He stared back at me, unsmiling. Poppy was nowhere in sight.
Okay. What crawled up his ass and died?
Across from me, Clive’s expression turned amused. “Donovan. I take it you know Scarlett.”
“Hart.” The curt reply served as both greeting and affirmation. “Do you mind if I steal Scarlett away? We need to discuss something.”
My eyebrows winged up. We do? That was news to me.
“Sure. Before you leave…” Clive borrowed a pen from the bartender and scribbled his number on a cocktail napkin. He handed it to me with a wink. “In case you ever need safety in numbers again.”
A muscle ticked in Asher’s jaw, but he didn’t say a word until the rugby player disappeared into the crowd—nor did he say anything as he led us to an alcove near the back of the lounge.
Floor-to-ceiling velvet drapes separated it from the main floor. One tug on the tasseled ties, and we were ensconced in our own world.
I crossed my arms, unsure whether to be nervous, annoyed, or intrigued. I settled for a combination of all three.
“What’s so important that you had to drag me away from my conversation?”
“I leave you alone for five minutes and you pick up the captain of England’s national rugby team,” he said. “Impressive.”
Seriously? That was what he wanted to talk about?
Men. Everything was a dick-measuring contest to them.
“I didn’t ‘pick up’ Clive,” I said. “He approached me. What was I supposed to do? Twiddle my thumbs while I wait for you to return from your meet-and-greet?”
“You could’ve talked to anyone except Clive bloody Hart,” Asher growled. “Don’t you know his reputation?”
“Not really.” I didn’t follow rugby, so England’s entire national team could walk in, and I wouldn’t know a thing.
“Right.” Asher’s jaw flexed again. “Don’t be fooled by his nice-guy act. He’s a notorious fuckboy.”
I stared at him for a stunned beat before I burst into laughter. “Did you just use the word fuckboy unironically?”
He didn’t seem to share an ounce of my amusement. “It’s the right term for him. He’s slept with half the women at this party.”
“Good thing I wasn’t planning on sleeping with him. We were just talking.” I crossed my arms. “Also, hypocritical much? You’re not exactly celibate, if the tabloids are to be believed.”
“The tabloids are never to be believed.”
“So you didn’t have a threesome in Ibiza last year?”
Asher didn’t dignify me with a response. “Are you going to throw his number away?”
Yes. “No. Why would I? It could come in handy one day.”
I was playing with fire. I knew that. But instead of deterring me, the heat beckoned, urging me closer and closer until I eventually got burned.
“I sure as hell hope not,” Asher snapped. “I’ve seen what happens to girls who get ‘handy’ with him. It usually ends with tears and tissues.”
“So what if it does? That’s my problem, not yours.” I cocked an eyebrow, drunk off potent whiskey and the danger swirling in the air. “Why are you so interested in what I do with Clive, Asher? Are you jealous?” I threw his question from Monday back at him.
“What if I am?”
The air stilled. Asher’s quiet response cut through the music like a knife through silk. It lodged somewhere between my heart and throat, where my pulse beat with the frantic rhythm of a hummingbird’s wings.
“What happened to platonic?” I asked. Equally quiet. Equally dangerous.
It was a last-ditch attempt to cling to normal, though my definition of the word had warped since I met Asher.
None of this was normal. Not us standing here. Not the way he was looking at me. Not the way my heart thrummed in reply.
It was enough to make me believe that normal was overrated.
Asher closed the distance between us with two deliberate steps.
My back pressed against the wall. I had nowhere to run; even if I had, I wouldn’t have gone anywhere.
I’d known, from the minute I left my house, that this might happen. Part of me had expected it.
The back and forth, the give and take, the denial and attraction—every piece of choreography had led us to this moment.
“Platonic.” The warmth of Asher’s breath brushed against my skin. “Does this feel platonic to you?”
I couldn’t think, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe as his hand trailed up my arm and over the bare curve of my shoulder. I burned everywhere he touched, my skin nothing more than a map of little fires that consumed whatever oxygen was left in my lungs.
Every muscle was strung tighter than a bowstring. When his palm reached the nape of my neck, my body instinctively arched, just enough to make his eyes flare with heat.
