Page 57 of The First Spark

Not that I care … or am counting how many days it’s been since our fateful night together in the basement.

“I’ve got an idea,” I exclaim, rubbing my hands together. “I’ll give you the rest of the afternoon off so you can hang out with the guys. Spend time with Braden. I’ll stay here and manage the store.”

For a second, I think my plan might convince her, but one look at Mina’s exasperated face and I have my answer.

Not happening.

With a huff, I close my laptop and start layering for the weather. Unlike Ash’s fan club, I won’t risk frostbite.

I yank the scarf from its hook, wrapping it tightly around my neck—more to vent my irritation than to wardoff the cold. Then I snatch up the hat and jam it onto my head. Finally, I grab my trench coat, shrugging into it with sharp, jerky movements.

“Let’s get this over with,” I grumble, as I trail Mina through our store and out into the parking lot.

Don’t get me wrong, I adore the holiday season. I’m a nut for festivities and all the trappings related to Christmas. What I’mnota fan of is pretending to be disinterested in front of Sparkwood’s resident bad boy.

So far, it’s been a non-issue, since I’ve barely seen Asher in the last few days. I can pretend he, and our fun-filled romp, are only figments of my imagination.

But now, that figment is live and in color and I am so unprepared for this moment.

My sole armor for this battle is sarcasm—the biting edge of my personality that serves to protect my heart from utter decimation.

Not that Ash has my heart by any stretch, because that would be a stupid and pointless endeavor.

Right?

But my crisis with Ash is momentarily forgotten when I step into Sparkwood’s winter wonderland. I’ll give it to the locals—they know how to throw a party—even if frostbite is a side effect of attendance.

Up and down Main Street stands a bevy of tents and carts, each one offering local fare and crafts. Lights hang on everything from lampposts to awnings and fire pits burn in the middle of the street, offering a warm reprieve from winter’s chill.

The aroma of gingerbread and mulled wine dance across the air, and my stomach rumbles in response.

“Pretty, right?” Mina asks, waving at a few patrons as they stroll by, their arms laden with packages.

“Beautiful. A storybook come to life.”

Hell, even the men from Black Lotus have joined in on the festivities, although their tent decor leans more toward gothic Dickens than Santa’s workshop.

Mina and I enter the tented area, and I realize if Ash’s speakeasy looks anything like the interior of this temporary hangout, he’ll have an instant hit on his hands.

Velvet drapes hang along the walls, helping to block the chill while providing a holiday aesthetic and battery-operated lanterns flicker throughout the area. A small bar sits in the back corner, next to a portable photo booth.

Judging by the dozen or so women hanging out in the tent, Ash also brought along his collection of fuck buddies.

Or at least this week’s installment.

I sound like a bitter hag. The embodiment of the crotchety old maid Ash believed me to be—at least until I proved I can also deliver one hell of a good time.

A good time Ash never wants to experience again. At least, not with me.

Why would he? The man got his wish—my signature on our newly revised deed.

Although Mina disputes my theory, I reckon that was Ash’s intention all along. Butter me up, rub me down, hand me the pen, and duck out the door with nary a backward glance.

Well played, Asher Hammond. Well played.

Still, I can’t hate the man for using his talents to his advantage. Isn’t that what we all do? And he never lied about his intentions with me. Ash promised to love the fuck out of me that night and he made good on his threat.

I just wish I could write off the evening as easily as he did.

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