Page 8 of Pro Gamer's Aim

We start rifling through the nearest stack, our shoulders brushing as we work. Milo weaves between our legs, his tail wagging. I try to focus on the task at hand, but my mind keeps drifting to the man beside me. The flex of his biceps as he lifts a box. The hint of ink peeking out from his collar.

"Aha!" Asher holds up a set of navy sheets triumphantly. "Knew they were here somewhere."

"My hero," I repeat, hoping my voice sounds steadier than I feel.

We make the bed together, smoothing out wrinkles and tucking in corners. It's strangely intimate, this domestic dance. Like we've done it a thousand times before.

"There." Asher steps back to admire our handiwork. "Fit for a queen."

"Or a girl and her dog." I perch on the edge of the mattress, patting the space beside me. Milo hops up, circling before flopping down with a contented sigh.

"He's lucky." Asher's gaze lingers on Milo, then flicks to me. "Having you."

Something in his tone makes my heart stumble. It makes me wonder if we're still talking about the dog.

"I should let you get settled." Asher clears his throat, shifting his weight. "Bathroom's down the hall if you need it. Kitchen's all yours too. I'll grab a few things and head out."

"You don't have to rush off." The words rush out with no inhibition at all. "I mean, it's late. And this is your place." Shit, am I coming off desperate? I might be.

He hesitates, his hand on the doorknob. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"It's fine." I squint at him, trying to bring some levity to the situation with an obvious joke. "Unless you're planning on assaulting me in here… Was this your plan all along, Mr. Sinclair?"

"God, no." The horror in his voice is real, and I laugh.

"See? We're both adults. It's fine. We're neighbors, and we can share a bed this size without making it weird."

Asher stares at me a beat too long, and my heart thumps under the weight of his gorgeous eyes. I hold his gaze, not wanting to be the first to look away. He doesn't let go of the doorknob, and I find myself really, really hoping he'll stay. That we'll keep bantering and joking around like this. Like friends. Or... you know… more.

Because he's tall, and sexy, and I've been without for way too long.

Is it the Bailey's talking? The slight buzz of alcohol making me bolder, making me want things I shouldn't?

Asher clears his throat, his expression shifting. "How old are you, Samantha?"

I blink at him in surprise. Of all the questions I expected, that wasn't one of them. "Twenty-one. Why?"

His brows knit together as he studies me. "Just... you seem younger, is all."

"Gee, thanks." I roll my eyes, but I'm not actually offended. "How old are you then, old man?"

"Thirty-five." The corner of his mouth ticks up in a half-smile. "Feel better?"

Thirty-five. The number rolls around in my head as I take another look at him. At the crinkles around his eyes when he smiles, the hints of like two gray hairs threading through his beard. He's older, sure, but not old. Experienced. Mature in a way that makes my stomach flip.

I don't mind thirty-five.

I don't mind at all.

"You don't look a day over twenty-nine," I tease, trying to shake off the sudden fluttery feeling.

Asher laughs, a deep rumbling sound that does absolutely nothing to settle my nerves. "You're a terrible liar, Samantha James."

"Sam," I correct automatically. "My friends call me Sam."

"Sam, then." He tests out the nickname, holding my gaze again. Something sparks between us, hot and electric, before he tears his eyes away. "I should go."

The words wake me up from that little bubble of pink rom-com, as if I had jumped into a freezing lake. Naked.

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