Page 167 of The Influencer

“I know.” He presses his mouth to mine and says again, against my lips. “I know.”

I throw my arms around his neck and hang on, hugging him tightly as a sob breaks loose from my chest.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he says, “and I need you. Understood?”

“Same. Yes. I need you, too. Same.” God only knows what words are coming out of my mouth right now.

He squeezes me to his chest, his body instantly accommodating mine. “There’s one more thing.”

“Does it have a but?” I ask.

“No. And it’s not an ultimatum either, but?—”

“You said but?—”

“But I want you to hear me out. Jesus. Let me talk.”

“Okay.” I pull away to meet his eyes. “Do you wanna sit?”

He nods. “Yeah. It’s a pretty big deal. We should sit.”

My nerves return with tornado force winds as I walk on shaky legs with him over to the couch where, once upon a time, he fixed my spreadsheet and paid me a thousand dollars to get in my pants.

It literally feels like that happened in another life.

We sit, and he turns to me, so I turn to him, one knee on the couch, my other foot planted firmly on the floor, exactly mirroring him. I have kind of an idea where this is going, and I’m ready to approach it with an open mind. It can’t be easy to be with someone like me—for a lot of reasons, but the sex work may end up being a deal-breaker for him after all, and it’s not like I wouldn’t understand.

I might even be kind of flattered that he can finally admit he wants me all to himself, but it would definitely be one of those things that I’d have trouble explaining to the connections I have. “My boyfriend asked me to stop, so I stopped,” sounds kind of shitty when I’ve heard other people say it. Like they’re not independent enough, or they’re being controlled, or all along they’ve been trolling for their Prince Charming who ended up being a prude and a douche, but the truth is they probably just didn’t want to share themselves anymore because they were in love.

Asher takes a deep breath and comes right out with it. “Don’t go on the tour.”

I blink. Many, many times. “What?”

“I can handle pretty much anything, but not seeing you for weeks or months at a time isn’t one of them.”

“Asher, I?—”

He holds up a hand like he’s not finished yet. “I get this is a huge ask. And if you say you can’t do it—I totally get it. Like it’s not gonna change the whole love thing I have for you, but if you could not go—maybe—that would make me really fucking happy.”

Holy shit.

I did not see that coming. Nor would I have predicted the word that leaps straight into the air from my mouth. “Okay.”

His brows lift in surprise. “Okay?”

I swallow on a very dry throat. “I mean it is a huge ask…”

“I know. But I figured better ask than have you thinking I didn’t want you around, or that I was okay with not seeing you for a year… but also no pressure. I knew the deal when we hooked up, so seriously—I totally understand if it’s not something you can or would want to get out of.”

How the fuck is he so articulate right now?

“I mean, like—I can manage, assuming you don’t want us to break up—which, for the record, I don’t. Want us to break up, I mean. Phone sex is cool. I’ve always liked just plain talking to you, too. I just prefer, you know,” he gestures between us, “being in the same room and everything.”

“I prefer that, too,” I say. “And Gideon really pissed me off earlier, so you’re in luck.”

His face breaks into a smile that almost blinds me, but he squashes it fast. “Wait. You’d actually consider quitting the tour?”

“It’s not what I thought you’d want me to quit, but yeah… I’d consider it. In fact, consider it done. I can text the tour manager right now.” I reach for my phone, but he stops my hand halfway to the coffee table.

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