I’m typing what he says verbatim because it’s better than anything I could have put together. This is why they pay him the big bucks.

“She’s my godmother.”

“Minerva Talcott?”

“Yeah, she’s my mom’s best friend.”

“You come from such a strange world.”

“It definitely makes for interesting holidays. And by interesting I mean totally ridiculous and I usually sneak away from whatever black tie affair we’re at to watch Disney movies with Chloe.”

“Cool Uncle Asher knows all the words to Love Is an Open Door, doesn’t he?”

“Bet your ass he does.”

I’m smiling and he’s smiling and we’re smiling in his kitchen. It’s easy and normal. Of all the ways I thought today would go, this is not any of them. But I’m happy and Asher looks happy too, so I channel all of this positive energy into denying that Ryker Hammond, a married race car driver, got his twenty-year-old mistress pregnant.

The griddle sizzles as pancake batter splatters against it. Asher is humming. Today, I find it oddly endearing. He seems so relaxed, a rare sight for the perpetually uptight man. I want to slide up behind him and wrap my arms around his waist. Maybe nuzzle my face into his well-sculpted back. Kiss his shoulder blade. Make him laugh.

I don’t.

Mostly because my phone rings and ruins the moment.

It’s Bree.

“Hello?”

“Why are you answering Asher’s phone?”

I pull it away from my ear and realize it’s not my phone. Mine is still upstairs. Fuck.

“Can you believe he made me come all the way here in a foot and a half of snow to write press releases?”

Asher looks insulted when he looks back at me with his eyebrows pinched. I smile and shrug.

“Seriously?” Bree asks.

“Yes,” I huff dramatically for emphasis. “He’s such an asshole.”

I smile sheepishly at him when he sets a plate of pancakes in front of me. He’s still glaring.

“I feel like it’s illegal for someone to force you into work when the office is closed. He can get into a lot of trouble.”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” I say. “He got me a car.”

“I don’t understand why he needed you there.”

“He didn’t trust my WiFi.”

“I’m sure,” she says, unconvinced. “Are you sure you’re not on a snow day booty call?”

“Seriously, Bree? We have a professional relationship.”

“Please define professional for me.”

“I don’t need to justify anything,” I say. “I assume you’re calling for a reason.”

“Tell Asher I can’t get in contact with Melodie Tran’s manager, and Celebrity!Now! is demanding the statement by noon.”

“Okay, he’ll deal with it.” I hang up the phone and resist the very strong urge to throw it across the kitchen. I don’t know what her problem is.