As Wendy walked up with the check, Abbi’s friends also appeared, a passel of eager puppies fighting over a chew toy. Ian Johnson led the way, probably because he played tackle for the high school football team while Cameron Ames, the boy behind, headed up the 4-H club. The pecking order was ridiculous, but these kids took it seriously. Their girlfriends, Heather and Jen, pressed close, excitement shining through their big smiles.
Asher handed Wendy his card without even looking at the bill. I frowned. I hoped Wendy hadn’t miscalculated the total again. She was terrible with math.
“Hi, Mr. . . . er . . . Smith. Would you mind signing some stuff for us?”
“You famous, then?” Wendy asked. She beamed. “Figured with those looks you must be one of those movie people Lia’s going to start working with. Burgers were good?”
“The best!” Mason said.
Abbi sighed, loud and long, which she did when she loved being cooler than the rest of the kids. “This is Asher. He’s a musician and a singer. He and Mom are working together on a sound track for Mom’s miniseries. The one they both signed on to today.” Abbi smiled at me, her eyes sparkling with pride. “He’s a totally cool rock star. I already introduced you to Mason, the awesome guy here on the end.”
“Yeah, hey, Mason. I’ll text Abbi tomorrow about the pony ride. You’ll love Darlin’. She’s a sweetheart,” Cameron said. He smiled, and some of the tension drained from my shoulders. These kids could be kind when they remembered to be.
“So, um, Mr. Smith, we were wondering if you could, like, take a picture with us?” Heather said. Everything she said turned into a question. I wanted to tell her to be confident in herself, but that would backfire, making her even more tentative. I slid farther into the booth as I sipped my water.
“Call me Asher.” He said it with an easy smile, but tension pulled at the skin near his eyes.
20
Asher
I couldn’t escape my fame long enough to get Dahlia back to her place, especially now that I knew she was tired. I shouldn’t have suggested eating out, not with her bruised cheek. In my defense, I’d wanted to keep things simple for her, but I’d managed to fuck that up—first with the meal she could barely eat and then with the fawning kids who wouldn’t let us leave.
I signed a few napkins and even one piece of waxed paper—hard to do—for Wendy. Posed for a few people. Other people came over once they realized the crowd was gathering for a reason.
I nodded to Mason, who jumped up. Abbi followed his lead so Dahlia was able to escape the booth.
“Thanks, but we gotta go.” I put my hands on Mason’s shoulders, hoping the group would think I meant Mason needed to get away from the crowd or something.
I slid one hand behind Dahlia’s back and ushered the four of us toward the exit. I could feel the curious eyes following us, but I’d learned years ago not to look back. If I did, people took it as an invitation to invade my space. I didn’t want to subject the kids or Dahlia to that.
I was surprised at how protective I already was toward Abbi and Dahlia, how right it felt being here together as a unit.
I’d come here as her friend, to make sure she was healthy. But I’d lied to myself. I wanted her. Not just sexually, though I’d have to be blind to miss her beauty.
Dahlia wrote books, beautiful ones brimming with emotion and depth, like the songs I strove to write and perform. She had fans, and I’m sure she had detractors. But what mattered was the art and the emotions we evoked in ourselves.
I wanted to sit with her and talk about how to push those emotions. How to transcend the bullshit in life. Each minute in her company—each look, each touch, each shared breath—my need grew. I was stewing in it, and it felt fucking amazing.
The ride to Dahlia’s house was quiet. Mason was drooping now that the excitement wore thin. He did best when he was in bed by nine o’clock. We’d hit that tonight, which meant he’d be up before eight. After a bowl of cereal, most mornings he’d play with his Legos for a while so I could sketch out a new tune or catch up on my work messages. He was an easy-going kid as long as he slept well, something I understood completely.
Abbi stared out the window, also quiet. I hoped she felt like I’d done her friends right. I’d tried to be jovial and happy. I’d put some effort into trying, at least.
Dahlia drove the SUV with ease, her hand gripping the bottom part of the steering wheel, her far hand in her lap. I liked how relaxed she was right now. Her serenity filled me up, expanded in my chest, let me breathe.
