Page 92 of The First Spark

My cheeky aside earns a whoop of laughter from the man, and for a second, I forget I’m supposed to hate him.

He leans forward, dragging a finger along my jaw. “Once is never enough.”

Oh, but it is, unless you have more favors that you need fulfilled.

Just like that, I remember why I must keep my distance. It’s far too easy to fall prey to Ash’s charming flirtations.

Far too easy to fall for him, period, and we all know wherethatgot me.

I throw up my hands, offering him a shrug. “I’m asking because I didn’t think you could jump a truck with a bike.”

“Harley.”

“Whatever.”

Ash pulls a set of keys from his pocket and walks to the pickup parked directly across the lot from mine. “That’s why I’m using Braden’s truck.”

“And also, why I asked Braden for help.”

Ash pauses, a strange look flickering in his eyes. A flash of uncertainty crosses his features, though he quickly covers it. “Braden told me your situation, and I offered to come in his stead. Unless you’d rather wait for him.”

“No. Thank you.” I could keep arguing over this mundane detail, but let’s be real—I’m only doing it to stretch out this moment in Ash’s company, even if it means nothing to him.

Me and my stupid schoolgirl crush, twenty years post-graduation.

“Aren’t you cold?” I ask, motioning to the thin t-shirt stretched across his chest.

He flashes another cocky grin, running a hand over his beard. “Not yet, but I’m sure I will be soon—unless, of course, you want to keep me warm.”

Oh no, mister, you will not bait me with sexy flirtations, even if I started it. “You have plenty of women to fill that role.”

Ash scoffs, shaking his head in frustration as his smile fades. “And yet, you’re the one I’m asking. What does that tell you?”

Who the hell knows at this point?

I refuse to read into his words, because we both know that deep down, that’s all they are.

Do they make me feel good? Of course, because that’s exactly what they’re designed to do.

But they don’t mean anything more to Ash, and neither do I. A sad, but undeniable, truth.

Ash hops into Braden’s truck, pulling it forward so the fenders are almost touching. Then he pops the hood and pulls the cables from Braden’s backseat.

As he works, I notice the ink decorating his biceps, the lines vibrant beneath the glare of the streetlight.

The large design is an intricate mural celebrating the Roaring '20s—bold Art Deco patterns and sleek lines, with Gatsby’s watchful eyes in the center, both haunting and mesmerizing. It’s like staring into a world of glitz and illusion, a party that’s already ended but still lingers in the air.

How did I not notice it before? After all, I have seen every inch of the man.

Brain, you’ve got to stop thinking about that night.

Reaching out, I trace the line of the tattoo, feeling Ash’s muscles flex under my fingers. “This is a tribute to Gatsby.”

He cocks his head, shooting me an appreciative nod. “See? I knew you’d get it. Most people think it’s about Vegas for some reason.”

“The eyes give it away,” I murmur, aware that my fingers remain pressed against his skin, fingering the outline. “You really have always adored this time period.”

Ash glances down at my hand, but he makes no move to pull away. “For as long as I can remember. It might seem stupid to some.”

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