Ashton

Since yesterday, I’ve learned two things.

The first being that pain killers don’t numb pestering thoughts. If anything, they make them more vivid because there’s nothing else for my body to focus on. So after the first dose wore off, I refused to take a second one. At least the rawness of my skin and roaring headache could fill in the anxiety that creeps into my conscience.

All because of Rhys. I could just come forward with the truth so he doesn’t have any leverage over me. There’s nothing for me to hide anyway, and I have yet to figure out Rhys’ angle on the matter. He doesn’t care enough about my reputation, especially now that we’re separated, to care what Conner does to me. He may think I’m some naïve girl, but I’ve learned his way by now. He’s hiding something.

The second thing is that there’s way more to Dylan Hilton than the stereotypical bad boy image he loves playing up. Sure he’s reckless, has no filter, and obviously has some baggage, but behind that façade is a darkness that mirrors my own.

Only the people who’ve been through serious shit can share wisdom like his.

The piece of paper he crumpled up is on my nightstand, still in the same position it was when he left the room.

Once it’s crumpled, it’ll never be perfect again.

Taking the paper, I spread it out on my bedspread, flattening out the winkles like I can save it. Desperate for it to be anything but true.

I never wanted my trust to disintegrate like everything else did with Rhys. But how could I stop it? When you invest yourself in somebody whole-heartedly, it’s hard to trust yourself to make a better decision when it all ends.

For someone who seems to believe that he’s incapable of trust, I think he opened himself up more than he thinks he did. How many people knew that behind the drunken slurs and one-night hookups was somebody who had enough wisdom to change a person?

He would probably deny it, not wanting anybody to see the sentimental side of him. Although people already saw it when he chose to help me. When he carried me to the hospital and stayed rather than ditching me. Even when he called Teagan, which gained him serious brownie points in her book.

Maybe even in mine, too.

Picking up my phone, I take a picture of the paper and send it to him.

Dylan: If you’re going to send me pictures, make sure there’s something naked in them.

Slipping my bare foot in the frame, I snap another picture, a smirk on my face.

Dylan: Never really been one for foot fetishes

Ashton: I tried fixing the paper

Dylan: And?

Ashton: It didn’t work

Dylan: I told you it wouldn’t

Ashton: You also said that I shouldn’t give up on

trust completely

The bubbles under his name wiggle as he types a response, then disappear. I wait for a message to appear, staring at the screen.

After another minute passes by, I debate on whether to just put my phone away. But my fingers have a different idea, thumbs forming a message before I can stop them.

Ashton: Did you fall asleep? I thought rock stars

stayed up all hours of the night?

Dylan: I have company.

My lips form an O.

Ashton: You mean like a girl?

Dylan: I don’t tend to entertain men

Ashton: Oh. Well I guess I’ll see you during our

session.

I was given a week to recuperate before diving into work, which meant we’d only have about three weeks to come up with a song. It isn’t a lot of time, but we could manage it so long as we stay on track.

Something tells me that it won’t be easy with Dylan being the co-writer.

When disappointment fills my stomach over his brush-off, I tell myself it’s only because I want somebody to talk to and Teagan fell asleep early. If I believe it’s anything else, I’ll only drown deeper in self-pity, knowing that Dylan would still rather be screwing random chicks than talk to me.

It shouldn’t matter, but it does.

Staring at the paper in front of me, I run my fingertips across the ridges and wrinkles, feeling their imperfections like they’re my own.

I sigh, crumple it back up, and throw it in the trash bin next to my bed. Turning off my phone before plugging it into the charger, I flip off the lamp and stare at the alarm clock illuminating in the dark.

Usually I’d be sleeping by now, especially since I’m up at five to go for a run. But the doctor advised me to take a break from running for a while. Between his lecture and my managers as soon as she saw the videos, there was no walking out unscathed. Not to mention I’m well under my expected weight, and needed almost three bags of IV fluids because I was dehydrated. That led to an hour-long lecture by Teagan as she drove us home, reminding me that she told me to stop pushing myself.

