“Isn’t a dwarf planet also a planet?”
“It’s not the same! It’s like moving from the Premier League to the EFL.”
British football was divided into several leagues. The Premier League was at the top. The EFL, or the English Football League, occupied the next level down.
“I see.” Another tiny smile came and went. “I didn’t realize you were so, uh, passionate about Pluto.”
“It’s my favorite planet.” The smallest, the most overlooked. It was the underdog of the solar system, and it deserved a little love. Why should Earth and Mars get all the glory? “I did an entire school presentation on it back when it was still the ninth planet from the sun. I had photos. I stayed up all night painting Styrofoam balls. My science teacher said it was the best planetary presentation she’d seen in years. Then you know what happened?”
Asher shook his head, looking alarmed.
“The very next year, the IAU demoted it. They said it wasn’t a planet anymore.” My indignation swelled at the injustice. “Can you believe that? Structures exist for a reason. Growing up, I was taught that there were nine planets. Then one day, they just went ahead and changed it to eight. How is that fair? It’s not. Pluto deserves better, hence Justice for Pluto.” I gestured at my shirt. “I don’t like it when people arbitrarily change long-standing rules.”
“I don’t know if planetary classifications are necessarily rules…” Asher held up his hands when I glowered at him. “I mean, you’re right. Justice for Pluto.”
“Thank you.”
“Remind me never to argue with you about astronomy or rule books. You’re quite terrifying when you get rolling on those subjects.” He said this with a straight face, but his eyes twinkled the tiniest bit.
Blood rose to my neck and cheeks. It occurred to me that we’d had sex for the first time last night, and I’d just spent a full five minutes ranting about planets.
“I like seeing this side of you.” Asher brought another plate over and sat next to me. His knee touched mine, and he looked so at home in my kitchen that little bursts of warmth flickered in my veins.
“The nerdy rambling side?” I asked.
“The unguarded side.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “You can ramble about Pluto all you’d like. I won’t judge—too much.”
I fought a smile and lost.
We were floating on the last wisps of postcoital bliss. Soon, our feet would have to touch the ground, and we’d have to face reality.
For now, as we ate breakfast side by side with the sun streaming through the windows and the air redolent with the aromas of home-cooked food, we were content.
I hadn’t brought a guy home since I broke up with my ex, and Asher’s presence was almost overwhelming. His muscled frame filled the room, sucking up all the oxygen and making it impossible to breathe without inhaling him into my lungs.
I didn’t expect to like it as much as I did. I was a private person, and I guarded my personal space fiercely. But instead of rankling me, Asher’s company made my bachelorette flat feel just a little less lonely.
“What are your plans for the day?” I asked, taking what I hoped was a casual sip of tea.
“Hanging out with you,” Asher said easily. “If you want me to, of course.”
Oh, he was good. Not only that, he was genuine, which made it that much worse for my poor heart.
“I suppose I could keep you company for a bit,” I said with feigned reluctance. “My reading will have to wait.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners. “I appreciate your magnanimity.”
Since “hanging out” was the vaguest activity in existence, and he didn’t offer ideas for what we should do after breakfast, I gave him a quick tour of the flat.
There wasn’t much to see. Besides the kitchen, living room, bathroom, and bedroom (which he was already intimately familiar with), the only place of note was the box room I’d converted into a mini library. I didn’t have a lot of space, so I only bought physical copies from my favorite authors or books I’d already read and loved on Kindle.
“This is the neatest house I’ve ever seen.” Asher stared at my painstakingly organized collection of books. They were alphabetized by the author’s last name, followed by the book height and then color.
“Um, have you seen your place? It’s spotless.”
“Yeah, but I have people who help. This is all you.” He swiped his thumb over a shelf. It came away dust free. “Incredible.”
“I like cleaning,” I said, half-embarrassed, half-pleased. I tended my library the way some people tended their gardens. “It’s soothing. It makes me feel like…I don’t know. Like I’m in control.”
I couldn’t control the messes in my life, but I could clean them up at home. Spilled milk? Several swipes of a towel and it was gone. Muddy footprints? Nothing a good mop wouldn’t fix. I could snap my fingers, figuratively speaking, and return things to the way they were.
That power provided a small measure of comfort in a world where chaos was the only certainty.
“I get it,” Asher said. He touched the spine of one of my Leo Agnelli books—the same one he’d picked up and handed to me before our first training session. God, that seemed like a lifetime ago. “That’s how I feel about driving.”
I read the tabloids often enough to know he had a penchant for street racing. Several high-profile crashes had earned him a reputation for recklessness, though it hadn’t stopped Blackcastle from paying an arm and a leg for him anyway.
I hadn’t seen news of any crashes or street races he’d been involved in recently, so maybe he wasn’t part of that scene anymore.
I hoped so. Before we met, I hadn’t cared. If he wanted to race, then he’d race. It was his life he was gambling with. Now, dread curdled in my gut at the thought of anything happening to him.
Theoretically, his checkered history with cars and speeding should’ve turned me off given my hang-ups about those issues. But I couldn’t reconcile that rash, daredevil tabloid version of him with the thoughtful, caring man who’d researched chronic pain after I told him about my accident and who’d hired the same chauffeur to take me to and from our training sessions because I wasn’t comfortable with strange drivers.
I’d been a passenger in Asher’s car multiple times, and he’d always followed the rules to a tee. I’d never felt uncomfortable or scared, which was saying a lot because even the smallest things set me on edge.
The tabloids weren’t the most trustworthy source. Maybe there was more to Asher’s racing than met the eye—or maybe I was naive.
I was cycling through ways I could ask him about it when he picked up a photo from the top of my bookshelf. “Is this your mum?”
