“Steph emailed her list overnight. When I’m done cleaning up breakfast, let’s go over it.” Ashley stands from the table, collects a few of the plates, and disappears into the kitchen.
I push away from the table, grab the other plates, and follow her.
Ashley sets the dishes on the counter beside the sink and turns, but she stops when she sees me. “What are you doing?”
“Helping you clean up.”
“You don’t have to do that.” She takes the plates from me, her fingers brushing mine in the exchange. I ignore that same tug I felt earlier when she sat down at the table.
“I want to help. Many hands make light work, or whatever that saying is.”
She looks over her shoulder, seeming like she’s sizing me up. “Okay, thanks. I appreciate it.”
Is it possible that Ashley has set down her sword where I’m concerned? I sure hope so, because it will make this next week more bearable.
“Do you mind finishing clearing the table while I rinse the plates and put them in the dishwasher?”
“Sure.” I make quick work of clearing the table, having to ask a few times where things like the salt, butter, and syrup go. “Do you have a dishcloth I can use to wipe the table off?”
“Yup.” She turns away from the dishwasher and walks to a drawer on the other side of the kitchen. “Right here.”
While she’s grabbing the dishcloth, I glance at the dishwasher. “You know you’re loading that thing wrong, don’t you?”
“There’s not a right or wrong way to load the dishwasher.” She tosses the dishcloth at me.
“There is, and you’re doing it the wrong way.”
Ashley huffs out a rush of air and crosses her arms.
“I’m only trying to help.” I raise both hands. “Forget I said anything.”
She leans against the counter, and her eyes bore into mine as if she wishes a giant pointy candy cane would strike me on top of the head. “Oh no, please… educate me, oh wise one.”
I debate letting it drop, then decide otherwise. Motioning to the dishwasher with my hand, I say, “All the cutlery is faced down. They should be face up. It will be easier for the dishwasher to clean them, and they won’t have crusted-on food.”
“If I put it face up, I have to grab the part people put in their mouths when I empty the dishwasher.” She arches a challenging eyebrow.
I shrug. “So, wash your hands before you empty the dishwasher. What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is that I’m pretty sure my guests don’t want my hands all over their cutlery.”
I open my mouth to respond, but a male voice interrupts us from the front of the house. “Hello?”
Ashley gives me an annoyed once-over before leaving the kitchen. I change out the cutlery, putting it in the dishwasher the right way.
A minute later, she returns with a man wearing jeans and a hoodie. He looks to be around our age, early thirties. Jealousy hits me that this might be her boyfriend.
“Carter, this is Ester’s son, Neil.”
“Hey, Neil, nice to meet you.” I put a spoon in the cutlery container and step over, hand extended.
Neil squeezes my hand in his firm grip, then turns his attention back to Ashley, smiling widely. “Show me what’s up.”
“Over here.” She turns and heads to the fridge, and Neil’s attention shifts to Ashley. Her ass, to be specific. I recognize the appreciative gleam in his eyes.
The whole time Ashley explains the state of her fridge, he watches her in a way that tells me he’s hoping to accomplish more than fixing her fridge by the time he leaves. He’s probably going to ask her out.
All the muscles in my arms and chest tighten as I watch, and I realize I’m irritated by his interest in Ashley when I have no right to be.
