Page 37 of Bar Down

“Yeah, just jet lagged, I guess,” he replies, fidgeting with a napkin. I slowly take my hand back but keep my eyes on his face. He does look tired and a little sad even.

“Do you want to go on a walk after dinner? Get some fresh air?”

“Sure.”

My mom peppers me with questions as we eat and Ash keeps quiet, but he does nod along to all my stories of work and life in Grand Marquee. He has two helpings of stew and my mom fawns all over him. It’s cute, I think. He fits here, with them. With me.

My dad gives us a run down of the training facility where we’ll be working at, which happens to also be where my brother trains. As a goalie developmental coach, my dad has helped train me and my brother growing up. He talks us through some of the drills he wants to set up for us, and I can see the excitement in Ash’s eyes dimming.

I make a mental note to ask him later what exactly about this arrangement is bothering him.

After dinner,we help clean up—I wash the dishes while Ash dries them, and my dad puts them away. My mom heads upstairs to work on her crafting—since she’s got some orders to fulfill— and the three of us sit and watch the remainder of the soccer game.

My dad takes the reclining chair while Ash and I share the couch together, and our legs touch from knee to thigh, but neither of us moves. I crave to be near him and I keep thinking that sneaking around here is going to be unbearable.

As soon as the game ends, my dad hands me a key to the house. “A copy for you, for the summer. Make sure you lock up after your walk.”

“I will. Thanks. Are you headed to bed?”

“Yeah, it’s been a long day. Get some rest tonight. Good night, boys.”

Ash and I say in unison, “Good night.”

Once my dad rounds the corner and I hear the door shut, I turn to Ash on the couch and slowly lean in. He watches me, amusement written all over his face. “What are you doing?” he says, nervously chuckling.

“Honestly, I didn’t pay attention to most of that game. All I was thinking about was kissing you,” I whisper. My eyes drop to his lush mouth and, even tired, he looks so damn good. His dark red hair is getting longer on top, and even his side fade is growing out a bit. And the stubble he has right now makes me want to touch him—every inch of him.

There’s a furrow between Ash’s eyebrows and he looks at me, searching for something. “I thought you wanted to be careful. No offense, Eli, but you’re kinda giving me mixed signals here.”

I pull back and realize that—he’s right—I was the one who came up with all the rules and asked him to keep us a secret so my family wouldn’t find out. Can I really not keep it in my pants after just one day?

“I’m sorry, you’re right. That’s really shitty of me.” I drag my hands over my face and internally scream at myself.

Ash sighs and places his hand on my thigh. “Let’s take that walk.”

We don’t go too farsince it’s dark outside, but we do take the illuminated path to one of the lookouts with a fishing pond. Our shoulders brush the entire time and every now and then I run my fingers over the back of his hand. As always, Ash notices and looks at me sideways, a small smile playing on his face. When we get to the pond, we take a seat on the bench, and for a moment I just take it all in.

It’s a little chilly, to the point that I grabbed a sweatshirt, but Ash refused when I offered him one. He’s in his signature whiteT-shirt, a color that brings out his freckles and tattoos in the moonlight.

I try to stop, but fuck it, I can’t.

I can’t stop looking at him.

I can’t stop thinking about him.

I can’t stop loving him.

I take a deep breath and it catches when Ash turns to look at me. “What’s up?” he asks.

I slowly let out a sigh and say, “I don’t know, maybe I’m just feeling jet lagged.”

“And horny?” Ash waggles his eyebrows at me seductively.

“Shut up.” My hand reaches out to lightly push him away but he catches my wrist in his hand and brings it up to his face. Not once breaking eye contact with me, Ash kisses my wrist and my palm before turning my hand over and kissing the back of it too.

“The jetlag is an excuse and we both know it,” he says, too observant for his own good. My shoulders slump and I drop my head in the crook of his neck. Ash lets go of my hand and hugs me, even though it’s at an awkward angle and we’re sitting on a bench. One of his hands rubs up and down my back and the other tangles in my hair.

“I’m just—” I start, but I need to take a moment to compose myself. What am I trying to say?

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