“Scarlett, stop!”
Wait. Was that…
I blinked, my mindless haze parting to reveal a sharp jaw and emerald eyes. “Asher?”
“Obviously,” he grumbled. “Who did you think I was?”
“I thought you were an intruder.” My heart continued to race as it scrambled to catch up with this new development.
“Why would you think that?” Asher eyed my white-knuckled grip on the pan with wariness.
Oh my God. I’d almost bashed Asher Donovan’s face in with cookware.
I flushed and quickly set the pan on the floor. “I came downstairs for a snack and saw the light from the kitchen. I didn’t realize…”
“That I might’ve gotten the same idea?” he finished, his tone dry.
The flush spread to my neck and chest.
My mind had somehow leapfrogged over the most logical answer and straight to the worst-case scenario.
I wanted the floor to open me up and swallow me whole. Free falling into hell couldn’t be worse than assaulting my host with surgical-grade stainless steel.
“I was being cautious. If you had been an intruder…” I trailed off. Don’t make it worse. “Anyway, I apologize.” I should get that out before my face exploded from mortification. “I didn’t mean to, um, almost kill you.”
“Apology accepted.”
Relief ballooned at the twinge of amusement in his response.
Good. He wasn’t that upset.
Getting hauled off on attempted murder charges would’ve put a serious damper on my weekend.
The hum of the fridge crept between us. He hadn’t closed the door before I swung at him, and the blast of cold air sent goose bumps rippling up and down my arms. Asher’s body was the only source of warmth.
My eyes drifted down of their own accord. A soft green T-shirt molded to his shoulders and chest, not too tight but just enough to hint at the sculpted eight-pack underneath. Unlike the bright, piercing hue of his eyes, the shirt was so faded it was almost gray. It’d ridden up during our altercation, revealing a strip of tanned skin above the waistband of his sweats.
So this was what he wore to sleep.
It was so casual yet intimate, like he’d unwittingly offered me a peek at his most private—
“Scarlett.”
“Hmm?”
“I hate to interrupt your ogling, but can you please get up? As much as I love having you on top of me, this tile wasn’t designed for comfort.”
My gaze snapped up to his as realization dawned for the second time that night.
I was still straddling him.
Asher’s eyes creased with mirth as I shoved off his chest and scrambled to my feet.
Forget malicious spirits. If I died tonight, I only had myself to blame.
Here lies Scarlett DuBois, a victim of self-inflicted humiliation.
“I wasn’t ogling you,” I lied, drawing the tatters of my dignity around me in a last-ditch shield.
“Sure, and rain isn’t wet.” Asher stood, looking remarkably put together for a quarter past three in the morning. Further proof the universe didn’t play fair. “It’s alright, darling. I won’t hold it against you.”
“What did I say about calling me ‘darling?’”
“I’d say I get a pass considering you almost rearranged my face with my own cookware.”
He—well, okay, he had a point. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”
“Never is a long time.” A wicked grin stole across his face. “However, I’d expect frequent mentions of this night for the next fifty years or so.”
“Bold and erroneous of you to assume we’d still be talking in fifty years.”
“Stranger things have happened. If you’re lucky, it might even be seventy.”
I pictured wrinkled, white-haired versions of ourselves bickering in a nursing home somewhere.
The image didn’t repulse me as much as it should’ve.
Another gust of arctic air billowed from the open fridge door.
