Why did I flirt with Asher last night? Oh, I might have been playing it off like I wasn't interested but that isn't the entire truth.

As much as I hate to admit it, I’m attracted to him. He’s sexy, even with the beard.

But it's not just that, it's the way he doesn't care what people think about him or the way he lives.

He's not off the grid but he might as well be. With solar panels and his own clean water source he's self-sufficient in a way I never considered when I lived in New York. These weeks of having to scrimp, save, and work my ass off have made me reevaluate things I used to think were important.

I want to be more like him. No, I'm not going to take up carpentry anytime soon. However, having had it all and then losing it made me envy his simple life, and his complete control over how he lived it.

Then there’s the attention his evening vigils brought me. I've been used to getting plenty of attention all on my own. What I've never experienced was attention by proxy. Every night men and women alike pump me for information on him. At first it pissed me off, reminding me too much of my mom’s devotion to him.

It was only after watching the way he reacted to my anger those first nights that had me second-guessing the source of that anger.

People want to know more about Asher Thompson for reasons other than his absurdly attractive face. He's different in a way that makes them want to emulate him. He doesn't do anything halfway and everyone else, including me, wishes they had the balls to do the same.

As soon as I stopped disliking him, I started wondering what made him tick.

I always thought he was hot, even though he annoyed me. The moment more than my eyes were intrigued by him, my stupid inner flirt awakened.

I do not need to be flirting with Asher Thompson. I spend the rest of my drive to his place reminding myself of this.

When I get there, his house is empty, even though his Jeep is parked in its usual spot. Unable to help myself, I move to the big picture windows overlooking the lake. My eyes scan the beach, dock, and the water without finding him.

Just then, the door leading to the walkway that connects to his workshop opens and he strolls out, shirtless. My eyes drink him in. Why isn't he wearing a shirt? He can't possibly build stuff without a shirt on. That doesn't sound right, safety glasses but no shirt? He'd be covered in sawdust or wood stain and little wood chips could go flying off and give him chest splinters.

Or at least I think it could. The closest I've ever come to dealing with wood was carrying in an armful of logs for a fire here and there.

It's then that I notice the red shirt in his hand and the gleam of sweat on his skin. He must have just taken it off. God, he's sweaty. Why am I about to start drooling? I've never been attracted to sweaty guys, ever. Problem is, sweat looks damn good on him.

“I come baring groceries, not dollar bills. No need to start stripping off your clothes,” I reply.

He blinks in surprise but then grins.

Crap.

He's hot which is nice but not the main thing I find attractive in a guy. A sense of humor on the other hand is my personal kryptonite. Okay, so he grinned at my joke. I can handle this. As long as he doesn't make me laugh I'm good.

He drops his shirt. “It's your lucky day. I only strip for groceries.”

He says it with not even the slightest trace of humor in his voice. His words are so ridiculous I can't help it, I laugh full out. I might as well just hand him my panties right now.

Once I've regained control over my laughter, I look at him to see he’s still grinning.

“Please keep your clothes on,” I laugh.

He strokes his beard. “That's the first time anyone has ever said that to me.”

Crap, that was funny too. I need to get out of here.

“Give me a minute and I'll help you bring in the bags,” he says.

I back away, bumping into an end table. “No, that's alright. I've got it.”

He takes a step towards me. “I wasn't asking permission.”

Okay, this is the part where he throws me over his shoulder and gives me some good hard loving.

I shake that ridiculous mental image from my mind and manage to bump into the same table again. He needs to stop being funny right now or I’m going to make a complete ass out of myself.

Even though he asked for a minute, I turn and make my escape. So what if I make one extra trip, I need some space to clear my head. It was so much easier when I didn't like him. In fact, since everyone else fawned over him, it felt like a badge of honor to not be swayed by his good looks.

I grab as many bags as I can carry.

“I said I'd help,” Asher says, coming to take bags from me.

He's wearing a green shirt now so at least I don't have to fear the bare chest, sense of humor combo.

“I'm in a hurry,” I lie.

He makes no comment but does manage to single handedly carry all the bags in. Frowning, I follow him.

“How's your mom doing?” he asks, once he's set the bags on the island.

“She's doing great, just going a little stir crazy,” I reply, grateful for the small talk.

“Do you think she'd like it if I swung by and kept her company during your shift at the Moose?”