I exhaled in a slow, soft hiss, trying to keep the rising tension to myself. I was back to how much I wanted her. But I didn’t want to push into a physical relationship here, in her house, where she’d lived with her husband.
Years ago, I’d left without telling Dahlia how I felt in some misguided effort to be noble. The chemistry between us was still there, explosive, rare, and beautiful. I’d waited so long for this chance, and I wasn’t willing to fuck it up. And I wasn’t leaving until I knew what we could have.
We turned into a drive. Dahlia’s house was fantastic. Cedar siding and lots of windows glowing with a soft yellow light. Thick river stone was stacked along the bottom story. The front door was black with a silver handle and knocker.
Classy. Understated. So Dahlia. I hadn’t gone inside yet, and I was already half in love with the place.
She pulled the SUV into the garage. I opened the car door and stepped out. When I opened Mason’s door, he blinked at me with blurry eyes. Unbuckling his seatbelt, I pulled him into my arms. He nestled his head into the curve of my neck, his breath puffing against my throat.
Man, I loved this kid. I hated how much of his day-to-day I missed out on while I was touring. Not wanting to dwell on the old, irritating argument, I glanced around.
Tools hung above a custom cedar workbench. Fancy German ones, covered in a layer of grayish dust. The two bays to the left were empty. An older refrigerator hummed on the end. Three fishing poles leaned against the dented almond-painted walls. A couple of mountain bikes hung from S-hooks, their tires still coated in a dried layer of mud. Equally abused pink helmets hung from the handlebars.
Abbi flounced in front of us, opening the door to the house. She had her phone whipped out of her tiny purse and was hunched over, her thumbs flying across the screen.
“Gotta go answer these texts. Luke is so mad I didn’t tell him to stay in town.” She giggled. “See ya in the morning.”
“You’ve further elevated her social standing among the kids out here. She may very well be unbearable to live with.” Dahlia wrinkled her nose then cringed. She tossed her keys onto the granite-topped bar and shoved her purse onto one of the stools.
The kitchen, like the garage, was uncluttered. This space was well used; the dishwasher blinked its finished load. There were two large ceramic pots with a fancy French name scrawled across the bottom in the drain tray. The appliances were all high-end, but in a glossy white. The cabinets were a smooth honey maple in a simple design, the silver pulls functional.
“Face hurt?” I asked, turning my attention back to her.
“Yeah, the bruise is deeper than the cut,” she said. “I’ll show you where Mason’s sleeping.”
She led me through a living room, an open great-room concept with a large wood stove tucked in a corner so that the wall of windows gave an uninterrupted view of the mountains. The stairs were tucked in another corner. No great, sweeping statement for Dahlia. The wood-and-wrought-iron balustrade was simple, free of curlicues and fussiness as was the wool rug lying over the wide-planked hardwoods. I didn’t know what type of wood. Something expensive and sustainable, I’d bet. I was getting a better sense of the woman walking up the stairs.
I grinned as I noticed her ass was right at eye level. It was a mighty fine specimen in those jeans. The pockets were stitched in simple yellow thread, but the design shouted “Look at me!” I was happy to oblige.
Mason snuggled in closer, his breathing a li
ght snore that told me he was down for the count. Nothing, not even taking off his shoes, would wake him up now. I wished I had that level of innocence.
Or maybe I didn’t. I followed Dahlia into the spare bedroom. As she turned on the light, her shirt pulled tight across her back, accentuating the curve of her waist. She glanced back, noticed Mason’s closed eyes, and her face softened. She went to the adjoining bathroom, flicked on that light, and closed the door two-thirds of the way. She came back, turned off the overhead light, and then went to the bed to pull down the thick blue comforter.
I settled Mason in the bed, taking in his sprawled limbs and slightly-parted lips. His brown lashes, so similar to mine, made a thick wedge of shadow on his freckled cheeks.
Dahlia unlaced his sneaker and slipped it off with quick efficiency. She’d gotten the second one off while I was struggling with Mason’s jeans snap. I slid his pants down his spindly, pale legs. Dahlia pulled the sheet up to his neck, the comforter to his shoulder.
