Ashley
“IS SOMETHING WRONG?”
We’re ten minutes into the drive home, and Julian hasn’t said a word. I know he enjoys silence, and maybe he’s tired, but if he can converse with his clients and colleagues all day, it shouldn’t be that difficult for him to drum up enough energy to talk to me.
“Julian?”
“Huh? What?” He glances at me and returns his gaze to the road, ever the careful driver.
“I asked if there’s something wrong. You’re giving me the silent treatment.”
“I’m not. I was just thinking.”
More silence. Which I must fill. “So what’d you think of the show?”
“I’d never pay to see a show like that, but it gave me some insight into Gabriel’s talent. He’s a dynamic guy. Charming, self-deprecating.”
“Handsome,” I tease.
Although only Julian’s profile is in view, I know a nostril flare when I see one. “You’re upset that I think he’s cute. Why does that bother you?”
He sighs. “Nothing’s bothering me, Ash.”
“If that’s true, I’d hate to be around when something is bothering you.” Rather than play into his mood, I riffle through my purse and pull out my phone. When a man pouts, Twitter entertains. He turns up the radio dial, filling the car with the sounds of classic jazz, which only highlights the silence between us.
Twenty excruciatingly long minutes later, Julian pulls into his building’s underground parking lot. I refuse to wait for him to come around and open the car door for me. Instead, I exit the vehicle and stride to the bank of elevators that will take us from the lower level to Julian’s floor.
“Wait up,” he says behind me.
I jab at the elevator button and pace as we wait in the dimly lit vestibule.
Julian stands against a wall watching me. “Is something wrong?”
I stop midstride and give him a blank stare. “Nope. Just thinking.” Then the elevator dings.
He pushes off the wall and saunters to my side. “I deserve that.”
“Do you?” I ask as I step in.
He nods, his lips pinched, as if he’s frowning at himself. That makes two of us.
“Yeah, I deserve it. I told you we couldn’t be anything more than friends, and the minute you showed interest in another man, I regressed and became a two-year-old. Sorry.”
His honesty is refreshing. And infuriating, too. According to his logic, because he won’t permit himself to eat cake, no one else should eat cake, either. Oh, brother. I stare at my new sandals as I speak. “Apology accepted.” Then I add, “Grudgingly.”
He chuckles and nudges my chin up with his index finger. “I really am sorry.”
That tiny contact melts me, but I don’t show it, because as he put it, we’re never ever going to happen. “And I really am accepting your apology . . . grudgingly.”
“What can I do to make it up to you?”
A few days ago, I would have made a suggestive comment. Now I know there’s no point in doing so. “Make me breakfast in the morning.”
“Frozen waffles and orange juice from concentrate? Done.”
Like he’d have any of that in his precious fridge. I shove him away. “No, the good stuff. Waffles made from scratch. With whipped cream and strawberries. And bacon.”
“Would you settle for turkey sausages? I don’t have bacon.”
I shake my head. “You’re such a disappointment.”
“You’ll say otherwise after you eat my breakfast.”
I search his face for signs that he’s joking, but there are none. “Seriously? You’re going to make me breakfast?”
“I’d be happy to. Think of it as my way of welcoming you into my home.”
“Wow. I’m honored. Can I help?”
“I expect you to. I need to instruct you on the finer points of making waffles so you can return the favor someday.”
I like the idea of that. Cooking in his kitchen. Cooking for him in his kitchen. As the elevator ascends to his floor, we smile at each other, and I’m reminded that we weren’t always awkward together. After we drift inside the condo and walk quietly through the hall, each of us continues to our respective rooms and pauses at the door.
Julian gives me a tired wave, his suit still falling impeccably over his broad shoulders and his tie unmarred by a single wrinkle. “Good night, Ash.”
“Good night, Julian.”
We did well today, despite the earlier tension between us. He’s entitled to his prickly moments, and I shouldn’t be so quick to take them personally. Our relationship doesn’t need to be earth-shattering. I just need to adjust my expectations. Not sure what I was so worried about. We’re fully capable of having a healthy, platonic relationship. I’m sure of it.
THE NEXT MORNING, my doubts return, and I chuckle at my naïveté. Because why, oh why is the simple act of making breakfast together a challenge, too?
It’s not my fault, really. Several factors are conspiring against me.
The first? Biceps porn. Holy shit, it’s a thing. When he lifts the pan from the stove, his biceps flex like thick rubber bands. If he were to hold himself above me during sex, I’d see them at close range. Up, down, swivel, and repeat.
The second factor? That apron looks fucking glorious on him. The strings are tied snugly around his trim waist, which emphasizes the nearly perfect V formed by his broad chest and shoulders. Damn, it’s hot as hell in here. I fan myself, but it doesn’t help. So when I’m sure he’s not looking, I grab the mister off the counter and spritz my face.