She never pushed the reason why I chose to, not like Dylan. At least she knew what lines not to cross, and when to stop questioning me. Something tells me when Dylan and I meet up next week at Stella’s studio—common ground—he won’t be so easy on me.

And because my mind has nowhere else to travel, I can’t help but wonder if he’s actually with a girl right now. I mean, it’s two in the morning. It wouldn’t really surprise me if he just got in from a club or bar. A lot of places in the area do last call at one or two and close at three. But for people like Dylan, they’ll sometimes stay open later.

I turn on my side, hugging my pillow tightly under my head. Forcing my eyes closed, all I can see is Rhys’ face. The way he looked at me like I was public enemy number one. For once, I wish he would open his damn eyes and see what Conner is.

I groan loudly and throw the blankets off me, walking over to the desk and grabbing my music folder from the top draw. I flip to the song he wants to give to Conner. It doesn’t make any sense why he’d want something slow like this. It’s practically a love song—a duet that doesn’t fit any of his music.

My eyes scroll over the words scribbled onto the page, looking at the lines that he wrote about me back when he saw me as the only girl he could love.

There’s a light in her eyes that can light up the sea, and a warmth in her smile that brings men to their knees. She’s an envy, she can end me with a single look.

I snort, shoving the page away from me. If I could end him with a single look right now I’d do it in a heartbeat.

Even with her head to the ground, she always stands out. A fire in her soul that makes an ethereal sound. She’s a beauty, she sees through me like an open book.

Pressing my lips together, I shake my head. Back then, seeing through Rhys was just seeing through the little white lies he gave. Like when I was sick and he told me I still looked beautiful even though my hair was a mess and my nose was Rudolph-red. Or pretending he liked the charred food I cooked for him before I learned the importance of following recipes.

Before reading on, Teagan knocks at my door, causing me to startle.

She looks half-asleep still, rubbing her eyes and yawning. “Your potential boy-toy is at the living room window, throwing rocks like some leather-clad Romeo.”

My brows pinch. “Um … who?”

She eyes me. “Who else? Dylan. He already threw something at my window and woke me up, and he moved onto the ones in the living room. Go get him before I stab him with my stiletto for waking me up.”

I’ve learned to never mess with Teagan’s sleep schedule. She almost scratched my eye out back in high school when I woke her up an hour before she needed to be awake. Learned my lesson then and never made the mistake again.

What I can’t figure out is why Dylan is throwing rocks at the window at this hour.

What about the girl?

I flip the light on as I enter the living room, making my way past the leather sectional in the middle of the floor. My eyes search the garden that’s lined up outside the window, and see a tall outline walking toward the next set of glass on the other side of the room.

I open the window. “Lurking is pretty creepy, don’t you think?”

He turns around, only part of his face showing in the solar lights on the side of the house. He’s wearing all black, with a leather jacket completing the ensemble, which masks him in the shadows.

When he saunters over, my jaw drops.

“What happened to your face?” I grate, my hand cupping his bruised cheek. My thumb moves over his split lip, which looks like it hurts.

His body tenses under my touch, but he eases into the warmth of my palm as my fingers brush against the swell of his cheekbone.

“You need ice,” I say quietly, gesturing for him to come through the open window.

Once he’s inside, I close it, and Dylan latches the lock. In the light, the bruise looks worse, and his bottom lip is swollen.

“What happened?” I ask again.

He shrugs. “Nothing.”

“Nothing,” I repeat dryly. I roll my eyes and yank on the sleeve of his jacket, pulling him after me and toward the kitchen. “Obviously something happened for you to look like that.”

“It’s nothing you need to concern yourself with, Boots,” he informs me, chuckling when I force him to sit down on the stool at the island.

Grabbing an ice pack from the freezer and wrapping it in a dish cloth, I gently press it against his cheek. He winces, whether in pain or because it’s cold I don’t know, but settles in, shoulders relaxing as he looks at me.

“Is it a kink thing?” I blurt out, blushing profusely as soon as the words leave my mouth.

