It was his mother’s favorite book. It’s where his name had come from. “Listen. I’m not going to force her to do anything. I’m just going to ask, and if she says no, I won’t pressure her. I promise.”

“Why do I get the feeling you’re pretty sure she won’t say no?”

“As I said, half agony, half hope. Now, can you please find her and tell her you need her to take your car?” It was the most childish thing, but he crossed his fingers as he dug them into his pockets.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Ashna hadn’t been suspicious of China asking her to take her car home again. At least not until she found Rico sitting on the couch in the lobby on her way out. She tried to look away quickly when he caught her ogling him, again, but didn’t quite make it. Arousal so intense lit his eyes that for a moment her body forgot where it was and burned with it.

“What are you still doing here?” she asked, going to him.

He rose, shrinking the huge lobby around her. “Waiting for my ride. George is stuck in traffic.”

“How far is he? I can give you a ride, I have China’s car.”

He looked far too surprised for such a simple offer, and suddenly she was embarrassed for offering.

“You probably need to get home and rest that knee.” Her voice came out too soft, too invested.

“Why do you do that?” he said, not bothering to hide the wave of emotions in his eyes.

“Do what?” she asked, not bothering to hide her caginess.

“Care with your actions when you’re trying so hard not to care with your heart.”

Because I do care. Even though she wished she didn’t. “Can’t we just be decent to each other?” For the past two weeks, they’d managed just that, despite the giant unyielding force tugging them together. “Why does it have to be any more than that?”

Because it was. And they both knew it.

He shrugged, and dropped it, as always aware of exactly how much she could handle. “So the show. You’re killing it,” he said.

Her cheeks warmed . . . her heart warmed.

“Listen, Ashna, I was wrong about you and cooking. It’s obvious how talented you are. I understand now why you took it on. Those mango pies . . . they were . . . I can still taste them.” He’d eaten every last bite of the leftover tarts after the show.

She tried to say thank you, but a strangled sort of sound came out of her. It had been a long time since she’d thought about cooking in terms of loving it or hating it, or even as a choice, but the joy her food gave him seemed to unsnarl how she felt about it.