He catches the sound, though, and draws back. “Jesus. Did you just spray yourself with that?”
“Yeah. Why?” I pull on the collar of my T-shirt to let in some air.
He snickers, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Ashley, that’s olive oil. You need to wipe that off.”
Great. My cheeks are on fire, and now that there’s oil on them, I just might be the first human cooking surface in existence. Swallow me whole, Mother Earth.
Shaking his head at my gaffe, he preps the waffle mix while I use a paper towel to clean myself. I should use a cleanser or something, but I don’t want to miss the biceps porn—or the apron porn for that matter. Besides, olive oil must be good for the skin.
“No blueberries, right?” he asks.
“You remember.”
“Yeah. And I remember you love strawberries, but I’m not putting them in my waffle maker. I’ll toss them on top.”
“Fine with me.”
I squeeze my fists at my sides when I discover there’s more porn. Whisk porn. He’s got a mixing bowl in one hand and a whisk in the other, and he’s beating that waffle mix like he’s its daddy.
He looks up and finds me staring at him. “Everything okay?”
I nod like a human bobblehead. “Mm-hmm.”
He transfers the mix to a measuring cup and pours the batter into the waffle maker. Then he flips it over. Oooh, it’s a double waffle maker. Fancy. Unaware that he’s the new host of my personal cooking show on the Julian Channel, he bends at the waist and wipes the metal plate with a kitchen towel, giving me a DVR-worthy view of his butt. His Nielsen ratings would go into the stratosphere every time he made that move.
“Can you wash the strawberries?” he asks.
Sure, no problem. That ass is going to get someone arrested one day.
“Ash?”
Julian’s voice snatches me out of my happy place. “What?”
“The strawberries. Can you wash them?”
I shake my head and push out my lower lip. “Didn’t you hear me? I said, ‘Sure, no problem.’ ”
He laughs. “In your mind, maybe, but not out loud.”
“Sorry. Watching you cook requires my full attention. You’re so precise, and there are so many steps.” I retrieve the strawberries from the fridge and rinse them in the sink. How do I get these thoughts out of my head? What can I do to stop myself from wanting him? I should probably confiscate his apron. That would be a good place to start.
Beside me, Julian wipes down the counter. When he’s done, he bumps me with his hip and reaches for a clean strawberry, breaching my personal space to get to it. I try to bump him back, but he blocks me with his body, lifts the fruit over his head, and drops everything except the crown into his mouth.
The moment he bites into it, I sway on my feet. When he slides his tongue over his bottom lip to catch the juices, I swoon. Screw you, Julian. Screw you. But not really. What I really mean is, screw me, Julian. Screw me.
His phone buzzes on the counter, disrupting my traitorous thoughts. He leans over to read the display—there’s that ass again—and then he grimaces. “I’ve got to take this.”
“Sure, I’ll watch this while you’re gone.”
Already walking off, he says, “The light will turn green when the waffles are ready. Just grab them with those tongs and transfer them to a plate.”
I nod. “Seems simple enough. Go take your call.”
He picks up his phone and answers it, after which he disappears down the hall. In the meantime, I squirt a cup-sized amount of whipped cream into my mouth. Straight, no chaser.
When he returns, he peers at my handiwork. “Everything okay? You didn’t blow up my kitchen while I was gone?”
In return for that smart-ass comment, I shake the whipped cream dispenser and spray a dollop on his nose. Julian says nothing, his body frozen except for the furious blinking of his eyes. I have no idea if he’s a physically playful person as an adult, but judging by the shock on his face, I might have overstepped my bounds with that move.
“Are you upset with me?”
He continues to stare at me.
“It’s just whipped cream,” I say tentatively. “It’ll come right off.” I grab a paper towel and reach out to wipe his nose, but he shoots out his hand and grabs my wrist before I can clean him. I yelp when he spins me around, caging me with one arm and grabbing the canister with the other hand so quickly that I don’t have time to protect myself from the whipped cream he shakes onto my face. And it’s not a dollop.
“Oh, you’re going to regret that,” I say as I lunge for the can.
Laughing louder than I’ve ever heard him laugh, Julian sidesteps around me and circles the counter. I chase after him, slipping on a streak of foam and dropping to my knees. I let out an inelegant “oof” when I hit the floor.
He’s kneeling at my side within seconds, his arm draped over my shoulder. “Ash, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say as I use my fingers to wipe the whipped cream off my face. Then I gather as much of it as I can and run my hand over his cheeks and jaw, finishing my masterpiece with a cap on his eyebrows.
Julian widens his eyes and says, “Oh, now you’re going to get it.” He wrestles me to the ground and straddles me, securing my arms above my head so that I’m trapped under him. His thighs lock against my hips like steel bookends. He studies my face as though he’s riveted by it, and if he were to let me go, his hot gaze would still root me to the spot. Then he leans over—so slowly I forget to breathe for a moment—and presses his cheeks against my forehead, transferring the cream from his face back to mine.