He bursts out laughing, shoulders shaking at the idea. “You think this is a kink thing?” he bellows, holding my wrist steady so the icepack remains still.

My face burns. “You said you had company. How am I supposed to know what you’re into?”

His eyes turn heated. “If you really want to know, all you need to do is ask.”

Gulping, I pull my wrist away from his grip. I put the icepack in his hand, looking away from him and grabbing the first aid kit from under the sink. I can feel his eyes on my ass, practically burning a hole through the shorts I’m wearing.

“So if it’s not a kink thing, then you got into a fight,” I state hoarsely, tearing open the alcohol wipe. “This is going to hurt,” I murmur apologetically, dabbing his cut lip. He winces again, but his eyes stay focused on my face as I clean the wound. The dried blood washes away with the wipe, leaving the swelling and slight purple-ish discoloration around the area.

My eyes go to his for a nanosecond before moving to his cheek, which he hasn’t put the icepack back on.

“You can tell me what happened, you know,” I add casually. “At least tell me the other guy started it. Something.”

He grins. “Would that make you feel better?”

“What?”

He opens his legs up, grabbing my waist and yanking my body forward until I stumble in between his thighs. I struggle to keep my breath calm, ignoring the tingles spreading up my spine as his hands go from my waist to my hips, his fingertips digging in slightly to the cotton fabric covering my flesh.

“Would it make you feel better if I told you that the other guy started it?” he reworded, eyes laser-focused on my face.

I lower the alcohol wipe. “A little,” I admit.

He smirks. “He did … in a way.”

I frown. “That’s not very convincing, Dylan. Fighting isn’t going to get Tom off your case. If you get into trouble—”

“I righted a wrong,” he defends. “And if Tom asks, I’ll tell him the truth. Even he can’t penalize me for doing the right thing.”

I put the wipe down on the counter next to us. “Since when is violence of any kind the right thing? Throwing punches isn’t the answer.”

“I kicked him first if it makes you feel better.”

I roll my eyes. “Are you going to tell me what happened? Who you hit?”

His smirk widens. “Nope.”

“Are you going to tell me why you’re here?”

“You weren’t answering your phone.”

“It’s off.”

He shrugs. “Well since I didn’t get any replies, I opted to show up. Figured since it’s late I’d try a window rather than the front door. Couldn’t figure out which one was yours though.”

“I didn’t reply because you said you were with a girl,” I say slowly. “You made it pretty obvious you were busy.”

“I said I had company,” he corrects.

“Well you didn’t deny it was girl company!”

His lips waver, like he’s holding back laughter. “Technically, I just said that I didn’t entertain men, which is true. They don’t do it for me, and many have tried. No need to worry about my sexcapades.”

My face screws. “Why would I worry?”

“You’re obviously jealous.”

“Whoa now,” I stop him, backing up. He drops his hold on my hips, keeping the distance I put between us. “I am not jealous. I was being considerate by giving you time alone with your company, male or female.”

Humor illuminates his face.

I blink. “Wait, were you fighting someone?”

His lips twitch upward.

“You were busy beating somebody up?” I deadpan. I throw my hands up. “You could have just told me that. Wait, no. Don’t tell me over text that you’re fighting somebody.”

“Would you prefer I call?”

“I’d prefer you not fight at all.”

He shrugs. “Some people deserve it, Boots.”

“Ever hear of being the bigger person?”

His eyes gleam with deviousness. “I’m usually the bigger person. At least that’s what the ladies tell me.”

I shove his shoulder. “Not what I meant, asshole.”

He just chuckles.

I move his hand to his cheek so the icepack is back on the swollen area. His eyes roam over my cheek, looking at the scrape. With his free hand, he brushes the pad of his thumb around the area, careful not to touch it directly.

“How’s your head?”

Besides the scrapes on my cheek and chin, and the slight cut on the inside of my lip that my teeth caught on impact, I have a mild concussion.

