Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
“Young Master Newcomb,” he said, bowing a touch stiffly. “It’s been some time.”
“Good to see you, Brand.” Vic levered smoothly to his feet, clapping Ash’s shoulder. “I was just visiting with our darling little Ashton here, finding out how he’s getting on with you.” His smile was bland, but there was a touch of subtle mischief there. “I’ll get out of your hair.”
Brand fixed Vic with a pointed, dry look that said he wasn’t fooling anyone, but kept his mouth shut. Ash sighed, dragging a hand over his face.
Sometimes, his life felt like a circus.
“I’ll catch you soon, Vic,” he called, as Vic swaggered for the door. “We’ll do lunch next week.”
“You are completely booked with investor lunches next week, young Master,” Brand interrupted.
“Fuck. Next month?”
“That may be possible.”
Vic laughed. “Just call me when you get a free minute.” He paused at the door, though, shoulder to shoulder with Brand, his smile fading, leaving him sober, studying Brand thoughtfully. “Take care of him,” he murmured.
“It would never cross my mind to do otherwise,” Brand responded.
And with a nod, Vic slipped out, leaving them alone.
Brand closed the door, cocking his head. “That was interesting.”
“Vic wanted to yell at me for not telling him about the accident.” Ash groaned, sank down in his seat, and weakly flicked his fingers at the newspaper. “We made the tabloids.”
Brand crossed to the desk—and that was when Ash noticed something off. A stiffness to his gait, listing to one side. Worry curled its fingers around his heart.
“Brand…?” he asked. “You’re limping.”
“It’s nothing,” Brand murmured. “I slept poorly on my back. It will straighten out shortly.” But he avoided Ash’s eyes, as he settled in his chair and picked up the newspaper. “Now let’s figure out how to do damage control about this.”
ASH HAD TO BUILD UP more stamina.
He used to stay awake for over forty-eight hours for weekend-long parties. Now he couldn’t even last until he made it home, passing out in the car every day while Brand drove. He was barely aware of Brand lifting him out of the SUV and carrying him inside; he only snuggled into him, and was out cold again within moments.
It was more mental and emotional than physical exhaustion, he knew. The stress and pressure every day, trying to take on so many large decisions that could break everything to pieces—compounded by drama after drama, exploding over him.
But he’d like to have a life, he thought, that didn’t involve spending every waking hour at the office and passing out before he even had a moment to cling to Brand for more than a single tired kiss. At least he usually woke to the comfort of Brand’s body curled around him, a heavy bulwark of muscle that seemed to shelter him from even the worst of his dreams.
Which was probably why the absence in the bed woke him, when he rolled over to burrow into Brand and Brand just…wasn’t there.
He blinked blearily, rubbing at his eyes and glancing at the clock. Oh. It was barely after ten PM; Brand was probably…doing Brand things. Tailoring more of Ash’s suits. Terrorizing the chef. Plotting more ways to make Ash regret actually brushing his own teeth instead of waiting for Brand to do it for him.
…actually, Brand probably would.
Still a fucking demon.
Snorting to himself, Ash stretched and yawned his way out of bed, scratching at his hair. He was hungry; he kept passing out without dinner. Maybe he could catch Brand in the kitchen and help him make something. Spend some actual time with him that wasn’t about work. He just…had this low and whispered need to know Brand, as more than just the packaged entirety of his kinks and a few little tidbits of his history.
He wanted to know the daily things that made him tick, and find out how it felt to just be in Brand’s presence, in ordinary and normal ways many people took for granted.
The kitchen was probably the best place to start looking. He padded through the night-dimmed hallways, biting back another yawn…and almost missing the sound of voices coming from the living room, drowned under his own sleepy breaths. He frowned, pausing in the hall. That was his Dad’s voice, and…Brand’s? Curious, he switched paths and ducked toward the living room, leaning around the open arched door.
His father was bundled into a corner of the long, low white leather couch, tucked warmly in several afghans; his mother curled against his side, one hand on his arm as she looked between him and Brand gravely. Brand rested on one knee before him as if swearing fealty, but his expression was strained, solemn. All of them were, speaking as though at a funeral.
Ash frowned, drifting a step forward. Was something wrong? “Dad?” he asked. “Bra—Forsythe…? What’s going on?”
Three heads came up toward him simultaneously. His mother smiled faintly; his father looked briefly guilty. Only Brand’s expression remained the same, as he rose to his feet and offered a quick bow toward Ash. Even if Brand’s eyes warmed subtly, it did nothing to ease the worry curdling in Ash’s gut.