Page 28 of The Jilted Lovers Club
She smirks. “I mean, youdidhold my hair while I puked.”
“There’s alovelyvisual,” I say dryly.
She laughs, shaking her head. “But really, I’m lucky I ran into you yesterday. It helps to have a friend like you.”
Friend.
The word settles between us like a barrier. A safe boundary she’s setting.
I nod, forcing a grin. “Yeah. Lucky.”
Not Friends
Jordy
Friend.
That’s what I called Ashton before heading to bed. I saw the way his brow furrowed, like he couldn’t stand the thought of being friends with someone like me.
He’d been nice to me, more than nice—I’m literally sleeping in his house. But I can’t shake the feeling that he’s doing all this because he’s a good guy, not because he likes me.
I’ve never cared this much about what someone thought of me. I’ve held my head high through worse—when I found out Brayden was cheating on me with my cousin, when I moved to New York and clawed my way into a career that wasn’t easy to break into, when I walked into businesses and watched people take one look at me and dismiss me outright.
I do not bow to anyone’s misconceptions about me.
But my confidence also means people get the wrong idea. They think I’m bitchy. Too single-minded. Hard to work with. The kind of person who doesn’t need friends.
And yet, something about Ashton unnerves me.
The way he listens—really listens—like he actually cares about what I have to say. The way his hand lingers at the small of my back when we walk. The way he acted as a buffer with Bernie, like he was standing between me and whatever threat she posed.
It’s making it hard to keep my walls up.
But that look on his face when I mentioned being his friend? That’s all the reminder I need. This is still a business transaction. The Till has been under his family’s care. That makes him invested in my success. Maybe. Or maybe he doesn’t care about Timeless at all. Maybe I’m just the offering to make up for his mistakes—his way of making peace with Sasha’s absence.
Whatever it is, we aren’t friends.
I’m still repeating this to myself the next morning as I grab my coffee—only to come face to face with Ashton’s entirely too perfect bare chest.
Holy hell.
Dark, defined muscles. Chiseled abs. Flannel pajama pants slung so low on his hips I almost forget how to breathe.
“Morning,” he says, and when I finally tear my gaze away from his torso, his eyes are amused.
I clear my throat and edge around him carefully, avoiding any sudden movements that might involve grabbing onto his shoulders like some sex-starved lunatic. How long has it been? Faced with Ashton’s half naked body, entirely too long.
“Morning,” I squeak, reaching for a coffee cup.
“Did you sleep well?”
Did I ever. He’d changed the sheets before insisting I take his bed while he slept on the couch. I’d fought him on it, but he was more stubborn than me, and I’d eventually given in.
Even with fresh sheets, his bed hadstillsmelled like him.
That scent distracted me way too much, to the point where I had to slip a hand into my underwear and deal with my frustration before I could even fall asleep. When I woke up, I was rested—but also very aware of the fact that the first thing I did was inhale deeply, just to smell him again.
“I was comfortable,” I say, keeping my voice as even as possible. “Thanks for giving up your room. Did you sleep okay?”