I clear my throat, ignoring the warmth his palm is radiating. “It’s fine. I’m really not that sore. Embarrassed more than anything.” I bite my lip. “There are videos, you know. Not one of my finer moments, that’s for sure.”

He goes stoic, pulling his hand away. “I saw,” he deadpans, voice deadly.

The change in his demeanor surprises me.

“Believe me, I saw,” he growls. “I’m sick of dickwads like that taking advantage of people. Christ, we’re human, too! You were hurt, and somebody should have helped you.”

His hands are shaking so bad that I put mine on them to stop. He looks down at our hands, jaw clenching tight as his Adam’s apple bobs with a hard swallow.

“They all deserve to get pummeled,” he mutters underneath his breath.

My eyes widen. All?

“Please tell me you didn’t,” I groan, taking my hands off his. “Dylan, tell me you didn’t do anything to those people.”

He couldn’t have, could he? It’s not like he saw everybody’s face. He wouldn’t know where to go even if he had.

There’s no apology or guilt in his features as he meets my eyes. Rather, proud recognition that affirms my suspicion.

“Dylan,” I chide.

“I recognized somebody in the video posted,” he states causally, shrugging.

“So you beat him up!”

I run my hands down my face, pacing in front of him. What if Tom finds out? There’s no way he could justify what Dylan did!

“He could sue you!” I point out gingerly.

He shakes his head. “He won’t. James Wicker is a freelance journalist who has practically been stalking me. Fuck, I could counter sue for the slander he puts out in the tabloids.”

My heart picks up in my chest, worry making it implode. If this guy knows who he’s fighting, he wouldn’t waste time going after money for compensation. “If he knows who you are, he’ll go after your money. You can’t know for sure that you’re safe. Oh my God.”

He stands up and walks over to me, his large palms settling on my shoulders to stop me from moving. He peers down at me, eyes light with sublimity, and expression washed with calmness.

“He won’t, Ashton. He threw the first punch, there’s evidence.”

My lips part. “What?”

He nods, lips tipping up. “Granted, I may have egged him on a little. Waited until he was drunk so his judgment was off, but it’s all the same. He threw the first punch, I simply defended myself. It would hold up in court.”

“And there’s evidence?” I question.

“Saw somebody record it.”

My eyes bug out of my head. “The whole thing? Dylan, if that person tries selling it off, people could spin that against you.”

“Would you relax?” he muses, his palms moving down my bare arms. They settle on my wrists, wrapping around them and moving them up so my palms are pressed against his chest.

“It was just Bash.”

“Bash?”

He nods once. “Yep. He agrees with me. The asshole deserved it.”

I blink back my shock. Dylan and Bash beat up a guy … for me?

Dylan beat up a guy for me.

The realization made foreign flutters fill my stomach—flutters that I thought were dead. But these felt different. Heavier. Fuller. Like there was a swarm rather than just a select few.

I swallow. “Well, uh, thanks?”

He winks. “Anytime.”

I eye him. “Not ‘anytime.’ You’re supposed to be staying out of trouble. That requires you not to punch people, regardless if they deserve it.”

That doesn’t seem to faze him. “Life goes on, Boots. It’s over with, so stop worrying about me.”

“I can’t help it,” I admit before I stop myself.

His eyes lower to mine, the color darkening.

“Some people aren’t worth worrying about,” he says quietly, like he truly believes that.

What he means to say is, I’m not worth worrying about.

“That’s not true,” I argue.

“I’m not good.”

“You’re not as bad as you want people to believe,” I counter.

We stare at each other, air growing thick between us. My heart hammers in my chest as his eyes dip to my lips.

He wants to kiss me.

I should back up.

He punched someone for you.

I should tell him to go.

But you won’t.

My palms are still pressed to his chest, but not because he’s holding them there. No, his hands are back to my hips, fingertips digging in a little rougher than before. My breath catches in my chest as he backs me into the fridge, the stainless-steel cool against the thin pajamas I’m in. Goosebumps cover my arms as I stare at him, seeing a fire ignite in his eyes.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” he informs me before fusing his lips with mine.

