Damn him, he’s right. With my variable eating habits, I’m becoming worried on how many nutrients I’m passing on. Still, that doesn’t mean this dude can ride in on his white plane and save the day with an orange smoothie.
Although…
I hover in the open archway, watching him pull out ingredients I didn’t know I owned (like turmeric), and seamlessly put together a blender that usually takes me at least ten minutes to line up properly and screw together, before dumping in things like almond milk, tangerine wedges, some spices, and a green thing I’m not sure of, until the whining sound of metal blades drowns out the rest of my critique.
Like he owns the place, Ash reaches up and finds a glass, pours the concoction in it, then tops it with a pinch of salt. “Here. Drink.”
“I really don’t know,” I say honestly. Embarrassed, I add, “I’m not too good at keeping things down at this time of day.”
“Give it a shot.” Ash passes by me again, this time bringing a whiff of citrus sweetness that doesn’t turn my stomach, and sits in one of my tufted, worn-down armchairs. When I don’t move, he lifts a brow and says, “Do you prefer drinking smoothies while standing?”
I prefer my smoothies with gorgeous tattooed men, but I don’t tell him that. Instead, I make my way over to him with an unsteady gait.
Ash realizes and swoops to a stand, holding my elbow and guiding me to the couch.
“Jesus, Soph,” he says. “How long have you been like this?”
“It’s nothing.” I wave him off as I sit, one hand holding the smoothie. “I’m fine, really. It goes away eventually.”
“Before coming back again,” he surmises. Ash sits beside me.
“Well, right. But that’s what morning sickness is. A lie. It’s not only in the mornings. It’s all fucking day.”
The viciousness with which I conclude my statement comes as a surprise, but I don’t regret it.
“How long?” he repeats.
“Since two weeks ago,” I admit. “Suddenly, I’ve had an onslaught of symptoms.”
“And you’ve been dealing with this on your own?”
“I can handle it.”
His gaze darkens, the eye of the storm drawing in closer. I expect him to bark questions and make demands, none of which I can predict, since he’s made clear he wants nothing to do with this baby. But he’s here. And that means something.
Instead, Ash guides my hand holding his concoction to my mouth, urging me to drink.
“Try a sip,” he says. “Just one. And we’ll see how you do.”
I nod, but the rim is already cold against my lips, the silky liquid coating my tongue.
Bracing for the wave of seasickness, I hold my breath after swallowing, but none comes. Instead, the spicy notes of ginger and calming taste of orange flows to my center, the bite of salt cutting against any cloying sweetness. I release my breath and slump against the couch pillows.
“That’s good,” I say on a sigh, my eyes closed. “Really good.”
I feel his hand on my shoulder, his thumb tracing light circles. “I’m glad.”
What’s meant to be his calming reassurance turns to lightning bolts against my skin, tingling, jagged edges shooting for my chest.
It forces the reminder that I shouldn’t want him here.
“Ash.” I lean forward and place the smoothie on the coffee table. “You still haven’t told me why you’ve come all the way to Florida.”
“Because I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since we last saw each other,” he says. I’m finding solace in the depths of the drink he didn’t have to make me, and I don’t need to look to feel his focus on the side of my face. “Since you told me that I knocked you up.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“I was side-swiped.”
I glance over at the sudden honesty.
“And I didn’t handle it properly. I’m no gentleman, but I’m no dickwad, either. And when those words came out of your lips.” Ash pauses, paying attention to my mouth, likely rimmed with orange foam. I lick them nervously. “I should’ve thought before I spoke. I hurt you, and I’m sorry.”
“You flew here to apologize for hurting my feelings?”
Ash hesitates, like he’s wading into uncharted territory and is uncertain which way to go. I wonder how often he sits down with a woman and hashes out problems.
“I came here because it wasn’t sitting well with me,” he replies. “What went on between the two of us. I wasn’t prepared for it. Definitely wasn’t expecting it. But that doesn’t mean I won’t take responsibility.”
I study him carefully. “What kind of responsibility?”
Ash shifts, putting his elbows on his knees, his face coming closer to mine. I can smell the orange peel on his fingers, mixed with the suds of his early morning shower, a clean, fresh scent that no man catching a red-eye should ever wield. “I’m here to tell you I’m going to take care of you.”
I lift the drink, so I have something to do. “And by that, you mean…?”
“I’ll give you all the money you need.”
The smoothie crashes back onto the table, jolting him enough that he lifts his brows.
“If you think,” I say through my teeth. God, I can’t look at him. “For one second, that I got myself pregnant just to get at your cash, you need to leave this apartment right goddamned now and not look back—”
“I’m trying to tell you, I’ll provide everything you—”
I stand. “I don’t need your money, Ash!”
“Then what?” he splays out his arms, and instead of anger in his expression, all I can read is confusion. “Why’d you come to me? Why did you tell me, if you want nothing to do with me?”
“Because it was the right thing to do,” I grind out. I feel trapped between the table and the couch. Ash’s long legs stretch out in front, blocking any sprint to my bedroom. “Because I was scared and confused. Because I needed to tell someone. I don’t know.”
