Between Hello and Goodbye(56)

I huffed a breath, amazed at how crazy-nervous I felt. Now that Asher was here, every minute of our two-month separation smacked me in the face. I’d dressed in a pretty violet shift dress and brushed my hair out so that it fell in soft waves over my shoulders. I wanted to be beautiful for him.

The door opened and Asher’s expression—tired but somehow more handsome than I remembered—completely came undone. His eyes widened, his jaw dropped, taking me in.

“Hi,” I said.

Hi, he mouthed and motioned me in. He seemed unable to take his eyes off me, and I couldn’t stop staring at my firefighter, either. It was almost hard to believe he was here after living for so long in my fevered imagination.

I stepped inside the room—a suite, with a couch in front of a TV and a small kitchenette. I set the items down on the counter. When my arms were free, I moved to him, pressed myself against him. “Asher…”

He brushed the hair from my face, eyes roaming. His brow furrowed with an intense expression I’d never seen him wear, as if he were just as troubled by the pull between us, the heat and longing. The need…

I moved to kiss him, but he turned his head. “Don’t want to get—”

“You don’t want to get me sick,” I said. “I know. But I don’t care.”

“I care.”

He pulled me to him and instead of kissing me, he held me close, one hand in my hair, the other wrapped around my waist. My eyes fell shut and I melted against him, reveling in the feel of his strong body pressed to me and the scent of him. It was a little bit scary how good it felt to simply be held by him, with no expectation of something more.

Because he missed me too.

Tears sprang to my eyes, but I blinked them away and pulled back. “I’d imagined our reunion would be more of you tearing off my clothes and having your way with me for all hours, but playing Florence Nightingale works too.” I took his hand and led him back to the couch.

“Sorry,” he said, sitting down heavily. His voice was scratchy and rough, and clearly, it hurt to speak. “Wanted to take you out, do something special for you…”

“Don’t be sorry,” I said, moving to the kitchenette and busying myself with the soup. “And don’t say things like that, you’ll make a girl cry.”

I brought him the container of soup—chicken noodle—and a spoon and sat beside him. He took it gratefully, eyes still on me. Feeling was mutual: I couldn’t pry my eyes from him if I tried. Somehow, he made flannel pants and a V-neck undershirt look impossibly erotic.

“You look tired.” I smoothed the hair above his ear. “Too much work.”

“You too,” he croaked.

“Probably,” I said. “My ad got made in record time because it was the antidote to thinking about you.”

He nodded, and the intensity in his brown eyes said more than he was able. He spooned a few bites of soup then set it on the coffee table.

“You want something for the pain?”

He shook his head, and I could see he needed rest. I pulled him to me and put his head in my lap, grazing my fingers lightly through his hair.

“Feels good,” he whispered, moments away from sleep. My fatigue from the last few weeks crashed over me. Before either of us could pass out, I gently pushed him against the couch lengthwise. He stretched out and I stretched out along with him.

“This okay?” I asked, my head pillowed on his chest.

His arms around me tightened. “Perfect.”

My heart ached, because being with him again was perfect…and temporary.

“Asher? Remember back at your friend’s restaurant when I asked if we were in trouble?”

“Yeah.” He sighed, his chest rising and falling under me. “I know.”



I woke sometime in the late afternoon to Asher rummaging in the kitchen for some water. He looked better already, that is to say—ungodly sexy.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hi.” I pushed myself to sitting. “You sound better.”

“Told you. Twenty-four hours.”

I frowned. “Does that happen often? You get laryngitis from what? Smoke inhalation?”

“I wouldn’t say often.”

My frown deepened. “Once is too many. That can’t be healthy.”

“I’m fine,” he said, coming to sit beside me. He slipped his hand to cup my jaw, his thumb brushing over my lower lip. “And you’re beautiful.”

“Don’t change the subject.” I took one of his hands in mine, my heart overflowing and me not having the first clue what to do about it. “How bad was it? Did the volcano erupt?”

“Not this time.”

“This time? You’ve been there before?”

“The Kīlauea volcano was one of my first calls when I joined the fire station,” Asher said. “About four years ago. Twenty-four fissures opened and the summit collapsed. We were called in to assist the local crews when the lava flows wouldn’t quit. It was a shit show. Seven hundred houses lost.”

“God, I can’t imagine watching that happen right in front of you.”

“It’s terrible but kind of majestic, too. Lava isn’t like fire,” he said. “You can’t aim a hose at it and put it out. It just keeps coming, rolling like a slow wave, eating everything in its path. All you can do is surround and drown nearby structures and help people stay out of its way. Be a shoulder to lean on when you tell them they’ve lost everything.” Asher’s voice thickened and he cleared it with a rough shrug. “Anyway, that’s what you sign up for.”