It’s not a soft kiss despite his split lip, like he’s searching for the pain rather than easing it. He presses my body against the fridge, his hands trailing up and under my sleep shirt so his hot palms are flat against my stomach.

He opens my lips with his, letting his tongue tease mine, angling his head so he can taste me better. My hands are trapped on his chest, like he doesn’t want me moving them or touching him.

I squirm to move, wanting to tangle my fingers in his unruly hair, but he keeps me trapped. He rolls his hips forward, his thick length pressing against the inside of my thigh making me moan into his mouth.

His teeth bite down on my lip, drawing it into his mouth and sucking it. He pulls back, but only for a second before he’s kissing me again, this time harder and hungrier.

He’s everywhere, consuming me. His scent. His taste. His breath. He’s overloading my senses with everything him, with just a kiss.

His hands slide out from under my shirt and grip my butt, squeezing before trailing down the back of my thighs and scooping me up so my legs wrap around his hips.

It gives him more access to roll his length harder into me, causing me to mewl and roll my hips forward in return. My body is quickly overheating, but in the best way possible. As soon as I’m secure around him, his hands go back to my butt, gripping me with his fingers teasing the edge of my shorts so they’re brushing against the panties underneath.

“Damn,” a voice breathes from across the room, breaking us apart and leaving us breathing heavily.

Wide-eyed, I stare at Teagan with my cheeks burning at the amused expression on her face.

I unwrap myself from Dylan, and reluctantly he lets me down.

“I’m going to need more than just a cold glass of water after seeing that,” she states, gaze bouncing between us.

She waves her hand, as if urging us to continue, backing out of the room to give us space.

I close my eyes, catching my breath. “You should go,” I suggest, not looking at him. My eyes stay locked on my painted toes, the dirt speckled tile, anything but the heated gaze I know he’s casting my way.

“I …” I shake my head, brushing my hair behind my ears. “I hope you have a good night. You can keep the ice pack if you don’t have one. Maybe take a Motrin when you get back to the hotel.”

I start walking away from him, but he catches my upper arm.

“That’s all?” he challenges. “Look at me.”

I don’t. “You can use the front door this time,” I mutter, before pulling out of his grasp and walking away.

The smell of brewing coffee pouring slowly into the pot only makes my desperation for it grow as my messy hair, tired eyes, and slumped shoulders hover over the machine.

I can feel Teagan’s burning eyes trying to inquire details from my moment of weakness the other night, but there’s not enough coffee in the world to prepare me for that conversation.

It’s why I’ve been avoiding her as much as I can since it happened, and that’s no easy task.

“Not now, Teag.”

She chortles. “Um, yes now. I have given you space for the last week, but I can’t wait any longer. You got some ‘splainin to do, girlfriend. I didn’t just walk into a small lip lock, y’all were about to hump each other’s brains out. Not that I’m complaining. Hell, I’m happy for you. But—”

“Don’t be happy for me,” I groan, brushing my hands through my frizzy hair. I turn to face her, displaying the bags under my eyes from another sleepless night. “I did something stupid! I kissed Dylan.”

She cocks her head “And?”

I scoff, body jolting to the sound of the machine finishing its brew. “And I …” I lower my voice, “liked it.”

She bellows out a laugh. “You make it sound like that’s a bad thing. It was a kiss, Ash. With a smoking hot guy. Of course you liked it! You’d have to be gay not to.”

I grab the biggest mug from the cupboard and fill it up to the top. Emptying two sugar packets and stirring it into my liquid salvation, I hold it in my hands like it’s going to bring me back to life.

One week. That’s how long I’ve avoided talking about what happened with Dylan. He’s only texted me once since it happened, but I never replied. I only confirmed our session today as a means of civil business. The kiss? I’m forcing myself to believe it never happened.

But it did. And it keeps playing on repeat in my head like a broken record.

“Ash, look at me,” she demands softly.

I blink a few times, taking a long sip of coffee before my eyes meet hers.

“Put the coffee down,” she says next.