Ash rises, his hands coming close to my upper arms, then second-guessing and falling to his side. “I’m trying to understand what you want my role to be.”
I shake my head. “It’s not about … I realize this was an accident. I didn’t want to keep it a secret from you—I saw what that did to Locke. I wanted to give you a choice, from the very beginning, on where you stood. And if that meant you’d walk away, then that was okay. I was prepared for that, Ash. We’re pretty much strangers to each other. What I’m not prepared for is you showing up at my doorstep three weeks later with a checkbook, hoping to pay me off.”
“No,” he says. “That’s not why I’m here. I’m not trying to erase this … this…”
“Mistake?”
Ash’s eyes shutter. “Unexpected life event. I’m just as confused as you are, bombshell.”
I hiss in a breath at the use of my nickname, and Ash jerks like he’s waiting for me to slap him.
“I apologize,” he says. “Sophie, I mean.”
“Let me make this less complicated for you,” I say, with a much steadier tone than I thought I could manage. “I appreciate the gesture, but your money isn’t wanted. I’ll be fine.”
Ash glances around us, taking in the state of my apartment, the holes in my furniture, the black stains on my kitchen tiles I can never get out. “At least let me pay your rent for the next nine months.”
“How many times do I have to say this?” My voice rises. “Whatever kind of guilt you’re trying to make go away, whatever problems you think you can buy off—”
Ash roars, “This is all I know how to do!”
We both startle at the sudden sound of his voice reverberating around the small room.
After a moment, he says, in a much lower voice, “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just want to do right by you.”
I match his tone. “And you don’t have to.”
Ash looks around my apartment again. “It doesn’t make sense. Why don’t you want my help?”
The man look
s so befuddled, so stumped on how I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t want cash from the son of a billionaire. A self-made man himself, Ash Whittaker is at least a millionaire on his own and has plenty of bills to spare. But I don’t feel anger at his question, or insult. I have no ammo to throw at him, because I’m standing in front of a man who’s had everything since he was a boy, and all I feel is sadness.
“Because sometimes, Ash, love trumps money.” I put a hand to my stomach. “And I have all the love I need.”
8
Ash
Chartering a private plane with four hours’ notice was easy.
Explaining to my employees I needed the morning and early afternoon off was slightly more difficult, but doable, since I hired a restaurant manager who didn’t need a body full of tats to get his point across.
Standing in front of Sophie’s apartment, rehearsing what I thought was a perfect script of, you’ll be taken care of, this baby won’t want for anything, before knocking on her door…
That was fucking hammer to the face.
I’m standing in front of her, nerves torn and tangled simply by taking one look at her—sick, alone, sad—and all I can do is provide her with the comfort I know best.
Food.
Thank God she took it.
These past few hours had been spent wondering what the hell I’m doing. What am I expecting to pull off? We had sex and now Sophie’s pregnant, but I am so out of my normal bounds with this conversation that all I’m doing is fucking it up.
Staying in New York wasn’t working. All I could do was think about her, her golden curls, her chocolate eyes, the silk soufflé of her skin. Not only that, but something’s growing inside her that I helped create. A third heart beats in this room with us.
The Whittakers solve their problems quickly and with fast exchange of hands. It’s how I’ve grown up and been taught. Everyone’s happier with a stuffed bank account. Yet in this moment, I’ve never been more conscious of a thick checkbook in my back pocket and its utter uselessness.
“…and I have all the love I need,” Sophie says to me now.
I want to say—
But Sophie wavers. Physically shifts sideways, and her hand, previously curved over her abdomen protectively, clenches and curls.
“Soph—” I rush forward to catch her before she crumples, her too-thin, little body falling against my limbs like a stitched-up rag doll.
She’s fragile in my arms. Never in my life has it become so crucial that I carry her, unharmed, to the couch. I don’t want to crush her. I don’t want any harm to come to her.
“No—can’t…” Sophie twists in my grip just as her butt hits the cushions.
“What? What can I do?”
“Toilet,” she garbles out before stumbling to a stand and making heavy footfalls to the bathroom.
The door slams shut behind her, and the water starts running. I remain standing in the middle of this piecemeal apartment with barely a kitchen to its name, and I come to a conclusion.
Perhaps, it’s the decision I was meant to come to all along.
I stick Sophie’s remaining smoothie in the fridge and find another glass to fill with ice water for when she comes out. On a whim, I grab a clean dishtowel and wet it, thinking maybe the coolness on her forehead will help.
When she hobbles out, I’m quick at her side and lead her back to the couch. She’s mumbling apologies, but I barely hear them. I’m too busy wondering if this is the normal course women have to go through when giving life. Sophie looks like she’s about to topple over in a breeze, and then throw up all over it.
I lay the cloth on her forehead, and she moans her thanks.
“You’re planning on going to work like this?” I ask, and perch in front of her by sitting on the coffee table.
“Have to,” she mumbles. She covers her eyes with the cloth. “I swear, it goes away soon.”
“Uh-huh.”
“This is week ten, Ash. I’m getting used to it. You don’t have to worry about me.”
“I don’t have to do a lot of things, according to you.”
Sophie groans again. “I don’t want to argue anymore.”