I watched her as she brushed his hair off his forehead. Her eyes were still soft when they met mine.
21
Dahlia
Asher’s gaze was filled with yearning. His face was shadowed, his breath warm as it hit my cheek. I shivered and eased around him, heading toward the door.
I heard his cursed exhalation, but it was more of a prayer. My heart sped up. I quickened my pace, needing to get out of the room.
He followed, catching my hand before I managed to escape down the stairs. As always, his touch was soothing, and some of the rising anxiety slid away.
“You’re sleeping in the other spare bedroom that connects to Mason’s through the bathroom. I’ll help you bring up your bags.”
I extricated my hand and headed down the stairs. I made it to the small laundry room between the kitchen and garage.
“Dahlia, I didn’t come here to seduce you.”
I turned to face him. “I’m not ready to be seduced.”
“I want us to be more than mutual pleasure.” His voice was low, the words careful. His eyes were darker, more brown than hazel. The cleft in his chin was so close, and my gaze went back to it again. I’d always liked that spot. My resolve unraveled. It—he was right there.
“I like pleasure,” I whispered.
He backed me against the door. I could feel the heat from his thighs against mine. “If you say that again, I’m going to kiss you, and screw the consequences.”
He touched his forehead to mine. Need unfurled, fast and painful. My neck arched as I searched for his lips. My hips angled closer, but he kept his body from mine.
“I’ve waited for this chance for years, Dahlia. I’m not going to fuck it up.”
I gripped his forearms and leaned in. My lips brushed his once in a light welcome. He slid his hand over my waist, bringing my chest flush against his. He braced his legs on either side of my thighs as he opened his mouth, the tip of his tongue sliding out to touch mine.
I moaned, the sound as primal as the need spiraling from my core, heating my skin. He slid his other hand up into my hair, his palm warm against my scalp. He tilted my head with gentle pressure to plunder my mouth.
I pressed into him harder, fingers flexing into his arms as I opened my mouth wider. More. I needed more of Asher’s taste, his warm mouth. The sweet, drugging desire of a long, slow kiss.
His thumb rubbed the bottom of my ribs, and my nipples hardened. I slid my tongue over his and lifted my right leg, snagging my knee on his hip and finally feeling his hardness pressed there, where I needed him. His tongue slicked over my teeth, the inside of my cheek, before coming back to tangle with mine.
When he tried to open my mouth farther, my cheek burned. I flinched, the pain ripping through the haze of passion. I eased back and dropped my leg. I pressed my fingers to my lips, trying to capture the intensity of our kiss for another moment.
My body was primed. I couldn’t remember wanting to be touched more. My nipples begged for Asher’s long, callused fingers to pluck them. My thighs quivered with unfulfilled need. I was so close . . . so damn close to release. From a kiss.
“That was amazing,” I said, trying to find my equilibrium.
His hand slid from the back of my neck to my jaw, his thumb moving up to sweep my fingers from my lips.
“This need I have for you, Dahlia. It’s intense.”
I let my lips drift up in the little smile I could manage. I pressed a kiss to his thumb. I stepped back but let my tongue drift over the sensitive skin before breaking contact. He closed his eyes, nostrils flaring.
“Not yet,” he said.
He was right. Much as I wanted him, he’d already told me that night at the beach that he didn’t know if he could do forever. I wasn’t willing to settle for less, not with him. I dipped my head in acquiescence, unsure of my voice.
“I’ll get our bags,” he said.
“Want a beer?” I stepped away from the door, rubbing my clammy palms on my thighs. Asher’s gaze followed my hands. I stilled. He raised his gaze to mine, his eyes dark, his features sharp with lust.
“Love one.” He opened the door and walked into the garage.
I pulled out the local brew Briar’d found at the store and poured myself a glass of wine. I popped the lid off his beer and brought it, a pint glass, and my Syrah to the living room. I curled up in the corner of the couch as Asher came down the stairs two at a time.
