CHAPTER SIX
Cherry blossom flower petals are edible. You can bake them in cakes, pickle them as a garnish, or brew them in tea. Häagen-Dazs sells a cherry blossom ice cream.
Asher Cook is in his element on a worksite. He speaks to his crew with a natural sense of command, and they look to him for leadership. And he’s not above getting his hands dirty.
We’re only at the half-constructed building for twenty minutes before he has a tool belt wrapped around narrow hips and a hard hat on his head. Something is wrong in the ceiling, or so I deduce from the general waving of hands. I’ve been deposited in the corner where I can be out of the way.
“Stay here,” he tells me in a gruff tone without meeting my eyes.
He does not wait for anything as mundane as a ladder.
Instead he jumps to clasp the edge of the ceiling beam, then levers himself up with strength I can only admire. He flips himself onto the beam and then walks to the other end, as casual on the ground as he is twenty feet above it. I have to force myself to unclench my fists. It could be concern for any passing stranger, but I know it’s not. I know it’s more. Something changed between me and Asher.
It’s not just about sex anymore. And it’s not just about duty.
Which is why I don’t obey him.
I wait until he turns around—still twenty feet off the ground and on the other side of the floor. That’s when I stand up and stretch. Even from this far away his gaze caresses me with undeniable heat. My nipples pebble against the fabric. They won’t be visible beneath the texture of the cable knit sweater, but I pull it over my head, leaving me in only the thin ivory camisole.
There’s more than just one dark gaze on me now. Many of the men are looking at me. They don’t dare say anything, not since I came with Asher Cook. I’m not a lost little lamb in a school girl outfit. No, I’m a woman now. And my nipples press proudly against the silk, declaring my readiness.
The problems in the ceiling aren’t the focus of the men anymore.
Conversation quiets and then becomes ringing silence.
My cheeks burn, but I started this for a reason. Because my father could have introduced me to Asher at a dinner party, he could have asked me to date him, he could have even told me to marry him. I would have done it as the good daughter. Instead he sabotaged any chance of a normal relationship.
If I asked him why, he would say it was for the family honor.
I know the truth. It was cowardice. And this? My heart beating faster, my chest rising and falling, my nipples proud and firm beneath the thin silk? This takes courage.
My arms reach above my head, stretching for the world to see. It could not be more blatant. Even though I’m wearing plaid slacks and my hair is done in a bun, it could not be more sexual. Even if I were stripping at a club in a thong I could not feel more inviting than this.
That’s how I turn away from the men, feeling their desire like a tether—and then snap.
Walking away from it. Someone will follow.
I stride blindly down a half-built corridor, not knowing where to go from here. This is how I ran away from the men all those years ago, my heart beating too fast, my body thrumming with urges I didn’t fully understand. It’s different now, because I’m running toward something.
A water fountain, still wrapped in heavy plastic, is the only indication that I’ve found the restrooms. I slip inside, relieved that there are actually stalls and sinks, even though the walls are unfinished.
Heavy footsteps approach, and I dash into a stall. My fingers fumble with the lock.
It could be anyone outside that door. A stranger. A dangerous man.
It’s not only part of the game. What if Asher Cook didn’t like my little show back there? He could have turned around and continued working. He could have let one of his men follow me instead.
A low chuckle bounces off the tile, and I shiver with relief because I recognize him. Anticipation races up my spine. My breath comes quicker.
“I know you’re in here. You may as well come out and make it easy on yourself.”
More footsteps, and I lean against the door, too afraid to make a sound. The lock isn’t working right. I think the door isn’t aligned. There’s nothing stopping him from coming in except my weight.
“Or you can make it harder on yourself,” he says, stopping outside my stall. “Maybe you’d enjoy that. Maybe you like getting men all riled up, thinking about them touching you with their dirty hands.”
