Page 51 of Scandal
“I’m serious. She just redecorated a room for you. That’s her love language. Or whatever the closest thing to love she feels. Admiration? Fondness? Mild appreciation?”
“And you just turned it down?” My eyes grow wide. “Do you think we should have separate rooms? What if she hates me now?”
“I don’t give a fuck, Merc.” He grows serious. “I’m not leaving you alone in that house for a second.”
“Are you sure?”
“Why do you think I’ve been living in this shithole for a month? Being under the same roof as my parents is a nightmare, even one as large as Blackstone. Yes, you’re staying with me.”
“So I guess we’ll still be sharing a bed, then?”
“I thought you loved the one-bed trope?”
My eyes widen, and I gulp. “What?”
He shrugs, acting innocent. “Just something I heard.”
“Something you heard?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Oh my god, Asher.” I grab a handful of grapes. “You.” I toss one at his head. “Better not have read.” He’s laughing now, but not ducking as I throw a couple more. “My Kindle!”
“It may have been left on accidentally while you went to shower. It’s not my fault. My eyes skimmed over and happenedto land on the enormous font. Seriously, are you blind? Maybe you need some slutty glasses for your slutty book!”
I jump out of the seat and tackle him. I have four siblings. This is how we solved our differences growing up.
But Asher is definitely not my sibling.
Our bodies crash together. I make a sound that sounds something like “Argh!” and he lets out an “Oomph!” He grabs my waist to steady us, and somehow I find myself straddling his waist, my thighs wrapped around his?—
“Sorry!” I scramble to get away so I can go die in a ditch somewhere, because only I would end up accidentally mounting a rock star. “I get a little violent when people touch my Kindle,” I try to joke.
But his hands tighten around my waist, holding me there. “Wait,” his deep voice demands.
“Are we sharing chairs now too?” A hesitant laugh escapes my lips. God, am I sweating?
I can feel him everywhere. The rhythmic cadence of his breathing. The hard planes of his stomach. His massive hands possessively wrapped around my waist.
“Maybe.”
“Kind of makes it hard to eat.”
“I’m not really interested in eating right now.”
My heart hammers so hard in my chest that he can probably feel it. “What are you interested in?”
His thumb rubs back and forth over my hoodie. “Why are you so embarrassed by what you read?”
“I’m not embarrassed,” I start to say, but his brow arches, and I sag in his arms, relenting. “Okay, I’m a little embarrassed.”
“Why?” he asks. “Is it because you’re worried I’ll make fun of you?”
“You did make fun of me!”
“I teased you. There’s a difference. But you have nothing to be embarrassed about. I think the romance genre is incredibly empowering.”
“You do?”
