Page 18 of Raising the Sun

His sly grin as he returned to his book made me shift from foot to foot. “Was your outing fruitful?”

“No.” Needing to busy myself, I slid my coat off and hung it up on the rack by the door. “Guess you’ll be living here for the time being…”

“Did I not already prepare you for that outcome?”

I ignored his snarky interruption. “So, treat the place like your home. Do whatever you want.”

He hummed. “I appreciate the permission, though I already was.”

The fucker wanted me to bite, but I refused to give him further satisfaction. “What is your name, anyway? If you’re going to be around, I can’t keep calling youdemon.” I lowered my voice to add, “Or arsehole.”

His back stiffened, his smile wavering briefly before it returned. I’d almost missed it. “You may call me Ash. If it pleases you.”

I frowned at his reaction. “Not your real name?”

“It is a… nickname.”

I wouldn’t pry, though I would file it away for later. “Very fitting, what with you being a phoenix demon and all.”

“Astutely observed, pet,” he cooed mockingly, and I couldn’t have restrained the glare I sent him, even if I’d tried.

“Right. Well, help yourself to anything.” I turned on my heel, heading towards the bathroom. “I’m going for a shower.”

“What is yours?” he called, making my steps falter.

“Huh?”

Ash peered up at me, eyebrow cocked. “Your name.”

“Ah… Isaac. Though, if your snooping skills are even half as impressive as your audacity, you already knew that.”

The smirk on his face confirmed that assumption, but he dipped his head in polite greeting, anyway.

“Pleasure to be meeting you, Isaac Miller.” To my instant mortification, a blush spread across my cheeks at the sound of my name on his tongue. I’d have to get a handle on that, pronto. “Before you leave, I found something of yours that interested me.”

Heart skipping and mouth suddenly dry as desert sand, I drifted back to the sofa, curious and nervous in equal measure. “Hm?”

Thankfully, when Ash clicked his magic fingers, the still-boxed Fleshlight I’d purchased a few months ago and hidden under my bed didn’t materialise. Instead, it was the leaflet for the Flower Festival. “You should enter.”

I exhaled, long and slow. “Oh, er, I’m not ready for that. Someday, maybe. But not yet.”

“Why not?”

“I’m almost ninety-nine percent sure it would solve all of my business problems.”

He frowned, rightfully so. “That sounds like the opposite of a bad thing.”

“The top three winners get massive cash prizes.” I carried on as if I hadn’t heard him. “But also, recognition. That’s TV time, news articles. The guy who won last year just opened histhirdshop.”

With a sigh, Ash put down his book and sat up straighter, angling himself fully towards me. “I’m failing to see the point you’re obviously attempting—terribly—to make.”

“It’s abig deal. Thousands of florists apply from all over the country, but since there’s only so many spots, the selection process has to be particular. Brutal. The winners are alwaysveryexperienced, and very well-off already. It would be pointless for me to even try.”

“Why?”

“Didn’t you just—”

“I heard your slew of irrelevant points, yes, but why don’t you think you’re experienced enough?”

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