“Ms. Ash—”
“Please don’t do that anymore.”
He drew back slightly. “Don’t do what?”
“Call me that.”
“That
is
your name.”
“Do you still work for my parents?”
“You know my current circumstances.”
“Did you ever work for
me?
”
“That’s a matter of perspective.”
“I want you to call me Ashton.
Just
Ashton. You—” she shook her head and threw one leg over the bench to sit across from him, plopping the brown paper bag to the picnic table, “—you could argue with a cinderblock wall.”
“I believe I would win over that particular debate opponent.”
“Jessup.” She flipped the bag on its side and began sliding out containers of chicken salad, pasta medley, and pecan pie. “Are we friends?”
“I’m not certain what you mean.”
Adorable, yes, but also infuriating. “Friends. I’m pretty sure you understand the concept. Is that what we are?”
He cocked his head, scanned the trees towering above them. The way Ashton’s life was going, if she tried the same thing she’d probably end up with bird crap in her eye. “I don’t believe I’ve ever considered our relationship in that particular light.”
Yeah, no more fist-pumps for her heart. “When I left Houston, you said you were proud of me. That you felt like a—” she had to swallow to allow room for the word that was so important to her, “—a parent.”
“I suppose that’s why I can’t answer your question about friendship. In my experience, parents and children aren’t meant to be friends. They are...more.”
“More what?”
“Ms. Ash—” he cut himself off. Sighed. “Ashton, I’ve never had the pleasure of fathering my own children. You know that. But I would imagine what a parent feels for a child is more everything. Sharper. Fuzzier. More intense. Most discombobulating. Perhaps like riding a roller coaster without the benefit of a safety bar.”
For some reason, the picture of him cinched into the front car of Six Flags’s Titan roller coaster swept through her mind. Hands in the air, short hair sticking straight up, big grin on his dark face. Oh yeah, no doubt he’d braved that ride. She tapped the book he’d been so engrossed in earlier. “You said you’re studying to be a teacher. What do you want to teach?”
His glance darted away and back. He reached for the food containers, but she snatched them away. Surely he wasn’t embarrassed to tell her. The breath he drew through his nose was long and steady. Finally, he met her gaze. “English.”
She should’ve known. That copy of
Rilke’s Book of Hours
he’d always hidden in the desk in her parents’ kitchen. The way he talked. “High school?” He’d probably be killer with the analogies, but it might take them a while to understand him.
“Possibly,” he said. “Although it might be a bit ambitious, I believe a community college position would suit me best.”
And she’d considered stealing him away from her parents so he could work for her. What an ass she’d been. He was meant for way bigger and better things than working for anyone in the Davenport family. And it was time for her to stop running to him every time she had a life boo-boo. “You’re going to be brilliant.”
He avoided direct eye contact and picked at the pasta in front of him. “I’m not an impatient man, but the time it will take to reach that goal...I’m just not certain...I’m not a young man.”
“So you’re saying that just because you’re getting a late start, you should only go for the sprint instead of the marathon? Maybe not even get in the race?”
His smile, full of beautiful ivory teeth, was as wide as Ashton had ever seen it. It wasn’t a polite social smile. This was what joy—real joy—looked like. And it robbed her of breath. “You are an exceptionally wise woman. And I’m an exceptionally lucky gentleman to have you in my life.”
And that was what this was all about. Jessup’s life. Not hers. And that was
“Please don’t do that anymore.”
He drew back slightly. “Don’t do what?”
“Call me that.”
“That
is
your name.”
“Do you still work for my parents?”
“You know my current circumstances.”
“Did you ever work for
me?
”
“That’s a matter of perspective.”
“I want you to call me Ashton.
Just
Ashton. You—” she shook her head and threw one leg over the bench to sit across from him, plopping the brown paper bag to the picnic table, “—you could argue with a cinderblock wall.”
“I believe I would win over that particular debate opponent.”
“Jessup.” She flipped the bag on its side and began sliding out containers of chicken salad, pasta medley, and pecan pie. “Are we friends?”
“I’m not certain what you mean.”
Adorable, yes, but also infuriating. “Friends. I’m pretty sure you understand the concept. Is that what we are?”
He cocked his head, scanned the trees towering above them. The way Ashton’s life was going, if she tried the same thing she’d probably end up with bird crap in her eye. “I don’t believe I’ve ever considered our relationship in that particular light.”
Yeah, no more fist-pumps for her heart. “When I left Houston, you said you were proud of me. That you felt like a—” she had to swallow to allow room for the word that was so important to her, “—a parent.”
“I suppose that’s why I can’t answer your question about friendship. In my experience, parents and children aren’t meant to be friends. They are...more.”
“More what?”
“Ms. Ash—” he cut himself off. Sighed. “Ashton, I’ve never had the pleasure of fathering my own children. You know that. But I would imagine what a parent feels for a child is more everything. Sharper. Fuzzier. More intense. Most discombobulating. Perhaps like riding a roller coaster without the benefit of a safety bar.”
For some reason, the picture of him cinched into the front car of Six Flags’s Titan roller coaster swept through her mind. Hands in the air, short hair sticking straight up, big grin on his dark face. Oh yeah, no doubt he’d braved that ride. She tapped the book he’d been so engrossed in earlier. “You said you’re studying to be a teacher. What do you want to teach?”
His glance darted away and back. He reached for the food containers, but she snatched them away. Surely he wasn’t embarrassed to tell her. The breath he drew through his nose was long and steady. Finally, he met her gaze. “English.”
She should’ve known. That copy of
Rilke’s Book of Hours
he’d always hidden in the desk in her parents’ kitchen. The way he talked. “High school?” He’d probably be killer with the analogies, but it might take them a while to understand him.
“Possibly,” he said. “Although it might be a bit ambitious, I believe a community college position would suit me best.”
And she’d considered stealing him away from her parents so he could work for her. What an ass she’d been. He was meant for way bigger and better things than working for anyone in the Davenport family. And it was time for her to stop running to him every time she had a life boo-boo. “You’re going to be brilliant.”
He avoided direct eye contact and picked at the pasta in front of him. “I’m not an impatient man, but the time it will take to reach that goal...I’m just not certain...I’m not a young man.”
“So you’re saying that just because you’re getting a late start, you should only go for the sprint instead of the marathon? Maybe not even get in the race?”
His smile, full of beautiful ivory teeth, was as wide as Ashton had ever seen it. It wasn’t a polite social smile. This was what joy—real joy—looked like. And it robbed her of breath. “You are an exceptionally wise woman. And I’m an exceptionally lucky gentleman to have you in my life.”
And that was what this was all about. Jessup’s life. Not hers. And that was
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