Page 37 of Winging It with You

Asher comes alive as he rambles on about artificial nerves and something about sensory injuries. The passion he has for what he does is obvious.

Sexy, even.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his chest rising and falling excitedly.

But his apology catches me off guard. “What are you apologizing for?”

“I…I don’t know, actually,” he admits, a nervous laughescaping his mouth. “I have a habit of getting lost in the weeds once I start talking about this stuff.”

“It’s something you love, right?” I ask, confident I already know the answer.

He nods, biting his lip, and I know he watched as my eyes briefly darted down to it.

“Don’t apologize for something you love, Asher,” I say, hoping he believes me. “For something that makes youyou.”

He shrugs his shoulders, setting the beer bottle on the table in front of us. “Anyway, he didn’t come with me that night for the award,” he says, his eyes brimming with the weight of his frustration. “Or any night that was mine, for that matter. There was always something more important going on in Clint’s bubble. His job, family, friends—they were higher priorities than me.”

That’s bullshit. “And what exactly does Mr. Perfect do?”

“He’s in corporate finance.”

I snort. “Allthisover a finance bro?” I joke, reaching over and grabbing his thigh. “Come on, guapo—we have standards!”

Asher stares at me and then bursts out laughing. “You’re so right,” he says, half laughing or maybe even crying at this point. “My brother not-so-discreetly called him a discount fuckboy and I always secretly loved that.”

“Your brother sounds like my kinda guy.”

A soft little smile that I’d like to trace with my fingertips flickers across his face before he leans his head on my shoulder.

“Thanks for listening,” he says, his voice practically a whisper. “I haven’t gotten to talk about any of this with anyone.”

“What about your parents?” I whisper back against the softness of his sweet-smelling hair.

“Especially them. We don’t have that kind of relationship,”he says, leaning back on his hands. “They’re good people and mean well. But they’ve always had this sort of hands-off approach when it comes to the emotional stuff. I think in their minds, they were setting us up for success by learning from life’s lessons alone, when in reality, we probably just needed…a hug.”

“Are you hinting that you want a hug?” I ask after a moment, partially joking.

“Kinda.”

Nowthisis something I can help with. I jump to my feet, extending my hand in his direction. “Get over here.”

His cheeks redden as he stands, making the freckles on the bridge of his nose more noticeable in the glowing moonlight. “You don’t have to…”

Putting my hands on my hips, I do my best dad power pose. “I said…Get. Over. Here.”

I open my arms as widely and dramatically as humanly possible, calling him over with a nod of my head.

He’s clearly on the fence, torn between receiving the hug he just flat-out asked for and figuring out if said hug from the man that’s pretending to be his boyfriend is weird.

“Asher Bennett, you better not leave me hanging here…”

He doesn’t much longer.

Slowly, he steps forward, closing the distance between us and wrapping his long but hesitant arms around my waist. He’s stiff and rigid as I pull him tight against me, and I can only imagine the confused and irritated expression on that pinched face of his, but eventually, Asher completely and wholeheartedly exhales.

“I think this trip is going to be good for you,” I say, my chin now resting against the side of his head. He smells likecinnamon and clove and his hair just might be the softest thing I’ve ever felt.

“Why’s that?”

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