I shake my head.

She eyes me. I sigh and set it on the counter next to me, looking back at her with my hands crossed on my chest.

Standing up, she walks in front of me with a serious expression on her face. “You did nothing wrong, okay? You kissed a guy and you liked it. It’s not like you committed murder. Stop beating yourself up over it.”

I glance at the floor. “I don’t think I can face him,” I admit weakly. “I promised myself not to get used by guys like him, and I let it happen anyway.”

“Babe,” she chides, grabbing my arms. “Let me ask you something. Why did you let him? If you didn’t really want to, you would have kicked him in the balls again. Obviously a part of you thought it was okay.”

I run my tongue over my bottom lip, wondering if she’s right.

You know she is.

And it makes me sink into the possibility that I’m more like Dylan than I want to believe. Our connection comes at the cost of that heavy realization. But I don’t admit that to her.

“He defended me,” I tell her. “He and Bash both did, actually. And it made me feel …” I shrug, leaning my back against the edge of the counter, coffee forgotten. “I don’t know. Not safe. Not happy. Just content, I guess. Kind of like I did when Rhys and I were together.”

“If all you felt for Rhys was content when you were together, then the asshat isn’t worth remembering. What did he want anyway?”

“Nothing,” I lie. “Forgiveness, I guess.”

She makes a face. “Forgiveness?”

I shrug. “He didn’t mean it. He never means it. You know Rhys. It’s all a game to him.”

A game he always wins.

She frowns, pulling me in for a hug. “Is that why you went out?”

I don’t answer. She knows it’s the reason, so it needs no confirmation.

There should be some sort of sadness or tears that I blink away, but nothing comes. My eyes are dry, and my heart is eerily steady in my chest rather than thumping in its cage.

I wish I was sad over Rhys, but I’m not capable of the emotion. It’s like my heart and mind are battling logic and recklessness, my mind wanting me to do what’s smart but my heart doing what it wants regardless.

“Well you signed a contract,” she sighs. “So as much as you don’t want to see Dylan, you have to. Just don’t make a huge deal of the kiss, and he won’t.”

I give her a doubtful look. “We’re talking about the same Dylan, right? The one who pushes people past their limits to get what he wants? He won’t let me forget this.”

Her eyes see the truth in it, but she doesn’t acknowledge it.

“Perk up, bitch,” she announces, handing me my coffee. “There is nobody in this world that can control you unless you let them. If you don’t want Dylan, then ignore his advances. If you want Rhys out of your life for good, then make it happen. Neither of them deserve to get a reaction out of you unless you choose to let them have that power over you.”

I blink at my best friend, wondering when she got so … wise.

“I know, I know,” she muses as if she reads my mind. “Why am I so amazing? It’s a gift, babe. I’ve got plenty of other words of wisdom and advice stashed away, but most of them have to do with you naked with a certain rockstar, and since you’re freaking out about a kiss, I think we should hold off on that coming true for a little while.”

I gape at her casualness, rolling my eyes after she busies herself with making her French vanilla coffee.

When the machine sputters back to life, she turns to me, a devious grin on her face. “I need to know, Ash. Is he good? He looked like his kiss could get you off.”

My face flushes. “Really, Teagan?”

She shrugs. “I’m curious, what can I say? I’ve kissed plenty of guys in my time, whether for my job or just because I wanted to, and none of them looked like they were consumed in me.”

“He was trying to get laid,” I reason doubtfully, feeling my lips tingle with the memory of his lips against them. It made my heart skip in my chest, and my hands grip the cup in my hand a little tighter like I gripped him last night.

Damn you, memory.

I couldn’t deny that the kiss was one of the best ones I had, but I also wasn’t going to admit it. I mean, he had a reputation with women. Obviously, he was a great kisser, or else they wouldn’t flock to him so much.

Well, maybe the money had an influence on their intrigue, but still. I remind myself that I’m one of the many, and I’m probably just a notch in his belt.

