Page 82 of Pieces of Ash
A blush blooms on her cheeks as she nods, a sweet little smile pulling at her lips.
And maybe it makes me stupid, but this is all the temperature check I need to move forward with her. While Istand there, smiling back at her like a dummy, I almost feel like I’ve known her forever, like the connection we have is more real and more intense than anything else I’ve ever known. There is even a part of me—the most cautious part, which feels less and less cynical as the seconds tick by—that desperately hopes she won’t let me down.
I place the mug in front of her, pointing to the various offerings between our plates. “Cream and sugar there. Scrambled eggs with cheddar cheese here. Bacon. Home fries.”
She doesn’t say anything. She just smiles. But it’s…dazzling.
I know she’s eighteen, and I’m twenty-four, so by default I should be more confident than she, but suddenly I’m nervous as hell, and I don’t know how dudes like Tom Brady and Tony Romo marry models and keep it together on a daily basis. How do they get used to waking up to a girl who looks like this every day? Or do theynotget used to it? Maybe they’re blown away every time they look at their wives. Maybe they wake up tongue-tied every morning for the rest of their lives. That sort of makes sense to me right now.
One of my college fraternity brothers had a thing for Tig—she was on his screen saver, and he had a big poster of her over his bed wearing a white string bikini. And I can see Tig in her little sister, physically speaking. Blonde hair, check. Blue eyes, check. But Tig looked hard to me. Pissed. Fierce. Angry as all hell, like fucking her would be a combat sport at best, and she’d deck you hard if you called it “making love.”
But Ashley?
She’s soft. And sweet. Surprised by everything. Taking nothing for granted. Jesus, I wish I could just sink into her and stay there for days. For months. For-fucking-ever.
“What?” she asks.
“Huh?”
“You’re staring at me.”
“You’re nice to stare at,” I answer, feeling smooth.
Unsmiling, she shakes her head and looks away, reaching for the serving spoon sitting on top of the eggs.
Hmm. Her expression makes me feel a littlelesssmooth. “Should I not say that?”
She shrugs as she places some eggs on her plate. When she replaces the spoon, she snags a piece of bacon and bites it, looking up at me.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” she says, crunching on the fried deliciousness, “but I’ve heard that a lot.”
“That you’re nice to stare at?”
She nods. “Mm-hm.Beautiful. Pretty. Gorgeous. Stunning. Hot.I’ve heard it all.”
What’s amazing about whatshe’s saying ishowshe’s saying it, without a hint of conceit. She’s calling out the world on its banality without pressuring herself to agree or disagree. She genuinely doesn’t like being boiled down to “pretty,” and I realize that I like and admire this about her.
What I don’t like is the way she’s looking at me, like she’s disappointed.
“Are you calling me unoriginal?”
She pops the rest of the bacon into her mouth, raising an eyebrow.
If the shoe fits…
“Okay. How about this?” I say. “You look unexpectedly good for a woman who woke up five minutes ago. You’re unshowered. You probably smell pretty ripe. But you still look…” I shrug for effect. “…okay.”
She giggles softly, digging into her eggs. “Better.”
“Ashley doesn’t like being called pretty. Check.”
“Triple check,” she says. “You actually got points fornotrecognizing me last week.”
This surprises the hell out of me. “I did?”
She nods, chewing thoughtfully. “Mmm! These are good. What’s in them again?”
“Eggs, cheddar, salt, pepper. How come I got points?”
