Reckless Abandon(62)
That gold is a man, and one I would never in a million years have pictured standing on my street corner.
I tilt my head and look back at him wondering why in the world Alexander Asher is here. He’s wearing black jeans and a black leather jacket. It’s a look so different from the two I’ve seen on him. Far more relaxed than the suit and tie, yet more intense than in Carpi. His hair is styled back but with a messier look, which must be from wearing a helmet.
I look down at my own attire. I’m wearing jeans and an orange V-neck sweater in honor of the holiday.
There is no reason I can think of for why he would be here. We haven’t spoken a word to each other in weeks, aside from when I caught him spying on me at the park. When I got home, I sat in the chesterfield contemplating what the hell it meant. I came up with nothing.
And now I’m completely confused as to why he’s standing across the street looking at me. With no clue as to what it is he wants, I turn around and go back to my apartment, leaving the front door to the building open and the door to my apartment slightly ajar.
I take a spot in the kitchen and turn down the volume on my speakers and wonder if he’ll follow me inside. Do I want him to come in?
Kind of.
Damn it!
I’m picking at the polish on my nails when I hear footsteps and the sound of the front door of the building closing. Those footsteps get louder as they draw near and I know he’s coming in. My door slowly opens as Asher pushes it with the pads of his fingers. I watch as his eyes dart around the room taking in the space.
He turns his head to the living room and the bookcase along the wall. Something on the shelf catches his eye so he walks in, taking slow, tentative steps into the room. He has on boots, which is better than the loafers. They’re heavy and make a low thud as he walks.
Stopping in front of the bookcase, he picks up a picture of Luke and me, taken on his eighteenth birthday. Luke’s red hair is shaggy and an absolute mess. It was right before he started wearing it short to “appease the ladies.” I am wearing a grin from ear to ear, hugging his torso and looking in to the camera with eyes so bright, I haven’t seen them in my reflection in months. Asher picks up the photo and examines it, probably looking at the girl in it like she’s a complete stranger. The corner of his mouth tilts up and then he puts the photo back in its place. He looks at a few more photos I have, including one of my parents and another of Leah and Adam at their engagement party and my sweaters that are folded on display on some shelves of the bookcase, before walking over to the couch and rifles through the magazines I have on the end table.
Taking in the artwork, the sparse furnishings and the reading nook, he looks to be examining my home. It takes him all of three minutes. When he has made a full three-sixty around the room, he looks over at me in the kitchen, standing here like a frightened turkey.
“This is where you live?” he asks.
I blink a few times, assessing the question. My eyes shift from side to side in confusion. When I don’t give him an answer, he looks down the hall and zeros in on the door to my bedroom.
“Don’t even think of going back there.” My words are sharp. Bad enough he’s standing here judging my home. There is no way I am allowing him to invade my bedroom.
Asher looks to his left and smirks. “Emma, your room is no more than ten feet from where I’m standing. You’re not hiding anything back there.” He is looking around the place like it’s beneath him. “I can walk across this entire apartment in ten steps.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “What do you want from me?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, those gorgeous golden gems travel up and down my body, as if it’s the first time he’s really noticed me since we reconnected. His chest rises and Adams apple juts out with a swallow.
“You look good.” His voice is sincere and not condescending but it’s the way he’s standing, so dominant, that makes me wary of his intentions.
“Thank you?” I want to kick myself for answering in such a way.
His eyes bear down on mine, the two of us in an intense standoff of silence. He looks like he is going to say something . . . profound? Instead, he closes his mouth and walks over to the window in the front and investigates the lock. The window frame has been painted over, quite possibly fifty times in as many years, so the metal latch is painted shut. I watch as Asher tries to raise the window but to no avail.
“You shouldn’t be on the ground floor.” He motions to the iron bars on the outside of the window. “Those need to be updated.”
My mouth is agape at his rudeness. “Did you come here to criticize where I live?”
Asher closes the curtains to make sure they provide enough privacy. He nods his head in approval and then opens them again.
I tap my foot in annoyance as he walks over to the front door and fiddles with the lock. I let out a loud huff. He must hear it because he turns around and faces me. I make a face as to say, “Satisfied?”
Asher walks toward me, his presence filling up the room, stopping on the opposite side of the small island of the kitchen. As he approaches, I can smell the leather of his jacket. Its not the same as salt and sea, but it’ll do.
We stand in silence; I vow I will not be the first to break it. He came here. He has to be the one to say something.
His chin tilts to the side as his ear leans in to hear the faint sound coming from my speaker. Before I can stop him, he reaches over and raises the volume and his brow rises in interest. The cello version of “Wonderwall” by Oasis is playing, confirmation for him that I have been listening in to his lessons.