Page 48 of Pieces of Ash
Tonight? Buttery noodles are bathed in a mix of molten cheeses. Flaky breadcrumbs fried to perfection practically melt in my mouth.
As I take a second mouthwatering bite, I feel bad for every kid in the world who thinks bright orange goop over disgusting little rock-hard elbow pasta is food. It isn’t. I know the truth now. And the truth is that when there’s an angel in the kitchen, everything tastes like it’s straight from heaven.
Sighing over a third bite, I retread that thought, annoyed with myself for referring to Ashley as an angel.
For all you know, she screwed over some guy royally, and now he’s after her. For all you know, she’s a little tease who could get you in hot water too.
It wouldn’t be the first time, Julian.
“Angel,” I scoff. “Right.”
Bruno whines, tilting his head to ask if I’m almost done. He’s waiting as patiently as he can to lick the plate, but I know the wait hurts, so I eat a little faster.
Well, she sure looked like an angel sitting on the porch Sunday morning and feeding my dog her eggs. Her blonde hair was loose, lit by the rising sun like a halo. And her blue eyes when she stared at me? Fuck, I could feel my whole body tightening and hardening when I caught her staring at my ass. She’s sexy beyond words. Effortlessly gorgeous. Eminently fuckable.
That said, Idon’tsense that she’s a tease. There’s an artless innocence about her. An otherworldliness. An old-fashioned vibe that would be almost unbelievable if it wasn’t so tangible.
Yesterday she fell asleep on the porch, in the sun, holding a book—not a Kindle, not a phone, but a real book with paperpages—on her lap, and while she was sleeping, I snuck upstairs to her room just to look around.
I didn’t see a laptop charging on the coffee table or the bureau in her room. No phone plugged in beside her bed. No tablet propped up on her pillow. No electronics anywhere, in fact. Just a neatly folded quilt at the foot of a neatly made bed, and two books on the floor, like maybe they’d fallen from her fingers and slipped off the covers as she drifted to sleep.
And then there’s her cooking.
She cooks things like pasta and cheese. She makes biscuits—the carbiest carb of all—withbutter. Last night she made a little fruit tart that she delivered with a hefty slice of meat loaf. Dessert. No one eats dessert anymore! Who cooks like that? I mean…butter?The girls I dated in Florida and DC barely ate more than lettuce.Maybe,once in a while, they’d splurge big with a veggie burger. But under no circumstances would they eat the bun.
This girl? She’sallabout the carbs. I’ve seen her sitting on the porch, finishing off the same meals she makes for me. Seriously. What millennial chick eats like this?
Ashley. That’s who.
Her cooking and eating, coupled with her blatant lack of technology, reads odd, but genuine, to me. Genuinely odd. Genuinely lost. Genuinely down on her luck. Genuinely at the end of her rope. I watched her with Gus yesterday—the way she hugged him, the way she smiled at him.
So, what’s her story?
I know it’s none of my business, and I hate it that I’m curious, but I am. I can’t help it. Curiosity is hardwired into my DNA.
Is she a little lost waif? Or a damn good actress?
“Like you’d know th’ difference,” I growl through a shoveled-in mouthful of food. “Your ’stincts with women aren’t th’ best, dummy.”
If her entire persona is an act, what’s her angle? A free place to stay? Nah. What girl would go to such lengths just to skip rent? There must be more. Money? Maybe. Maybe this is all a long con. Jock and Gus do well for themselves. Maybe she wants to bleed them dry. Or maybe—as I suspected the first day I met her—she’s hiding. But from who? Who did she piss off so badly that her best option is living in the middle of nowhere with a complete stranger?
I rub my eyes, feeling a headache coming on.
Whatever her story, I don’t trust her. Not until I learn more about her situation. Because some women, like my grandmother and sister, are genuinely good-hearted and well-intentioned. For a good woman, I would give the world. I would help her, protect her, keep her safe.
But other women—like my mother, like Magdalena—are users. They prey on men, they destroy them. They would ruin a man—his reputation, his future, his very life—without a second thought.
My biggest problem? I have no gift for telling the difference.
Estoy desesperada. Sin dinero, mi padre morirá. ¡Ayúdame, Julian! ¡Por favor, ayúdame!
I’m desperate. Without money, my father will die.Help me, Julian! Please, help me!
Magdalena’s pleading voice, garbled with tears, enters my mind and circles, the words despairing, relentless, and, inmygullible ears, genuine. Even now. Even when I have twenty-twenty hindsight.
My stomach rebels, turning over. I clench my jaw to keep from throwing up all that good mac and cheese.
It’s been a year.