I shriek at the onslaught, turning my head from side to side to avoid getting more of the sticky sweetness on me. “Ack, Julian, I’m going to be a mess after this.” Laughing, I flail against him in weak protest as he tries to pin me down. In the middle of our tussle, we bump noses, causing us both to freeze. Our mouths hover inches apart, and our gazes lock. My heart gallops in my chest, and my fingers grasp the ends of his shirt. This could be it. God, I want this to be it. His eyes narrow on my lips. Boldly, I raise my head off the floor, hoping he’ll meet me halfway, but a moment before connecting, Julian pulls back on a groan, swings one of his legs around, and sits cross-legged next to me.
“Sorry,” he says. “We got carried away.”
Foiled. Nevertheless, I sit up and laugh. “No, getting carried away would look a little different from what just happened.”
“Okay, we almost got carried away, and we agreed not to go there, remember?”
Jumping to my feet, I say, “Yes, I remember.” As I wipe my face with a damp paper towel, I say, “I’m going to eat breakfast now. Are you joining me?”
He rises to his feet slowly. “It’s all yours.”
I look up, finally meeting his gaze. “You’re not eating anything?”
Coming within inches of me, he wipes his face as he speaks. “No, my father’s in town, and we have plans to meet for breakfast at his hotel.”
“Well, then, I really do feel special.”
He dabs at my nose with his towel. “You should. Always. Because you are.”
How am I supposed to be satisfied with a platonic relationship when he makes offhand comments like that? Or when he touches me so casually? It’s enough to make me want to smother him in his sleep. Kidding. Maybe. “That’s sweet of you to say. And I truly appreciate this delicious breakfast. Your homemade waffles and I will be enjoying each other while you’re gone.” I circle the counter and pick up my plate, content to stand as I eat.
After grabbing his dress shirt off a nearby chair, he puts it back and buttons it briskly. “So I probably won’t be home before you head to the airport. Do you need me to call a service for you?”
I shake my head as I wolf down a bite of his peace offering. It’s firm on the outside and soft on the inside, just the way I like them. And he wasn’t stingy with the butter. Yum. “A coworker’s picking me up. I’m all set.”
“Okay, well—”
The condo’s intercom buzzes, and we both turn our heads in its direction.
“Expecting someone?” I ask.
Julian’s gaze clouds. “No.” He strides across the floor and hits the talk switch. “What’s up, Benny?”
“Michael Hart is here to see you. Says he’s your father?”
Julian furrows his brows. “Yeah, yeah. Send him up, Benny.” He slips into his suit jacket, and then he paces as he waits for his father to arrive.
I met Julian’s dad once, at his graduation from Weston. Mr. Hart was personable, charming even, but I don’t know much about him. Julian’s mother, Valerie, on the other hand, visited him a few times at school when she was traveling for work, so I have a better handle on her. Not surprisingly, she adores Julian.
The doorbell chimes, and Julian throws open the door. He and his dad fall into a bear hug, exclaiming “Dad” and “Son” simultaneously.
I grin as I watch their display of affection. Mr. Hart is a handsome man, an older version of Julian with salt-and-pepper hair and a wiry frame.
Julian walks backward as they enter the living area. “What are you doing here? We agreed to meet at your hotel.”
Mr. Hart tilts his head and purses his lips. “We did?” He shakes his head. “I had it in my head that we were meeting here.”
“Yeah, I made reservations at the restaurant there because . . . never mind. It doesn’t matter. We can walk back over and catch up. Unless you want to go somewhere else?”
“No, that’s fine—” He spots me, and his eyes go wide. “Oh, hello. You’re . . .”
Brows pinched together, he struggles to remember my name. I reach out a hand. “Ashley Williamson, Carter’s sister.”
He smiles. “Right, right. Good to see you again, Ashley.”
“Likewise.” I glance at Julian, who’s staring at me with a blank expression, and then I point at my plate. “So I’ll just finish this in my room and leave you two to catch up.”
Julian returns to life and grabs his keys and phone off the counter. “No need, Ash. We’re heading out anyway.”
“It’s fine,” I mumble. “Lots of errands to run before I head out. Take care, Mr. Hart. I’ll see you early next week, Julian. And thanks again for breakfast.”
“It was my pleasure, Ash.”
Whoa. Julian’s voice is low and soft, and heat travels down my spine in response to it. I chance a glance at his face and find his dark brown eyes heavy-lidded and trained on me.
“Take care of yourself,” he says as he follows his father out the door.
With my sumptuous plate of strawberry-topped waffles in hand, I rush to my room in search of my battery-operated boyfriend. After all, Julian did tell me to take care of myself, and given my current state of sexual frustration, I have plans to do just that.
Bzzzz.