A horn honks.
I look up, expecting to see the white Audi. But there’s a sleek black four-door with shiny silver rims instead. The driver side opens and a tall, dark figure in a trendy fall leather jacket and aviator sunglasses steps out and stalks around the car to open the passenger door. “Irish! Get in.”
And I decide that Dr. Stayner is an evil wizard with a crystal ball and puppet strings attached to his fingers. He has somehow masterminded this entire situation. He’s definitely cackling in his office right now.
Cars are honking behind Ashton’s car. “Come on.” There’s a touch of irritation in his tone.
“Dammit,” I mutter, making my way to the waiting car, keeping my gaze on the tan leather interior as I hand my crutches to him. His fingers graze mine as he takes them, sending an electric current through my arm. By the time I’ve eased into my seat and secured my seat belt, Ashton is sliding into the driver side and my pulse is racing.
“How’s your ankle?” he asks as he pulls into traffic, his eyes shifting to my legs. I’d decided to wear a short pleated skirt because nylons are easier on my ankle than socks and pants. Now, as a flash of me straddling Ashton and a skirt around my waist hits me, I’m wishing I were in a one-piece snowsuit.
“Better. I’ve started to walk on it a bit.” The car is a sauna compared to the crisp air outside, I note, shimmying out of my jacket. “Mild sprain. Like I thought.”
“Connor said you went to the hospital?”
Oh, yeah. Connor. “What are you doing here?” I blurt out and then take a breath. “I mean, what happened to Connor?”
He shrugs. “He has a paper due on Tuesday, so I told him I’d drive you. Are you okay with that?”
“Oh. Of course. Thanks.” And I’m a big fat jerk now. I would have missed another week with the twins if it weren’t for Ashton. He’s being nice. He’d already proven that he’s capable of that by carrying me half a mile in the rain. Now he’s driving me all the way into Manhattan.
“No big deal, Irish,” he murmurs, following the signs to the highway.
I quietly play with my coat zipper as I wonder what Dana would say about all of this. Would it bother her? Are they even still together? He never did confirm or deny it. Should I ask him?
I glance over at Ashton to find him staring at my chest.
“Watch the road!” I snap with a start as heat crawls up my neck, folding my arms over myself.
With a smile of amusement, he says, “So you’re allowed to stare at me but I can’t even look at you?”
“That’s different. I’m not naked.”
“I wasn’t naked when you did a nosedive on the sidewalk, either.”
I shift my body away from him to stare out the window, shaking my head. I can hear you laughing from here, Dr. Stayner.
“Hey.” Ashton’s hand rests on my forearm. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m just . . . I haven’t seen you in a while.”
I realize how good that simple gesture feels and how much I’ve missed him. I nod, and look up to see sincere brown eyes on me. “Watch the road,” I warn again, softer this time and much less irritated.
I get the trademark crooked smirk that I’m finding less arrogant and more playful now. He gives my arm a tiny squeeze before letting go.
“Thanks for giving up your Saturday for me.”
“It’s nothing,” he murmurs, checking his side-view mirror as he changes lanes. “I know it’s important to you.” He adds with a hint of hesitation, “I have an appointment later, so I was going to be in Manhattan anyway.”
“An appointment?”
A crease furrows Ashton’s brow. “You looked upset back there, before I picked you up. Why?”
Avoiding my question. I heave a sigh.
“Uh, nothing. Just had a weird phone conversation.” I busy myself with folding my jacket over my lap.
“Who’s Dr. Stayner?”
My hands freeze. “What?”
“You just mumbled, ‘I can hear you laughing from here, Dr. Stayner.’ Who’s Dr. Stayner?”
“I . . . uh . . . he’s . . .” I said that out loud! I’m already blabbing my thoughts without realizing it! Puppet strings! Gah! Ohmigod. Did I just say this out loud too? From the corner of my eye, I check Ashton’s expression. He’s glancing between me and the road with a quirked brow. I can’t tell. I need to stop thinking. All thinking must stop! “Relax, Irish! You’ve got crazy eyes. Kind of freaking me out now.”
I can’t tell. I don’t think so. Forcing myself to take a few deep breaths, I will my eyes back into my head.
“By your reaction, I’m guessing he’s a psychiatrist?”
Kacey was right—you’re not just a pretty face.
“You think I have a pretty face, Irish?”
I slap my hand over my mouth. I did it again!
When his laughter dies down, Ashton lets out a heavy sigh. “So . . . you’re in therapy?”
Do I want Ashton to know about Dr. Stayner? How do I even answer his question? Technically I’m not in therapy but, yes, Dr. Stayner is a psychiatrist. One that I may or may not have on speed dial. In any case, explaining Dr. Stayner and the last four months will make me sound like a wack job.
“It’s a really long drive to New York,” he warns me, strumming his fingers over the steering wheel.
I shouldn’t have to explain anything to Ashton. It’s none of his business. He has his secrets and I have mine. But maybe this is an in. Maybe talking about my issues will help him talk about his. And, given all the time I’ve spent trying to puzzle him out, I need an in . . .
“Yes, he’s my psychiatrist,” I say quietly as I stare out at the road. I can’t meet his eyes right now. I don’t want to see judgment there.
“And why are you seeing a psychiatrist?”
“My unruly sex drive?”
“Irish...” The way he says my nickname makes me glance in time to catch him lift in his seat and tug at his jeans slightly, as if to make himself more comfortable. “Tell me.”
Maybe there’s some negotiating to be had here. “Only if you tell me why you call me Irish.”
“I told you I’d explain that, but first you have to admit that you want me.”
My mouth clamps shut. No, there’s no negotiating with Ashton.
“Seriously, Irish. Tell me about your shrink.” There’s a pause. “Unless you want explicit details about my unruly sex drive and how you can help me with it.” He says it in a gravelly tone, the one that makes my mouth instantly dry and my thighs warm, as images of the first night and last week and my dream collide into one embarrassingly hot mess in my head. Damn Ashton! He knows exactly how to make me squirm. He enjoys it, too, laughing softly as my face turns red. Suddenly talking about Dr. Stayner doesn’t seem so embarrassing at all.
“You won’t tell anyone?”
“Your secrets are safe with me.” By the way his jaw tightens, I instantly believe him.
“Okay. Back in June, my sister had this crazy idea . . .” At first my explanation is full of stilted sentences. But as I get further into it—as Ashton’s cute chuckles grow more frequent, hearing how I spent my summer with Kacey swan-diving off a bridge and grocery-shopping in matching Oscar Mayer wiener costumes—it gets easier to talk, easier to divulge, easier to laugh about it.