One Tiny Lie (Ten Tiny Breaths, #2)(52)

There’s a pause. “What about them?” He tries to sound bored but by the way his arms constrict around me, the way the muscles in his neck spasm, I know immediately that I’ve hit a nerve.

“I don’t know . . .” Turning to look out on the road, I murmur casually, “Tell me about them.”

“There’s not much to tell.” The bored tone has switched to annoyed. “Why? What has Reagan heard?”

Keeping my focus ahead, I take a deep breath and decide not to lie. “That your mother’s . . . gone?”

I feel Ashton exhale. “That’s right. She’s gone.” It’s very matter-of-fact and doesn’t invite further questions.

I don’t know what makes me push my luck. “What about your father?”

“He’s not . . .unfortunately.” The contempt is unmistakable. “Leave it alone, Irish.”

“Okay, Ashton.”



By the time we reach their house, I’ve asked Ashton at least five more times if he wants to rest his arms and he’s told me at least five more times to shut up about him needing to put me down.

And we’ve said nothing else.

He marches right past Reagan—freshly showered and drowning in a pair of Grant’s sweats—and a curious Grant, and upstairs, past the communal bathroom, to the bathroom within his bedroom. He gently sets me on the counter.

The corresponding groan tells me he should have put me down long ago.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter, guilt washing over me.

Reagan and Grant appear in the doorway as Ashton stretches his arms in front of his chest and then over his head with another groan.

“Look at those big, strong muscles,” Grant says with an exaggerated lisp, reaching out to squeeze Ashton’s biceps.

“Fuck off, Cleaver,” he snaps, swatting his hand away. He grabs a towel from the hook and starts patting my hair and face with it.

“What! I was going to go pick you up, but Reagan said you two wanted to—” Reagan’s sharp elbow to Grant’s ribs shuts him up mid-sentence.

“Here. Tea.” Reagan hands me a steaming mug.

One sip tells me it’s not just tea. “You spiked the drink of an injured person,” I state flatly, the alcohol burning in my throat. “Who does that?”

“It’s better than what a lame horse gets,” Reagan answers as she unlaces my shoe and slips off my sock. Air hisses through my gritted teeth. “How bad is it? Should we take you to the hospital?”

I see the purplish bruise around my instep and my swollen ankle. “No, it’s just a sprain, I think.”

“You’re not a doctor yet, Irish,” Ashton murmurs, leaning over to study it, and I see that the back of his shirt is like a second skin. Every ridge, every curve, every part of him is visible. Perfect. Where my body protected the front of him, his back took the brunt of the rain. If he’s cold, though, he doesn’t let on. “Let’s ice it for now but if it gets worse, I’m taking you to the hospital.” I nod, noting how Ashton takes over the situation, as if I have no say in the matter.

“These should help you.” Grant holds up a set of crutches. Seeing my frown, he explains. “They’re Ty’s. He sprains his ankle at least twice a year with a party injury. It’s good that he’s short. They should be about the right height for you.”

“He won’t mind?”

“Nah, he won’t need them until November. Like clockwork,” Grant says, and then peers down at my foot. He smiles.

I’m suddenly self-conscious. “What?”

With a shrug, he says, “You have sexy feet, Irish.” His words are quickly followed by a grunt as Reagan playfully smacks his chest.

“Stop ogling my roommate’s feet!”

“Fine, let me ogle yours.”

“Eww!” she squeals, ducking under his arm to tear out of the room, Grant chasing her.

“Bring some ice up!” Ashton hollers behind them, followed by, “The idiot’s going to get kicked off the team,” in a low mutter.

I watch him as he searches through the vanity cupboard and resurfaces with a first-aid kit in hand. “Not if the coach doesn’t find out. They’re happy together.”

Ashton freezes. It’s a good four seconds before his hands start moving again, pulling out antiseptic and bandages. “Do you want to call Connor to let him know you’re here?”

Connor. “Oh, yeah.” I hadn’t even thought about calling him. I kind of forgot about him . . . Not kind of. Completely. “He’s working on that paper at the library, right? I don’t want to disturb him.”

Cradling my injured hand in his, he looks up to ask me quietly, “Are you sure?”

And I get the feeling that he’s asking me something entirely different. Am I sure about Connor, perhaps.

The atmosphere in the room feels thicker suddenly, as my lungs work hard to drag air in and push it out, those dark eyes of his searching mine for an answer. “I think so,” is all I can manage.

He shudders, and I remember again that he’s sopping wet. “You need to change. You’re going to get sick,” I murmur, my eyes pointedly on his shirt.

Setting my injured hand down, he reaches back over his shoulders and pulls his shirt forward and over his head. Tossing it to a corner, he turns back to take my hand. And I’m facing the chest that I’ve not been able to dislodge from my brain for weeks. The one that instantly makes my breath hitch. The one that I’ve never had a chance to stare at so blatantly while sober. And I do stare now. Like a deer caught in headlights, I can’t seem to turn away as I take in all the ridges and curves.