Page 29 of Give Me Strength

13

ASHLYNN

There’s a lot you can find out about a person when you’re living with them.

For starters, I am a morning person through and through.

I like waking up before dawn when the house is still and quiet. It’s the best time to relish the peacefulness of the hour as I make my way downstairs to the kitchen. I start the coffee maker and electric kettle; the familiar ritual grounds me for the day ahead.

Gilbert, on the other hand, is not a morning person. At all. And since we live together, I found a way to incorporate him into my morning routine, mostly in ways he doesn’t care for. Otherwise, with my schedule and his practice, we would never see each other. How else are we going to get used to each other? By avoiding each other like the plague?

No, thank you.

This house is big enough. Enormous. I see no reason for there to be an even bigger wedge between us because of it.

Besides, it’s not like he can avoid me. So far, he’s seen me at my worst — twice, I might add. It’s not a pretty sight, me screaming my head off in the middle of a nightmare, drenched in sweat. He takes it all in stride, keeping the mini-fridge in my room stocked with water and my lorazepam within reach. He also changes out my sheets while I shower, despite my numerous protests that he doesn’t have to do that for me.

So… it’s only fair that I get to see him at his sexiest — with a well-deserved bribe, of course. I’m not a coffee drinker, but he is. And no one says no to my coffee.

After the coffee brews, I head to his bedroom with his coffee and my tea. However… getting there means walking past Rachel’s bedroom.

This house has its own primary wing, a rather unique feature that eight-year-old Ashlynn thought was the coolest thing ever. This wing has two massive primary bedrooms, two impressive walk-in closets, and two luxurious spa-like bathrooms. They are side by side and practically mirror images of each other. Even though their entrances are side by side, they share a common sitting area in the back, which opens up to a shared outdoor balcony. The his- and hers- closets are connected by equally impressive bifold mirror closet doors, and the his- and hers- bedrooms are connected by a pocket door masquerading as an art piece — Rachel’s side has a portrait of Sylvie Guillem, while Gilbert’s side has a picture of the Eiffel tower.

I’ve never seen anything like it, not that I make it a habit to go poking around in other people’s bedrooms. Young and impressionable Ashlynn enjoyed jumping on Rachel’s four-poster canopy bed almost as much as she liked hiding in Gilbert’s closet. She had no reason to wonder why they slept in different rooms. After all, Gilbert was like Dad — gone all the time — so it probably didn’t make a difference.

The door to Rachel’s bedroom remains closed. Maybe it’s locked; I wouldn’t know. I have free rein over the entire mansion, but it remains the one place I haven’t had the strength to venture into.

Gilbert’s door is slightly ajar, and I peek inside. He’s still asleep, his dark brown hair tousled, with a few grays catching the early light. His face is relaxed, and I can see the light freckles across his nose and cheeks, details that make him seem so much more human, so much more real.

And so much more unattainable.

“Morning,” I whisper, tapping lightly on his door before pushing it open more.

The dark liquid sloshes in the mug but doesn’t spill over. It is just how he likes it — strong and black — and the aroma travels. He stirs as I approach, his blue eyes slowly opening. In the dim light, they look almost stormy, a mix of blue and gray that always seems to see right through me.

Open files and loose sheets of paper are spread out over his bed. It’s odd, as he’s not the type to carry paper files around. Nor is he the type to bring his work home with him.

“Morning,” I repeat, setting our mugs down side by side on his nightstand.

He groans softly, sitting up and running a hand through his hair. I turn to face him, and my gaze lands on his morning wood. It takes everything in me to drag my gaze upwards. The sight of him, hair messy and shirtless, his six-pack on display, sends a small thrill through me.

“Morning,” he replies, his voice rough with sleep.

I won’t pretend I wasn’t looking. Am looking.

Bye-bye, panties.

As he shifts, a piece of paper slides off his bed and floats to the floor.

I pick it up. “More housekeeper interviews?”

He groans and runs a hand over his face. “It shouldn’t be this hard to find someone who checks all of the boxes on our very eccentric lists.”

“Or, you could go through an agency, like other normal rich people do. Just a thought.” The irony of the situation doesn’t escape me. Here I am, casually tossing out the suggestion as if I don’t fall under that category.

Before he can answer, his phone lights up on the nightstand. He reaches over for it, and the waistband of his pajama bottoms rides a tad lower, giving me a delicious view of what’s hidden underneath the covers. As if there wasn’t already so much flesh on display.

His expression darkens, his brow knitting together to form a deep frown.

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