I’m sitting at my desk with my second latte of the day, a handful of peppermint Hershey Kisses, and a complex trust I’m drafting open on my computer screen when the text comes in. Out of habit, I glance at the clock before reaching for my phone. Seven fifty-five a.m. Right on schedule.
Asher
[pic attached]
Morning Blondie. I met my cutest fan this morning. His name is Simon. I’ve decided dogs should always wear snow boots.
I open the picture of a grinning Asher, wearing running clothes and a knit beanie, crouching in the snow next to a golden retriever puppy. Fitting, since Asher is basically a golden retriever puppy in human form. The dog is clad in snow boots with the Renegades logo on them.
Me
Simmer down Hot Shot. Are you sure he’s a fan of yours, specifically? Not everyone likes a quarterback, you know.
Asher
Everyone likes this quarterback.
I don’t.
Tell it to someone who believes you. I bet my entire salary next year that you’re smiling right now.
Well, fuck.
I haven’t seen Asher in the two weeks since we kissed on my front porch like the world was ending, but he texts me after his morning runs. Like clockwork, my phone has pinged every morning a little before eight for the past two weeks. Sometimes he just says good morning. Sometimes he texts a picture of the latte art the barista at his coffee shop made for him. Sometimes he tells me about a cookie recipe he found that he wants to try—yes, the man bakes, Jesus take the wheel. Twice it was a picture of an hours old baby—apparently, he has two sisters who had babies within days of each other. And sometimes, like today, it’s a picture of something ridiculous he sees while he’s on his run.
I would rather give up spreadsheets and wear mismatched clothes every day for the rest of my life than admit I look forward to his texts. There’s something about knowing he’s thinking of me every day while he runs. That he takes the time to consider what to text me. That he takes the time to get in the pictures. I glance at the photo again and smile (again) before I catch myself. The warmth that swirls in my belly every time my phone pings is unsettling. I hate it. Except when I don’t. My phone pings again.
Asher
I’ll be at your office later today. Can I take you to lunch?
Startled, I drop my phone and sit back in my chair, scratching at my wrist as my mind searches out his motive. Asher has been texting every day for two weeks, but in all that time he hasn’t asked to see me once. It’s confusing as hell. After our kiss, I expected him to be relentless. I expected him to ask me out a million times and for me to have to find creative ways to turn him down.
He’s not what I expected, and I don’t like that at all. I always know what to expect.
I consider ignoring his text, but wonder whether that will just encourage him. Do I want to encourage him? No. I definitely don’t. Absolutely not. I don’t have time to be playing mind games with professional athletes. Also, why the fuck is he coming to my office?
Me
Why are you coming to my office?
Asher
Wouldn’t you like to know?
I would, actually. I own the firm.
I have a meeting with Emma, but never mind about that.
Lunch later?
I’m busy later.
I didn’t tell you when later.
I’m busy all of later.
That’s really too bad. Catch you later, Blondie.
