Page 35 of Winging It with You

11

Theo

Mio Buenos Aires Hotel

Buenos Aires, Argentina

The sliding doors part in front of me as I leave behind the refreshing bite of the lobby’s air-conditioning and step out onto the patio.

Everyone—contestants and crew—gathered at our hotel bar for a celebratory drink. I was surprised to see the perpetually displeased Bianca and Jackson joined. They kept to themselves at the far end of the bar, heads together as they sipped their cocktails. But even they couldn’t dampen everyone’s good mood.

And while the cameras were definitelynotrolling, Asher kept his hand in mine the entire time. Probably just to keep up the act with the others.

An unexpected but welcome anchor in a sea of chaos.

Which, ironically, is starting to feel less confusing and more comforting. In the midst of the rowdy excitement of it all, I find myself unable—or unwilling—to tear my gaze away from this version of Asher. His eyes gleam with that same lightnessI saw back on the boat. Even when I left him deep in conversation with Jenn and Arthur about some insect native to Argentina to shower off, I don’t know—there was something different about him.

Something lighter. Whole and real and brighter than anyone else in the damn hotel.

Maybe it’s the threat of elimination or the fact that we almost kissed back on the boat, but I think it may be time to unpack these not-at-all-confusing feelings toward him.

“There you are,” I say when I find him again. I’d only been gone for about ten minutes or so, but when I returned to the lobby, he was nowhere in sight. “Everything okay?” I ask, taking a seat next to him.

“It’s nothing.” Asher’s voice is void of any emotion. He slides me a bottle of local beer.

He’s lying, because whatever he’s thinking about is written in bold type all over his handsome face. Whatever lightness I saw earlier has been replaced with the same tension from our first meeting.

“Hey,” I say, nudging him with my shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“Jo forgot to grab this back,” he says, turning her phone over in his hand. I take a deep pull from the bottle he just handed me, the crisp ale refreshing in the Argentinian heat. After we learned we’d all be safe from elimination, the first thing Jo did was hand Asher her phone. She’s now got us trained to take a selfie, no questions asked. I wrapped my arms around Asher’s shoulders, pulling his back flush against my front, and he snapped a photo that was probably more blurry than not.

The only things in crystal clear focus were our wide grins.

But now I can practically hear his gears turning, and any trace of that smile is long gone.

“When I realized I still had it, I couldn’t help myself,” he admits, finally, tapping the phone against his hand. “I had to see.”

“See what?” I ask quietly.

Asher exhales a long breath. “Clint.”

Ah. The ex.

“He’s just…” His voice trails off. “Well, look,” he says, unlocking the phone and handing over the illuminated device. It’s open to a group photo posted several hours ago.

A handful of stereotypical men in every shade of white is staring back at me. Each with a raised drink in their hand and a smug look across their face. If I had to ballpark, they’re all clinging to their thirties and whoever posted the photo went a little heavy on the editing.

The caption simply readsCheers to an epic new chapter.

“I’m assuming one of them is Clint?” I ask, almost afraid to know the answer.

Asher points to the man smack in the center of the photo. He’s…not horrible. Not my type, that’s for sure. But not horrible.

“Epicnew chapters, huh?” I read. “That’s a little on the nose, don’t you think?”

More like a calculated and dickish move.

“It’s nauseating,” he says, taking back the phone, his fingers lingering for a whisper of a moment. “See that guy?” he says, pointing to a cookie-cutter middle-aged man with his arm snaked possessively around Clint. I nod. “That is—well, was, I guess—our couple’s counselor.”

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