eyes widen at the number. It's closer to thirty dollars an hour, not the twenty I was expecting. “This is too much.”

He shrugs. “I was inconsiderate earlier. It's an apology.”

If he's going to pay me extra each time he's a jerk, I might make it a point to piss him off more often. “Thanks.”

“Leave the laundry. I'll finish it.”

I don't argue that his messy room would prove otherwise. “See you next week.”

He doesn't say goodbye, which isn't a surprise.

As I climb into my mom’s Explorer, I regret not stopping to walk down by the lake first. It would have been awkward heading that way while Asher watched. If he was working it'd be different. This place is his, drinking in his view kind of feels like stealing his beer, if he drank beer.

The thought has me wondering what he does for fun. It's not like I picked up alcohol when I got his groceries and mail.

I'm curious by nature and, even though he's a pain in the ass, he's interesting.

I've never met anyone like him.

While I was cleaning I tried to piece together what made him tick. He seems to stick to routines, even eating the same junk week in and week out and not understanding what a laundry hamper is for.

Living here all by himself, eating the same thing every day, and working for hours on end sounds about as boring as it gets.

I still haven't managed to figure him out by the time I get back to my mom’s.

“Hey,” I say as soon as I'm in the door. “I'm back.”

I drop my stuff on the sofa and walk to her room, pausing in her doorway, I check to see if she's awake.

“How was Asher? How did he look? Do you think he's getting enough sleep?”

Her questions come so quickly, I don't have time to reply to one before she's asked the next.

“For being a grown man, he doesn't seem to comprehend the concept of loading a dishwasher but otherwise, he looked fine.”

“He's a busy man,” she starts to argue.

I lift my hand in a time-honored symbol of stop. “I'd rather not talk about Asher Thompson. What about you? How are you feeling?”

“Stir crazy,” she replies. “My doctor said I need to get better about getting around on my crutches.”

With the exception of driving out to and back from Asher’s place, I’ve been on my feet all day. Slumping down onto the sofa and putting my feet up was all I wanted to do when I got home. Instead, I pass her the crutches and suggest we go to the mall.

“While we’re there, I can get Asher’s birthday present,” she replies.

Curiosity has me asking, “When is it?”

She tucks one crutch into her armpit and I decide against reminding her that the doctor said not to do that.

“July twenty first.”

“That's a month away,” I argue.

My birthday is in March. I was still living in New York City and she got me an electronic gift card to an online retailer. It wasn't even mailed in a birthday card or anything, just sent via email.

Here she is, shopping for him a month ahead of time. The comparison does not give me warm fuzzies.

Instead of calling her out on it, I add it to my list of reasons I can't stand Asher Thompson.