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But sure enough. He’s here. Ash. And he’s laughing and joking with my receptionist.
I hold on to the edge of my desk, close my eyes, and open them again.
Nope, I am not hallucinating.
He’s here.
And he looks completely fine.
Happy even.
Not the wreck I imagined him to be or the same guy who left the house distraught the other evening.
There is no denying it, he’s utterly drop dead freaking gorgeous.
If sex was a physical being, Ash Johansson would be it.
Glued to my seat, I can’t move as my heart beats like a set of bongo drums against my rib cage, following his every move in my direction. Eyes glued to his black puffer jacket, with a simple white tee shirt underneath and black jeans that fit him in all the right places, I can’t stop staring; he’s only gotten sexier and more handsome with age, and holy shit, what was I thinking when I left him?
I’m the world’s biggest fool.
A lonely fool, but nevertheless, a fool.
“Hey, beautiful.” He confidently steps through my office doorway, flashing a perfect row of white teeth, filling my space with his own brand of testosterone that makes me want to rip off my clothes and jump his bones. “How’s your day been?” He pulls off his black baseball cap and places it on the table, his eyes sparkling as the low winter sun shines through the window, making him look like he’s glowing. The sunrays highlight the tiny silver hairs that have appeared in his beard over the last year. His scruff is more like salt and pepper now. I like older Ash. Like a fine wine, age suits him well. Very well. It’s as if I’m seeing him through fresh eyes.
Why is he here?
Why is he not heartbroken and looking like a complete wreck like me? My hair is up in a slick bun because I haven’t washed it today, and I have on whatever makeup was hiding in my desk; lip balm, red lipstick I used as blush, and mascara I’m certain has been in my office drawer long enough for it to give me an eye infection.
I’m speechless as he places a wicker picnic basket on top of my desk and begins moving my pens, notebooks, and files out of the way to make space for the dozens of food items I can see in the basket.
“Have you been busy?” he asks nonchalantly, as if we didn’t experience the most traumatic event of our marriage last Thursday.
“What are you doing?” It’s a question I should be asking myself. At this point, I don’t know. I’m questioning all the decisions I made last week. My gaze follows his ink covered hands as he places the delicious looking food on my desk. Croissants filled with salmon and cream cheese, sushi, raspberry chocolates, freshly squeezed lemonade; all my favorite things.
“I’m having lunch with you,” he replies matter-of-factly as if everything is completely normal between us. “Have you eaten lunch yet?”
“No.” I look up at him and he’s smiling down at me.
“You look beautiful today. Did I tell you that already?”
“No.” I say that word again because, clearly, it’s the only word I can say.
He winks. “Well, you do.” He rubs his lily tattooed hands together and looks down at the exquisite buffet of food. “So, what would you like?” He slips off his jacket and throws it on the sofa behind him, then sits on the chair at the opposite side of my desk, placing the empty picnic basket on the floor. “I didn’t know what you would prefer for lunch, so I just made everything.” He waves his hand over the top of the food as if he’s a magician while I stare at him.
His muscular, tattooed covered arms have always done something to me. They are such a turn on. I look from them, down at the delicious food, then back at his arms, then the food, and up at his amused face.
I want to ask him what he’s doing here, but instead, I say, “Ash, I’m so sorry about last—”
He cuts me off. “Let’s not talk about that now. Do you remember our first date?” he asks, face serious, focusing on the sandwiches in front of him, deciding which to have. He makes his selection, lifts it to his mouth, and takes a bite.
“Do you?” he asks again, mumbling around his food.
Looking more relaxed and carefree than I have seen him in years, he lifts his leg, rests his ankle on top of his other knee, and my eyes automatically land on his crotch. The fabric of his jeans tight around that area. Which is only natural; he’s a big man after all.
When I look up, he’s grinning at me. Cream cheese wedged between his teeth, he knows I was looking, and I blush when he arches an eyebrow and takes another bite of his sandwich.
He’s more youthful today, and playful. Much like the Ash I fell in love with.
