Page 29 of Unwrapped

Asher

You’re on. My place at eight.

I lean back, that tension in my chest loosening a little. For the first time in a long time, I’m not interested in running. Not from her. Ivy’s got me hooked—and tonight, I plan on showing her just how deep that hook goes.

Chapter 9

Ivy

The excitement bubbling in my chest makes it hard to focus on anything else. My stomach is doing somersaults, and my heart feels like it’s trying to race out of my chest as I move around my apartment. I’m going to see Asher again tonight. It’s silly how giddy I feel, like a teenager getting ready for a date, but I can’t help it. I’ve replayed last night in my head so many times, it’s become almost like a movie reel.

I close my eyes for a moment, leaning against the counter. His hands, the warmth of his touch, the way he looked at me like I was the only person in the world. I smile to myself, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks just thinking about how everything between us felt so easy, so right. Tonight, I’ll be back at his place, and the anticipation makes me feel like I’m floating on air.

But the excitement is threaded with a touch of anxiety, the nagging voice in the back of my head that wonders if maybe last time was just a fluke, something magical that won’t last in the harsh light of day.

What if tonight feels different? What if I’m overthinking all of this?

I glance at the clock. I still have a couple of hours before I’m supposed to head over, so I grab my apron and decide to bake.It’s one of the few things that calms my nerves and helps me focus when my thoughts start to spiral. Plus, Asher said he loves gingerbread, so maybe I can surprise him with a batch.

I pull out the ingredients, and before long, the sweet, spicy scent of gingerbread fills the kitchen. Mixing the dough, cutting out the shapes, and carefully placing them on the baking sheet helps to settle my jittery energy. But no matter how much I try to distract myself, my mind keeps wandering back to him. To us.

This morning, when I left his place, we didn’t make any promises or declarations. There was no awkwardness, just a quiet understanding that whatever this was between us, it wasn’t over. And tonight, I’d be stepping back into his world—his sleek, polished world that feels so different from mine, but that somehow made me feel like I belonged, at least for those moments with him.

I peek into the oven, the golden edges of the cookies just starting to crisp. They’re turning out perfectly. My phone buzzes on the counter, and my heart skips a beat when I see his name.

Asher

Can’t wait to see you tonight. Miss you already.

I sit at my kitchen counter, staring at Asher's latest text when a memory hits me so hard I nearly drop my phone. It was when we were studying Macbeth, after Asher’s dagger scene.

Senior year. Advanced English. The Shakespeare project that never was.

My hands shake slightly as I remember that day, how I'd spent hours getting ready. I'd even borrowed Tessa's lucky sweater - the soft blue one she swore made everyone fall in love with her. The project guidelines still float through my mind with perfect clarity: "Explore the theme of appearance versus reality in Macbeth."

God, I'd been so excited. Three hours of uninterrupted time with Asher Mercer in the library after school. I'd practically memorized the play, desperate to impress him with my analysis.

I'd arrived early, claiming our favorite table by the window. The autumn sunlight had streamed in, warming the wooden surface as I spread out my color-coded notes. My heart had been racing, palms sweaty as I watched the clock tick closer to 3:30.

But he never showed.

Jessica Martin had bounced over around 4:00, twirling her cheerleader skirt as she informed me,"Oh, Asher's out sick today. Didn't you hear?"

I remember packing up my notes with trembling fingers, trying to hide my disappointment. I'd worked through the project alone that weekend, pushing aside the ache in my chest. When Monday came, I'd stood in front of the class solo, presenting our - my - analysis while Asher sat in the back row, still looking a bit pale.

He'd caught me after class, apologizing profusely. "I'm so sorry, Ivy. I had this awful stomach bug..."

I'd waved it off, maintaining my dignity."No worries. These things happen."

But I'd kept those notes, tucked away in a folder marked "Shakespeare Project." They're probably still in my parents' attic, filled with all the observations I'd wanted to share with him, all the questions I'd planned to ask.

Sixteen-year-old me had been crushed. But now, sitting here with his text lighting up my phone, I can't help but smile at the irony. Maybe some things are worth waiting for.

My cheeks flush, and I bite my lip, feeling that giddy warmth spread through me again. It’s hard to believe that this is the same man who always seemed so untouchable—this larger-than-life figure who somehow made me feel like I was the only one who mattered when we were together.

Ivy

I’m bringing a surprise, so I hope you’re ready.

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