“That was too fast. I’m sorry,” he said.
“The kiss?”
He glanced at the couch with me tucked as far from him as possible. I picked up the glass and took a sip of the wine, enjoying the feel of the dark liquid rolling across my palate. The taste of ripe cherries bloomed across my tongue.
“Dahlia, I’m not looking for a quick, easy lay.”
I set my glass down, my lips twitching upward. “I wouldn’t have agreed to you visiting if that’s what I thought you expected. That kiss was really hot, and I enjoyed it.” I blew out a breath. “Too much, maybe.”
“Is that possible?”
My lips still tingled, searching for another round of tasting, testing. I shook my head. “Sit. Enjoy your beer. Tell me the rest of what’s bothering you.”
I patted the spot next to me. He eased down, careful not to jar my cheek, and grabbed the bottle. Tilting it, he took a long pull. He leaned back and shut his eyes so that those long, brown lashes hugged his high cheekbones.
I leaned my head against his shoulder, and he moved a little so that I was snuggled into his side. He pressed a kiss to my temple near my healing cut as his free arm snaked around my waist.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For?”
“Being you. Being here.”
“No worries. I’m good at being me.” I paused, then added. “Most of the time.”
“I think Mason’s going to pay for my past. I can’t leave him with Jessica. The things he’s told me . . . She’s neglectful.”
I bit the tip of my tongue. I couldn’t add to his pain by telling him what Briar had confided in me. Not yet.
“Why do you think you’ve made mistakes?”
“I’ve been touring for years. Home in spurts. Gone for maybe eight, ten weeks at a time. That’s hard on a marriage. It’s getting harder on me, too. I love what I do. Fucking love it. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to be home on Christmas and see my kid open the presents I bought him. Coach his baseball team, be the one to go to the parent-teacher conferences, and buy his back-to-school crap.”
“You only mention Jessica in conjunction to Mason.” I lifted my head, my heart slamming faster. “What about your relationship with her?”
“What about it?”
“Was there intimacy?”
He sipped the beer and leaned forward to set it on the coffee table. I noted how careful he was to get it on a coaster. Little, thoughtful gestures that meant so much to me.
“The sex was good. In the beginning.”
I swallowed with difficulty. So
not what I wanted to hear after he’d just kissed me like that.
He tipped my chin up, waiting until my eyes met his. “It’s different with you. Everything is just . . . better.”
His thumb brushed across my lip, and my breath caught. Oh, I wanted this man.
Bad idea. He led a life I didn’t want. I eased out of his hold, missing his touch even before the warmth faded from my skin.
“I meant your ability to share. Not just your body. Your thoughts, concerns,” I said.
“Jessica likes flashy,” he said. “She thought I was going to be the rock star, not a rock star. Hell, we were poised to make it huge. But we haven’t climbed that last piece. Maybe we weren’t supposed to.” He shrugged, and I was pleased to see he wasn’t bitter about the shifting surge of fame and influence. “I’m doing pretty damn well in my profession. Have the loyal fans and healthy bank accounts to show for it. I know tons of guys who’d love to be where I am now.”
I sipped my wine. He ran his hands through his hair.
“I don’t want to try to be something I’m not. I want to write songs I like to sing and play. I want to perform because it’s fun and interesting, not because it’s for some paycheck or to make some rich record exec richer.” He turned to look at me, his eyes earnest. “I want to be Tristan Asher Smith. Not Asher Smith, the Supernaturals’s front man. You know?”
“I think I do.”
“I wasn’t looking for anything when I walked into that bar. Well, except some good tunes and a cold beer.” His lips kicked up a bit, not a full smile but with a hint of humor. “I found you again. It’s been the best. Dahlia, I mean that. The best. That night with you was perfection.”
I sipped again and considered him over the rim. “I’m not perfect,” I murmured.
“I know. That’s what’s so great. You have your own issues. They’re completely different from mine. I want to see where we can go. From here. Would you do that? Just see what we can make of us? Slowly. Because that’s what I need and you deserve.”
Sweet Solace (The Seattle Sound Series Book 1) Page 16
