Page 30 of Training the Heart

I smile at both his assessment and his way of not scolding me for dating someone who is clearly an asshole.

Wade makes quick work in the kitchen as I continue the movie. I watch him in my periphery, as he washes his hands carefully then rolls his flannel up over his forearms, the little knot between his brows deepening as he works, slicing up cheeses and fruits, placing crackers and meats on a wood board.

“Never took you for the action movie type.” He nods to the TV as he sets the rather pretty charcuterie board down beside me and seats himself on the other side of it.

“My favorite kind of movie,” I say enthusiastically. “The classics especially, the more action, the better.”

“Well, we have that in common,” he says as he helps himself to some of his offerings.

“When did you do”—I look around and nod toward the Post-its—“all this? Did you even sleep at all last night?” I ask.

A look crosses Wade’s face, one I don’t quite understand.

“Slept great.” He leans into me, his voice deep. “Running on ninety seconds, Johnny … pure adrenaline,” he says, quoting a famous line that Patrick Swayze’s character says in the movie.

I gasp dramatically, then laugh. “Wade Ashby, was that ajoke?”

“Nah … you should know by now I don’t joke,” he says, his face instantly unreadable again as he pops a grape into his mouth.

“Right, I forgot. Jokes bad, grunts and scowls good.” I giggle.

He grunts with exaggeration at me and leans back into the sofa, relaxing his legs, but I don’t miss it for a second. The full and devastating lopsided smirk that plays on his lips. A smirk that makes my stomach drop.

“Something like that, Trouble, something like that,” he says, that smirk just enticing me where I sit. I can’t do anything but stare at him for a moment.

It’s like I’m seeing a whole other side to Wade Ashby, and try as I might I just can’t seem to look anywhere else.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Wade

When I return home at five, Ivy is on the couch, her ankle on a pillow just like I instructed, and the crutches are beside her. She is determined, I’ll give her that, and strong as hell.

I drop my hat on the bench, say hello and watch her use her strength to pull herself around the room, keeping her ankle elevated. She seems to do it with ease, and she also seems to have a hard time sitting still, another thing we just might have in common. She moves quickly, disappearing into her bedroom. I hate that I don’t like the idea of her needing space, but I get that it might be odd for her to be here with me like this, making small talk all the time.

I let her be and make my way into the kitchen to wash up and think about some kind of a dinner for her. As I do, I marvel at the odd feeling of just having someone here when I come home. Lights glowing, sound.Anysound other than nothing. Someone to greet. I don’t hate it.

There are two candles lit in the center of my coffee table that my mother put there before I moved back. They’ve neverbeen used until now but fuck, it smells good in here. Kind of like Ivy but amplified. Vanilla and some sort of cookie scent.

Ivy surprises me a few minutes later and comes back into the living room with a smile, her hair now up in a big messy bun, the heavy worn gray hoodie I left her this morning on her petite frame.

“It gets cold in here,” she comments.

“Fuck, yeah it does, sorry. I’m used to it. I’ll make a fire.” I move to the big old stone fireplace and get one going for her as she asks me about the day while she cues upDie Hard.

I fill her in as I move back to the kitchen and pull makings out of the fridge to start dinner. I watch her settle in on my sofa and I can’t help but wonder what other movies she’s watched, or how many of her smutty book chapters she managed to fit in when I wasn’t home all day, maybe in the bath while she—

Fuck, Wade. No. Just no.

I force myself to focus and our silence turns comfortable. Just the sound of the movie and the crackle of the fire fill the room as I roll my sleeves up and get to work on some quick chicken penne. I’ve always been capable in the kitchen—not only do I love to cook, I simply had to, because Janelle would burn water if she tried to boil it. If I wanted to eat anything other than grilled cheese sandwiches, I had to become resourceful. It was useful knowledge and my mother had made sure us boys knew our way around a recipe.

“I made my bed and tidied up a little,” she says as I grimace at her.

“Y’er supposed to be sitting. Elevating.”

“I don’t sit well, Chief. I stopped when my ankle started aching, don’t worry.”

I nod and pop my AirPods in, and turn on David Allan Coe as I get in my cooking zone.

---