Page 120 of Chasing Sparks

Ash, you need to stop doing this.

But a larger part of me is grateful for his continued efforts, even if I don’t know when I’ll be able to look at him as anything other than the greatest love I never had.

I stop by the front desk to grab the door keys and pause, my gaze falling to the stack of cards from Ash.

With a sigh, I grab them and turn on the desk lamp, its golden glow illuminating the pile.

Mina claims they’re heartfelt, but let’s get real. Ash is hardly known for his romantic sonnets, unless claiming I have a delicious pussy counts.

Here goes nothing.

Every day without you feels wrong. I want to fix this, if you’ll let me.

You’re the best part of my messed-up life, little one. I miss you.

Please don’t give up on me.

I toss the rest of the notes back into the drawer, a few now wet with teardrops. The wet smudges blur his words, making them as hard to decipher as my own feelings. Mina is right—theyareheartfelt.

I shoot a glance toward our shared hallway and the entrance to the speakeasy.

Stay. Go. Stay. Go.

Should I ignore or heed Ash’s request? My heart and hormones scream out their choice, but it’s not that simple anymore.

I still need time, though I’m not sure for what. I need to process the news of Ash’s impending fatherhood, not that the outcome will change.

Never mind the jealousy gnawing in my core that the woman carrying his child doesn’t deserve his affections—not after what she did to Ash’s heart.

But fairness never plays into love stories. He’s getting his happily ever after ending, and I’m back to square one.

I know that’s not how Ash describes their situation, but let’s get real. It’s only a matter of time.

They’re having a baby. Lucille is living with Ash. Let’s throw in how she’s also the only woman he’s ever loved.

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out the ending to that scenario.

Basically, my heart and future plans are fucked … or not, as the case may be.

Still, it’s rude to leave him waiting downstairs. The least I can do is give him a heads up that while I appreciate the offer, I’m tired and begging off on any social gatherings for the foreseeable future.

Then I’ll go home and attempt to drown my sorrows in a bubble bath of whiskey and tears and pray my stomach understands this last transgression.

I swear I’ll eat vegetables and drink copious amounts of water tomorrow. Just let me have tonight.

Good plan.

The heavy oak door to the lower level opens with little effort, thanks to some newly installed hinges. A pang rushes through me as I finger the shiny brass handle, realizing that the dingy basement where we first began our journey is no more.

Much like Ash and me.

I realize, in the rational parts of my mind, how silly an idea it was to fall headfirst into loving Asher Hammond. The man told me, time and again, that he didn’t buy into the whole happily ever after idea. At least, not since Lucille.

Even if she hadn’t returned, I would have grown weary of playing second fiddle to a ghost. Now, I have the luxury of a real live human to compound my angst.

I think I prefer ghost stories.

Descending the polished steps, I pause, my gaze drinking in the changes since I last visited the speakeasy.

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