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Like what? How to cut my finger off with a pair of shears? He doesn’t own a chainsaw or a lawnmower because he has people to do that for him—groom his little patch of backyard. Also, scissors wouldn’t work, and the knives are in the kitchen. For the moment, it appears that I’m safe.
Unless there’s an automatic garbage disposal under the kitchen sink.
As it is, I barely resist the urge to look over the big, hammered copper sink. It’s the grandest sink I’ve ever seen, and it probably cost a fortune. I’ll never forgive it for being so amazing if it grinds my finger off.
While I’m thinking rather graphic, bloody thoughts about my poor finger, Meryl finds a bottle of virgin olive oil. She holds it up and grins at me. “Okay, we’ll just slather this on and wait a minute, and then it should slip right off. Oil always works for me. Over the years, I’ve had a few rings get stuck.” She blushes almost instantly and clears her throat. “Um, I…yeah. But not on that finger, though.”
I obediently hold out my hand over the countertop while she pours a profuse amount of oil. Then, she grabs a roll of paper towel and throws some onto the puddle on the cement top.
“These are pretty cool,” she says as if she’s never noticed any of the fixtures in the house. She’s glancing at all the broken glass pieces in the cement. “And rather heavy looking. I wonder how they installed them.”
“I’m not sure.”
Her lips press together, and her eyes dance. “Right, sorry. We’re in the middle of dealing with a creepy, cursed ring here, not talking about countertops and interior design.”
“While we are…” I take in the glossy cabinets and drywall. “What do you think? It’s kind of a shame all that nice brick was covered up.”
“Indeed. Brick is a real thing in New York.”
“It’s probably a thing here too. Whoever chose this design should be shot.”
“That would be me.” Ash’s deep voice—his very unamused voice—makes me jump, and drops of olive oil fling from my hand.
“Shit!” I put my hand over my chest, right where my heart is thundering. “Uh, sorry?”
He shakes his head, and his eyes lower to my hand. “Want to give it a try?”
“Okay.” I grasp the ring. My fingers slip over all the little stones, and also the big one. Yikes, that’s a huge diamond in there. Curse, my ass, because this ring is worth a fortune. Ash is probably worried about it, seeing as it’s expensive and a family heirloom. He didn’t even want to give it to Meryl. He was going to make her a cheap replica and probably ask for a cubic zirconia.
What? He’s rich, but he’s also a sneaky snake, just like the rest of his family. His grandmother bought out my dad’s paper and promised not to close it. But then, she did just that.
I get a firm hold of the ring and tug. Nothing happens. Then, I twist it. Hard. Still nothing.
“For the love of…” Ash cuts himself off and grabs the dish soap from the back of the sink. It’s some fancy, biodegradable, earth-friendly kind.
He squirts a liberal amount of it all over my finger, and before I can protest, he touches me. Like, my finger, with his hand. His big, tapered, strong, male fingers wrap around mine and start rubbing back and forth over the ring. Heat pools in my finger and shoots right up my arm. It also unfurls between my legs in the most shameful, annoying way.
What the hell, traitor vagina? You’re getting all bent out of shape for Ash freaking Cromwell?
He rubs, and rubs, and then tugs at it. Trust me when I say it’s not as sexy as it sounds. Or is it? My body, annoyingly enough, is flooded with another wave of heat and a fresh wave of something else that I don’t care to define. My nipples are painfully erect, but thank goodness my sports bra is nice and tight and has cups that won’t let them poke through. I hope.
Unfortunately, the ring doesn’t budge.
“Ice?” Meryl suggests. She runs to the huge, double-door fridge, which is a matte black because I guess that’s stylish and expensive, and pulls out a bag of frozen peas. “Peas?” She raises a brow at Ash. “You eat peas?”
“I like peas,” Ash huffs. “Is that a crime?” He takes the peas from Meryl, bends his dark head with all his long, lovely, thick hair, and sets the bag on top of my hand.
What the heck! Am I seriously focusing on his hair? Do I really want to run my hands through it to see just how soft and silky it is? Does rich person hair feel different from regular person hair? And why is there no gray? Does he see a stylist or a barber or whatever for more than just a cut?