I sit down on the stool, my coffee still gripped tightly in my palms. “I’m chalking it to temporary insanity. Hell, he beat someone up for me. That deserved a kiss.”

“Or a head smack,” she counters questionably, eyes looking at me like I’m nuts. I’ve never condoned violence before, even if it’s deserved. It just gets messy in the press, and Dylan can’t afford that.

Neither can I.

My lips twitch knowing that I may be in it again because of Conner.

“Okay, who pissed in your Cheerios?” she quips, nudging my shoulder. “You look like that time your old middle school crush said he was taking Angela Morris to the Valentine’s dance instead of you.”

The only reason I was so disgruntled over Evan taking Angela to the dance was because he already agreed to take me. Grandma helped pick my dress out and everything, just for me to get ditched. I never went, even though my grandparents told me to go with Teagan and have fun without him.

“You’re too young to care about boys,” Grandpa told me that day.

Grandma laughs. “You’ll say that until the day she’s sixty.”

Grandpa nods. “Damn straight. Ain’t no boy worth your heartache, baby girl. We’re all tools. Just stay away from us.”

Guess I should have paid better attention to the things he said.

“I just have a lot to think about,” I tell her earnestly. It’s not like I can tell her the truth, because who knows what she’ll do? She’s as sporadic as Dylan is, maybe even worse. Although she’s never beaten anyone for me, so he’s got that on her.

Not to mention Teagan hates Rhys. She didn’t like him from the day I started seeing him. There were times when he seemed to grow on her, but as time went on she just kept finding reasons to warn me away from him.

What is it about me and advice that I’m so bad about taking?

I sigh heavily. “Do you think Dylan will make a huge scene at the studio?”

She grins. “Is it wrong that part of me hopes so? He’s got the brooding, bad boy thing down. Somehow, he looks hotter.”

One of my brows arch. “It sounds like you’re more interested in him than I am.”

“More interested?” she repeats, eyes flashing. “So does that mean that there’s a part of you mentally screaming his name like a fantasy orgasm? Maybe Southern Ashton?” She gestures toward her lower half, wiggling her eyebrows.

I snort. “While I won’t deny that the kiss had me hot and bothered, it was only ever going to be a kiss. And some mild groping. I don’t condone you going after him knowing how many women he’s been with, but I won’t stop you from it either.”

She laughs, nearly spilling her freshly poured coffee. “Oh, please. Even if I wanted to, which I totally do but wouldn’t act on, he wouldn’t go after me. The guy may be an ass, but he cares. Even the smallest part of him. He wouldn’t kiss me after kissing you.”

I stare at my coffee, not voicing my doubt in that statement. Neither of us really knows Dylan. We just know he has decent moments, but who doesn’t? Even Rhys had times when he genuinely cared about people. Which just proves that it doesn’t mean anything special.

She stands across the counter, leaning her elbows on the edge, and gives me her all-knowing look. “Don’t do that.”

I play dumb. “Do what?”

“Compare him to Rhys,” she scolds. “You look constipated every time you think about him. Not that it surprises me. He kept you backed up for how long? Your vagina is practically screaming for a plumber. Or, you know, guitarist. He’d be great with his hands.” She stops me from saying anything. “Not every guy is going to be like him. The more you compare, the more you’re fooling yourself out of moving on.”

I down half my coffee before replying. “I’m not fooling myself. I’m giving myself time. Not every celebrity jumps from guy to guy. Some of us like a breather.”

“I respect that, Ash. In fact, I’m happy to hear it. For the longest time it was like I was watching my best friend suffocate because of a guy who wouldn’t share his oxygen.”

My lips twitch, sadness creeping into my heart. Sadness because she’s right, because I let Rhys take everything from me. But still no sadness over Rhys himself. Just for the people he hurt along with me.

“But you know what?” she asks, causing me to look up at her.

She winks. “There are some serious hotties who know CPR. What better way to breathe again, am I right?”

I groan, finishing off my coffee.

“I have to go,” I inform her.

As I walk out of the kitchen, she yells, “You should ask Dylan if he’s CPR certified!”