Page 81 of The Influencer

“A blouse.”

Distracted, he gives it a long once-over. It’s a stretchy white lace top I found at a thrift store before I had any money, but it’s comfortable, and the neckline is flattering. More accurately, it was the first thing I grabbed from my closet when I had to put on a shirt to go to the liquor store. The rest of my outfit—bike shorts and flip-flops do not “a look” make, but I really needed that vodka. Predictably, he’s staring at my nipples through the lace, but I need more information. I clear my throat and he drags his gaze up to meet mine.

“So, are you broken up or not?” I’m only asking because he’s a friend. Sort of. No other reason.

“I think so? Maybe…”

“But you left…”

“I did leave,” he confirms. “But I didn’t pack a bag or anything.”

He’s not being very forthcoming. “And your shop has a place for you to live in?” I press.

“No, but I’ll figure something out. Trust me, that’s not why I showed up here, I just…”

“You just…?”

In lieu of an answer he gives me one of those classic, straight guy chin nods. “How’ve you been?”

A mess. I’ve been a fucking mess. “Great,” I say. “Busy. You know.”

“Yeah, sure.”

For the first time in my short history of knowing Asher Haas, silence descends between us. It’s awkward and wrong, and I may very well need to be swabbed, because I can’t be healthy if my banter ability has failed. But the silence goes from uncomfortable one second to charged with tension the next. I don’t know who moves first, but the next thing I do know is that my fingers are in his hair, his are in mine, and our mouths are locked together, tongues going straight to war.

It’s a frenzy. For my part, I have a lot to process, and I want to do all that processing inside his mouth. At least it feels like we’re sort of on the same page.

He feels his way down my neck to my chest, plucking at my nipple through my shirt. I whimper, arms wrapping around his neck because I’m suddenly afraid my legs won’t hold me up much longer. He hefts me into his arms, and I cross my legs around his back. The kiss goes on. Deeper. Harder. Better than ever. My heart is like a ticking bomb.

My ass is in his hands, and he backs me into the counter, making out with me in that way that merges our heads into one object. I claw at his shirt in an attempt to rip it off him, panting and needing more—needing him with dizzying ferocity—and the fucking doorbell rings.

We break apart, gasping. His lips are glistening and red. His pupils are blown wide. “Did you order food or something?”

I frown in confusion, shaking my head. Oh. Oh. Shit.

Gage.

“Um…” I look frantically between Asher and the door. Between what I truly want and what I should want. I press my palms against his forearms. “Can you help me down?”

“Who is it?” he asks.

As I’m wiping my mouth, he gets a clue. “Oh, Jesus. You’ve got a date.”

“It’s not a date,” I kind of snap, at my absolute wit’s end. He should know me better than that at least. “More like an appointment,” I add in a mumble as I attempt to get my hair back in order. I reach up to fuss with his too, but he swats my hands away.

“I’ll get out of here,” he says. “Sorry. I knew I should have called or texted first.”

“You don’t have to go,” I say, all panicked about letting him out of my sight. I’ve been borderline miserable for three straight days, and God only knows when I’ll see him again if I let him walk out the door now of all times. He’ll probably wind up back at his apartment with his girlfriend. No, I can’t let him leave. I’m just saving him from himself. That’s all.

The Gage thing is a pickle, but we’ll figure it out. I pretend like I know what I’m doing. “Let me get the door. You stay here.”

I don’t give him a chance to argue before I’m hurrying down the hall to let Gage in. We hug and kiss-kiss like we’re old friends. The truth is, I’ve only worked with him once before, but he’s gained a lot of subscribers since then, and he reached out to ask about the sixty-nine.

To be honest, I can’t even remember what we did together the last time. I was hoping seeing him again would remind me, but he’s just a clean-smelling blob to me right now because Asher is the only thing on my mind.

I confidently walk Gage to the kitchen island where Asher is staring at us both with curiosity. “Gage, my friend Asher, Asher, this is Gage—a collaborator.”

They shake hands and politely greet each other because this is the twilight zone.

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