Yes, those thoughts could wait. They always did. And until I was ready to plunk myself down in the thistle and rip out the roots, I'd fuss with my hair and smooth my suitcase-wrinkled skirt. After all, I'd run away from my life with nothing more than a vague note in my wake because I had to. I was allowed to fixate on my hair and skirt.
After an appropriate amount of obsessing over insignificant things, I emerged to find Ash in the kitchen, his hand on his hip while he glared at his phone in the other. He wasn't wearing his sling but that was the last thing I noticed because he was wearing a polo shirt that must've been tailored to fit every inch of his torso to perfection. His hair, still wet from the shower, was boyishly floppy. The most bizarre urge to slide my hands into the pockets of his navy shorts and feel the body beneath the fabric consumed me.
Without glancing in my direction, he grumbled, "You didn't have to cook for me."
"I know. I did it anyway." I spotted his plate beside the sink, a streak of maple syrup the only remnant. "Hated it, didn't you?"
This earned me his full attention and he'd barely blinked before saying, "Goddamn. What are you wearing?"
Frowning at my plum paisley skirt and its topography of wrinkles, I held my hands out. "Calm down, Ashville. Long, summery skirts aren't meant to be perfect. I'm currently operating as if this is a crinkle fabric. I'm not changing. You need to deal with—"
"I'm not sure what you just said," he growled as he approached me. He lashed his arm around my waist, closing the remainder of the distance between us. "I didn't catch any of it but I don't want you to change a single thing."
Something happened to me then, something like altitude sickness mixed with a tequila buzz, all divided by hunger pangs as if I hadn't eaten in days. It was a strange dizziness that made my eyelids heavy and my lips part and my body want. And it wouldn't let me dismiss Ash's words. I couldn't form a response. It wouldn't take shape. The only thing I could manage was "Where's your sling?"
"Don't need it," he said, still holding me tight.
I watched as his gaze traveled from those heavy lids to my parted lips and then down, down to my sleeveless top in the palest of pinks. It wasn't the top that interested him. It was the space between my breasts, the valley only visible from his vantage point.
I didn't have a lot going on there, nothing more than the average, but the way he sucked in a breath and growled at that valley like it belonged to him only made me dizzier, hungrier.
With his gaze locked on my cleavage, he said, "I need you to know something, Zelda. If we do this, if we go to my parents' place—"
"Well, of course we're going," I interrupted.
In that measured, managerial voice he favored so much, he repeated, "If we go, you won't be able to undo it. I need you to know that."
"Why does that sound like an ominous warning from a practiced skeptic? Like, one doesn't simply sneak into Mordor."
"Because it is, love. You can back out of this. Stay here. I'll handle the explanations."
"Why don't you want me to meet your family? That is, the portion that didn't invite themselves into your bedroom the other day."
He tapped a finger against my belly. "For one, they'd want to keep you."
"What's so bad about that? Your mother and sister are amusing as hell, especially when they literally stared at us in bed and carried on a conversation where they took turns insisting I'm Not Millie. Given this, I'm sure everyone else is equally amusing. And I'm not against being kept. As you might've noticed, I'm not that difficult to collect."
He waited as if he was indulgently allowing me to thatch together my childlike argument. Then, his brows low, he said, "Shall I remind you how you informed me that my mother was about to break out the knitting needles because all the grandchildren we're going to give her will need blankets and hats? I'll wager she'll have one finished by morning if I bring you home with me today."
My eyes widened at the thought of his mother's lingering gazes on our visit to the tailor. Yeah, Mrs. Santillian struck me as the type who