I can't avoid his chocolate brown eyes as I answer, “She would love it.”

They soften and I quickly look away. Neither of us say anything else as we put everything away.

“I’m going to clean now,” I say, my eyes already on the stairs.

“You don't have to.”

“What?” I ask, my gaze shooting to his face.

He looks down to the top of the island and doesn't say anything for a moment, and then he says, “Would you like to go out on the lake instead?”

“The lake?” I ask.

His gaze moves to the picture window. “You seem drawn to it.”

“I can't. I have things to do,” I say, struggling to find an excuse that sounds believable.

“It's fine. I understand.”

I feel like an asshole but my self-preservation is more important than anything else at the moment.

As I clean the rooms upstairs I listen for him. Even when it becomes clear he isn't going to come up here, I still listen. When I make my way downstairs, I find the main level of his house is empty.

Again, I'm drawn to the picture window, curious to see if, even though I had said no, he had still gone out on the lake. My eyes move over the landscape, looking for him and coming up short.

I know it’s a waste of time and only prolonging how long I need to be here so I get back to work. Dusting, sweeping, and cleaning the main rooms doesn't take long. When I walk into his bedroom, I freeze, and then shake my head, laughter bubbling up my throat.

Above his laundry hamper now hangs a wooden sign with thick white painted words on it. “Dirty clothes go in the hamper” – Paige’s Rule.

It's more unexpected than funny. It’s crazy he would quote me, even if it's for laundry.

“Is there an improvement?” he asks, his voice startling me.

“Holy shit.” I shout, clutching my chest as I turn to face him.

He lifts both of his hands. “I didn't mean to startle you.”

With one hand still pressed to my chest, I pant, “You scared the crap out of me.”

“I'm sorry.”

“No, no, I'm okay. You're surprisingly quiet for as big as you are.”

My inner immature flirt shouts, that's what she said.

He doesn't touch my as big as you are comment.

“Like the sign?” he asks.

I look at it again before meeting his eyes. “I've never been quoted on wall art before.” My eyes move to his bedroom floor and I add, “It seems to have worked. You have finally figured out what the hamper is for.”

His lips twitch and damn it all to hell that one movement made his beard look less awful.

“It makes a helpful reminder,” he replies.

That serves as a reminder that we’re standing in his bedroom, which wouldn't be a big deal if I still didn't like him but now that I'm not sure how I feel about him it is awkward.

“Okay. I won't be long in here so I'll be out of your hair in a minute.”

“You running away?”

Yes, yes I am.

“What does that mean?”

He leans against the doorframe. “For as long as I've known you, it seems like I know nothing about you. In the beginning, I may have jumped to some conclusions about you.”

My fingers clench around the handle of the vacuum cleaner. “May have?”

He lifts his hands. “I deserve that but, in my defense this might be the longest conversation we’ve had.”

Okay, going back to disliking him. “And that makes it okay to assume the worst about me?”

He frowns. “I'm sorry. I have trust issues and because of them, didn't give you the benefit of the doubt.”

Another thing I'm attracted to in a man is the ability to admit when they're wrong and apologize.

I need to nip this in the bud. “Apology accepted. Now, if you don't mind I'd like to finish up in here.”

“Paige,” he says, making me pause in my movement and look up. “I’d like it if we could be friends.”

My chest expands and deflates all at the same time. Friends is good, right? Friends means he doesn't like me the way I might be starting to like him. But, why? Why doesn't he like me that way?

It's the solution to my problem and an entirely new problem.

“Sure, we can be friends,” I reply, not enjoying the sour taste now coating my tongue.

“Next week, come up early and I'll take you out on the lake,” he says, pushing away from the door.

The lake? “Oh no, I couldn't.”

“Come on. I've seen the way you look at it.”

“Looking is one thing, going out on it is another,” I reply.

He tilts his head to one side, some of his hair falling into his eyes. “Why?”

Looking down at my feet, I admit. “I don't know how to swim.”

He inhales and I look up to see the surprise in his eyes.

He recovers quickly. “I can teach you how.”

I let go of the vacuum cleaner to shake my hands. “No, thanks. I'm good.”

He takes a step closer and my hands fall to my sides. “You should know how to swim. It's not safe that you don't. What if you fell in?”

