Ashlyn, tucked the necklace gently back into the neck of his shirt and rested her hand over the pendant there. “I won’t tell anyone.”
“Truth,” he said, his eyebrows lifting slightly in surprise. “You’re good at secrets then?”
“Secrets are kind of my forte.” She tossed him a saucy look, then pushed the door open and slid out of the jacked-up truck.
“What do you mean by that?” he asked, getting out of the truck as she made her way around the front.
“My dad liked to drink. He was loud and embarrassing on whiskey, and I learned real quick that keeping secrets and distancing myself from people at school made everything easier.” She slipped on the second stair, but Asher’s hand was instantly on her back, propping her up. She smiled her thanks and gripped the inside of his elbow without invitation.
Asher’s eyes went round, and he dipped his shocked gaze to where her pink mitten contrasted with his black sweater. There was a moment where he looked panicked—as though he would bolt right back to the truck and leave her here. But he didn’t pluck her off him. Instead, he helped her stay steady up the slippery steps and opened the door for her like a gentleman. Hmmm, she liked this man. Rough, quiet, and a little scary, but with manners.
Inside, it was warm, thanks to a fireplace on the far wall. The flames heated the small coffee shop. It looked like an old country store with rough wooden walls and a plethora of cartoon pig-themed gifts and cookware. The line was six deep, and Asher looked uncomfortable as hell standing in the crowded room. He sidled away from anyone who stepped too close, and once he made that strange sound in his throat when a man bumped her shoulder on accident as he exited the shop.
Clearly, Asher wasn’t a social butterfly, so to ease his tension, she leaned close and talked low. “I was an only child, and I had to keep my dad’s shortcomings secret so I could keep my family together. My parents were all I had, so I put up with a lot to protect that. Now you go.”
“Go where?” he asked, his gaze on her hand gripping his arm again.
“I mean your turn, you share something.”
“I already told you I like creamy peanut butter and my age. You’re pushing.”
“Holy hell balls, Asher, tell me something silly then. Tell me your favorite color.”
“Black.”
She gave him a dead-eyed look.
“Second favorite is dark gray, but so dark it’s almost black.”
The man was exhausting. “Favorite hobby?”
“Surveillance.”
She blinked slowly. “What does that even mean? Like stalking?”
“No.” He smiled for just an instant, and it was breathtaking. Just a flash of white teeth, and then his face settled into a passive expression again. “I work in surveillance. Cameras, audio, some investigative work.”
“Like a private investigator?”
His eyes narrowed to icy blue slits. “Kind of. No cheating spouses or thieving nannies, though. My clients are a little more…dangerous.”
“Oh,” she murmured. “Sounds terrifying. Well I work a super-dangerous job, too, Striker.”
“Oh, yeah? What do you do?” At least he looked more relaxed now, and they were almost to the front of the line.
“I work as a junior acquisitions editor for a pa-retty big publisher.”
“Sounds treacherous.”
“Oh, it is. Papercuts galore, and there’s this guy a couple floors below me who basically stalks me. He tried to kiss me in an elevator once.”
Asher’s lip lifted in a quick snarl before he smoothed his expression back into place again. That one look sent chills up her spine, though. It had transformed his face into something almost animal. “He tries to kiss you without you inviting him to?”
“Yep. Don’t worry about me, Young Buck. I keep a pocket knife in my purse.”
“Let me see it.”
She pulled out the tiny black knife she’d practiced flicking open for half an hour in the store before she got the hang of it. “Told you I was dangerous.”
“Mmmm,” Asher said, reaching into his back pocket. He pulled out a big knife, the handle black with white skulls. “Trade me.”
Holy shit! She was trying to be cool and have a poker face, but that was one big-ass blade. “Trade you for that? The skulls aren’t my style.”
Asher flicked the black blade open. It looked really sharp, and part of the blade was serrated. “Ignore the skulls. That little toothpick won’t keep you safe from anything or anyone. This one will. What is that asshole’s last name?” Asher asked, pushing the blade back into the handle.
“Um, no, PI. I’m not giving you his name. You just told me you stalk people for a living, and you pulled out a freaking machete. Being a murderer is kind of a deal breaker for me.”
“Fine. I won’t hunt him if you trade me knives.”
Irritating. “Fine,” she ground out. “It will probably take me three days to even learn how to open this without chopping my fingers—”
Asher gripped her hand, pushed her finger on a lever, and flicked her wrist. Out swung the blade, smooth-as-you-like. He showed her how to lock it back into the handle and then pocketed the small black one she’d given him in exchange. When Ashlyn looked up, the couple in front of them was staring like she and Asher had just turned to necromancers and raised a corpse.
“What?” Asher growled. Good with people, he was not.