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I shuffle to the door, peek through the peephole. My breath stops.
Ash is standing outside, in jeans and a black jacket. He has his hands in his pockets, his dark hair falling in his eyes.
Oh my god.
I open the door before he vanishes in smoke. I can’t believe he’s really here. As cold blasts in my face, I reach out and grab his arm.
Solid. Hard.
Ash’s brows lift.
Oh right. I look from my hand on his arm to my bunny slippers. Crap.
“Come on in,” I say, my voice a little high-pitched. I tug on his arm and he steps inside. “Sit. I’ll be right back.”
I race into my bedroom and close my door, not even waiting to see him settle down. I lean back, closing my eyes.
Ash is in my apartment.
Shit. What are the odds of Ash turning up after all and seeing me in my oh-so-sexy teddy bear jammies and fluffy bunny slippers?
Gritting my teeth, I pull off the offending garments and quickly draw on my high-waist, black stretch pants and a white, low-cut blouse that flows below my hips. I then put on my boots and run a brush through my hair.
Checking my face in the mirror, I cringe at my blotchy skin. I’m dying to apply some make-up, but I fear that if I leave Ash alone any longer he might just get up and walk back out. It wouldn’t be the first time. Boy’s skittish and I’m partly to blame for that.
So I draw a deep, fortifying breath and step out of my bedroom.
And panic, because the sofa and armchair are empty. I turn in a circle, about to start cursing, when I spot Ash standing in the corner, studying my bookcase.
He’s still here.
And now he’s looking at me expectantly, a dark brow arched, and I have no clue what to say. I guess I never believed he’d come over. Not after the way he refused my invitation so vehemently.
God, I have to say something. I can’t always freeze in his presence. “Merry Christmas,” I manage.
One corner of his mouth tips up. “You, too.”
His voice is low and rough. Sexy bedroom voice. He’s shed his jacket and his shirt stretches over his muscled chest like second skin, outlining every dip and ridge.
God, what’s wrong with me? “I didn’t think you were coming.”
He shrugs, a slight roll of broad shoulders. He looks uncomfortable. “Yeah. I didn’t think so, either.”
The bruises on his jaw and under his eye are slowly fading to green and yellow. He still looks beaten up and hurting. I want to put my arms around him and tell him he’ll be alright.
Okay, not only my body is out of control, my brain is, too. “Have you eaten?”
He shakes his head, a light flush coloring his cheekbones. He looks back at the shelves, runs his hand over the spines of the books—a mixture of classics and romance, with the odd fantasy novel thrown in. I expect him to make a sarcastic comment, but he says nothing.
I shiver and don’t know why. I have goose bumps all over my skin. “I made pasta. I’ll warm it up for you.”
“It’s okay, I’m fine.”
Jesus. I’m home alone with Ash. A tiny voice in the back of my mind squeals.
“Just take a seat. I made it for you, as well,” I lie. Thank god I made enough.
I hurry into the kitchenette, all jittery. Putting the pasta and the sauce to warm up in the microwave, I glance back.