Reaching for the handle of the vacuum, I move it and turn with it in the hopes of gaining some space between us. “It's no big deal because I'll never go in water so I have nothing to worry about.”

“Paige.”

“What?” I snap. “There are tons of people who don't know how to swim. It's not a big deal.”

“Let me teach you,” he says in a quiet voice.

The skin at the back of my neck gets warm. Me in a bathing suit with him in a bathing suit in his lake all point to it being a very bad idea.

“I'll be gentle,” he promises.

The back of my neck goes from warm to molten. What is wrong with me? I don't like him, I just don't dislike him anymore, I neutral him. My body should not be reacting like this to my neutraling him.

“What can I do to convince you?” he asks.

Would it be so bad?

Yes, yes it would.

Austin, focus on Austin.

“Okay,” I reply.

My mouth drops open in surprise. I didn't mean to say yes. I was going to say no.

“Great,” he smiles, showing off his toothpaste commercial ready teeth.

He needs to leave. Now.

Giving him a shove, I die a little bit inside when I feel how firm his body is. “Okay, I've agreed to swimming lessons. Now go away so I can finish cleaning your house in peace.”

He turns and leaves, chuckling as he goes. Thankfully, I don't see him again.

As I drive home all I can think about is what I agreed to. Why in the hell did I say yes to him teaching me how to swim?

What's worse is I have no clue what to wear. I do own bathing suits, or to be more accurate, bikinis.

These are not the two-piece suits you sometimes see a female lifeguard wear. They are also not the conservative tankini type suits either. No, these show serious skin and have seen little to no actual water time. These suits are the little scraps of fabric it was acceptable to wear for sunbathing at exclusive rooftop pools in the city or the Hamptons.

I could probably borrow a respectable suit from my mom but then she'd know Asher is going to teach me to swim. For some reason, I don't want her to find out. Mainly because if she did, she will try to make us a couple. He’s hot, despite the beard, but not the guy for me. Heaven forbid I admit I don't want her precious Asher.

When I get home, I have less time than normal to chill out before I have to go to the Moose.

My mom is in the kitchen when I walk in. “I'm making you dinner,” she says as soon as she sees me.

I head her way to investigate. She isn't known for her culinary prowess so it could be hit or miss if I'll want to eat whatever she's making.

“It's chicken and rice,” she explains once I'm by her side.

Whew, edible.

“Thanks Mom.”

“How was Asher? He look okay?”

My mind conjures the image of him standing there shirtless, with sweat gleaming across his chest. He looked more than fine.

“He's good. He wants to swing by tonight and have dinner with you. Do you have enough chicken and rice for the both of you?”

She tends to make large portions so it's no surprise when she says, “I sure do. It'll be so nice to see him. It's sweet of him to take the time to come all the way out to visit with me.”

I haven't told her he's been driving out to the bar every night since she'd freak if she knew and would probably jump to conclusions about our relationship like everyone else has.

I have a feeling he'll let it slip tonight. So, do I tell her now or wait to let her find out from him?

“He's been coming into town a lot recently,” I murmur.

She looks away from the pan. “What? Whatever for?”

I scratch the back of my neck and try to avoid eye contact with her. “He's been sitting in the parking lot of the bar until I get off of work and then following me home every night.”

She stares at me unblinkingly for a minute before looking back at the pan. Then, she turns the burner off, moves it to a different one before turning to lean against the counter, folding her arms across her chest. This stance means one thing and one thing only, for me to explain.

“I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to make a big deal out of it but, since he's coming tonight I wanted you to hear it from me first, in case he mentions it.”

“Are you sleeping with him?” She asks.

“Mom,” I groan. “It's not like that.”

Her brows come together. “A man, particularly a man like Asher Thompson, does not do that for a woman he is not interested in.”

Shit. That's not good.

“Unless he feels bad for her mother, who he's friends with, and who hurt herself working at his house,” I point out.

She presses her lips into a thin line.

“He's not doing this for me, he's doing it for you,” I add.

She still doesn't seem convinced. “He's very handsome.”

Oh God, not back to this.

“Is the food ready?” I ask, not wanting to talk about just how handsome I think he is.

She grumbles as she pulls a plate down for me.

I spoon food onto it. “Thanks for making dinner.”

“Don’t hurt him.”

I blink down at my food. Of course it'd be him she worried about.