“No? It’s just a word.”

I blush.

He takes a seat at a counter stool. “Would you like a…some assistance?”

Assistance.

A regular guy would say Would you like some help?

So proper it makes me wonder more about his upbringing—where he’s from besides Surrey, England.

I don’t ask.

Instead, I go back to the pot of water. “I’m good—this is hardly labor intensive.”

And not at all healthy, I might add. The last thing either of us should be consuming if we’re watching our intake for sports, although he probably has to eat thousands of calories, burning them off during his matches.

“What are these?”

I turn to see him manhandling the pack of hot dogs.

“Hot dogs.”

“Ah.” He turns the package this way and that.

“Are you being serious? Everyone knows what a hot dog is.”

Besides, it’s written on the package. Or wait, maybe it says Ballpark Franks…

“I’ve never done” is his only answer.

“I didn’t think so—that’s why I brought them.” So smart of me. Too, too kind.

“They look bloody disgusting.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“I didn’t say you look bloody disgusting—relax. I said the wieners do.”

I face him, holding the spoon out. “Please don’t say wiener.”

“Why?” He laughs, gap tooth playing a friendly game of peekaboo.

“You know why.”

“No, actually, I don’t.”

“Wiener, peen…” I can’t say penis, turning crimson when he watches me expectantly, waiting for me to finish my sentence.

Too bad I’m not gonna.

Water boiling, I crack open all three boxes of mac, remove the flavor pouches, and pour in all the elbow macaroni noodles.

“Really, Georgie? Three boxes?”

I cock a brow. “Trust me, I can eat an entire box myself—the two of us can eat three.”

“Plus these wieners.” He’s still holding them. “What are you going to do with these?”

“Cut them up and put them in once the pasta is done cookin’.”

“Yum—I can almost feel my body rejecting the mechanically processed meats. What a lucky lad I am.”

That makes me laugh. “Your body is definitely going to feel something after eating it.”

“And you eat this shite?”

“Grew up on it.” I stir with a smile. “It was a staple in the Parker household—my mom used to work full-time when I was younger.” I pause to look at him. “What about your parents? Did your mom work?”

He seems to hesitate, choosing his words. “No, Mum didn’t work. Doesn’t.”

“So was she a stay-at-home mom?”

He blinks. “Sure, we’ll call it that.”

That’s an odd reply.

“What about your dad?”

He nods. “Investments.”

His answer is curt.

“So your mom must have made meals every night then, since she was around.”

Ashley watches me a few more seconds. “Not really.”

I lay the spoon down and lean against the counter. “What does that mean—not really? You just said she was a stay-at-home mom.”

“No, you said that.”

But he didn’t deny it. “You know I have a million questions for you now, don’t you?”

Ashley tips his head back to laugh. “You can ask—doesn’t mean I’ll answer.”

Smartass.

I hold my hand out so he can hand me the package of hot dogs, opening drawer after drawer of his fully stocked kitchen to find a knife or scissors.

Slice the plastic open, laying it on the cutting board I found leaning against the backsplash.

Take out five hot dogs and begin cutting them into bite-size pieces. Nostalgia has my mouth watering, the excitement for this childhood fare growing.

“Have you considered culinary school,” comes his droll commentary as I cut.

Ha ha. Big guy is a comedian.

“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.” I notice the push-ups still on the island, probably half melted. “Shoot.” I point. “Can you put those in the freezer, please?”

“Let me guess, the theme of this grand affair is orange?”

I roll my eyes again, not appreciating his sarcasm regarding my effort to do something fun.

Ignoring him, I measure out the butter and milk, find a colander for straining the noodles.

Pour him a glass of chocolate milk.

Slide it across the counter like a bartender. “Save that for dinner,” I warn. “Also, it’s great for hangovers.” I wink.

“Noted.”

I think he’s amused by me, but it’s hard to tell. Ashley Dryden-Jones has a poker face like no other—dare I say it’s better than mine?—and he’s not afraid to use it.

“This place surprises me,” I say, grabbing two bowls out of a cabinet.

“Why?”

“Because. It’s…so much nicer than what I’m used to.” Although it’s not so far off campus to be part of the residential area—an area you won’t find any students living in.

“Oh.” He’s quiet for a few. “Mum found it. Er, I think she had a realtor—they only let me live in the dorms for a semester…said…I’d…”

His sentence trails off.

“Said you’d…what?”

Ashley takes a breath. “Said I’d lived in enough dorms and should live in an actual house if I wasn’t going to uni at home. I think Mum felt guilty.”

“Guilty?”

“I haven’t lived at home since I was ten.”

My eyes almost bug out of my skull.

“What?! Why?”

“Boarding school.” His massive shoulders shrug. “It’s no big deal, Parker—that’s the way it’s done.”

Parker.

He called me by my last name.

Is that a good thing or a bad thing?

Nine

Ashley

Georgie bristles when I use her last name; I’m teasing, but she doesn’t know that, her cheeks turning that now familiar shade of pink.

I embarrass her a lot.

Not on purpose. She’s just so easily frustrated.

“Boarding school is common, but Mum thought after graduation I’d take a gap year and live at home. I think she was expecting to, I don’t know—do the things mums do, like cook for me and fuss, not that she’s ever cooked for me.”

“Why didn’t you take a gap year?”

“Taking a gap year just prolongs the inevitable, don’t you think? I knew what I wanted to study. I didn’t need a year to soul-search or travel.”

Waste of time, though the majority of my mates did it, all of them now a year or two behind me in earning their degrees.

I want to work, not sit on my arse.

I can’t play bloody rugby the rest of my life, either.

“That makes sense.” Georgie sighs. “Do you like living alone?” is her next question. The little minx just cannot help herself.