“Is anyone around to help? Your parents? Siblings?”
“No.” The word scrapes through her lips. “And no.”
“Friends?”
Sophie must be feeling weak, because she makes herself vulnerable when she answers, “I don’t make a lot of those.”
“But there’s Carter.”
“Yeah, we try hard, even though she lives in New York now.”
I remember who else took a stand for this little blond bombshell. “And Astor.”
“Sure, if alligators are considered to have friends.”
I crack a smile. She can’t see me through the cloth, but she smiles too.
“Yes,” Sophie adds. “Astor’s been pretty great.”
I shake my head, a slow back and forth. “If you won’t take any cash, then at least come stay with me.”
“What?”
She says it as soon as my brain screams it.
“In my penthouse in the city.” I keep going, like that will stop my mind from continuing at full speed down spiraling train tracks. “You’re here alone. Miserable. You need people around you.”
Sophie rips the damp dishtowel from her eyes. “You can’t be serious.”
“Truth is, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.” I stare at her directly. “All I know is, I’m part of the reason of why you’re in this state. And I don’t want to leave today knowing what I’m walking out on.”
“Ash, that’s very kind, but…”
“You’re humoring me.”
“I don’t really know what else to do. I can’t live with you. Not after—”
“I’m barely there anymore. The restaurant is my life, and usually, I just sleep in my office. Don’t say no just because it’s me who’s offering. If you want to be around people, if you want Carter close by to help you through this, we can make it happen.”
Sophie’s brows draw together. “You don’t want this baby.”
“I don’t want you to suffer.”
“So you’re, what, going to figure out the baby stuff later?”
“I’m going to continue in the hope that I can help you figure this out. Coming here, this might have been spontaneous, but I can see now, it should’ve happened weeks ago. I’m sorry, Sophie. I’m sorry I left you like this.”
She avoids my eye. I lean an elbow on one leg, waiting, knowing I’m getting to her.
“My job…”
I tilt my head. “We can work something out so you can still get paid, if you want to keep working.”
Sophie busts out a laugh. “It’s all so easy for you, isn’t it?”
“Easy? If I’m making this look a breeze, bombshell, then I’m more of an expert at bullshit than I thought.”
“You know, I’m working really hard trying to say no.”
“Don’t reject the offer just because it’s me who’s offering,” I say.
“I miss Carter.” Her eyes glimmer when they meet mine. “I want her advice so badly. For it to be like it used to, with her across the room.” Her voice drops to a whispered sob. “I don’t want to keep doing this alone.”
I dare a touch on her knee. Remember the skin underneath her jeans, the pale milk of her thigh and how she squirmed when I dug my teeth into the buttery softness. “I know stubborn. I like stubborn. A lot. But in this case, don’t do it. Take my help.”
Sophie wavers. I’m with her in each conflict, debating the cons at each fork our minds come to. This isn’t smart. Definitely not ideal. I’ve never lived with a woman, never mind a knocked up one. We don’t really know each other, except for the one time we explored all our corners, licked all our dips and crevices, and left each other satisfied with a single night, nothing more.
As I’ve found these past few weeks, when it comes to Sophie Addison, out of sight, out of mind doesn’t work. And if I’m
gonna keep thinking about her, she might as well be nearby.
“You won’t accept my money,” I say to her. “So, accept my home. Be closer to your friends.”
Sophie studies me warily through her lashes. “Why?”
I lift a brow. “Why, what?”
“Why are you being so nice to me?”
My thoughts halt. My motivations hitch. When asked so bluntly, I don’t have an answer. What can I say to the girl I flew overnight to Florida for … just to check on her?
I clear my throat, deciding on honesty. “I don’t see you as the girl who deliberately knocked herself up to try to get at my funds. There’s no lie in you, no duplicity. You’ve found yourself with a choice, and you made one. I can’t fault you for that, even if my choice is different. And I’m not a man who walks away out of fear.”
Am I hallucinating, or do I see her lower lip tremble, ever so slightly, at the mention of no lies? I must be, because the night we had together, there was a condom. Unless she poked holes in it when I wasn’t looking. Impossible, because I couldn’t tear my eyes off her body the minute she undressed.
“Okay.”
Sophie says it so quietly I almost miss it. My ears twitch at the tremulous whisper.
I straighten. “Yeah?”
She nods.
“Good. What do you need to pack?”
Sophie jolts. “Wait, now? You want me to come with you today?”
“My plane leaves in two hours. And I haven’t enjoyed Gainesville since I was forced to watch Locke and Ben’s football games, and even then, I had to stuff whiskey in my pants to get through it all. Let’s go.”
“But … my job. My boss.”
“Call in sick today, and we’ll figure out the rest tomorrow.”
Sophie’s exhale contains the exact amount of disbelief I expect. “Do decisions like this normally come so effortless to you?”
I give a one-shouldered shrug as I stand and head to the kitchen. Figure I’ll tell her I’ll match her missed salary for as long as she needs it. Financial security should be the least of her worries. However, telling her that now, when she’s too nauseated to take a step, might mean she’ll puke all over me. And it might not be an accident.
Players to Lovers (4 Book Collection) Page 62
