15. Jacob

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

jacob

I am exhausted and irritable as shit by the end of the day. Having worked a heavy schedule after only a few hours of sleep on the office couch, all I want to do is go home and shower and climb into bed. Ashley had a conniption when I called her to suggest rescheduling our dinner date. She went off on a rant about how I put everything else in front of her, and things would never work out between us if she wasn't a priority. She's probably right on both accounts. In the end, I agreed to stick to our original plans for the sake of trying to make things work and all that shit.

Ashley is staying in a condo in town while we figure things out. I leave my car in front of her condo and meander up to the door, not especially looking forward to expelling the amount of energy I know this evening is going to require of me. I knock on the door and wait, my hands thrust in my pockets. After a couple of minutes, Ashley finally answers the door. She looks me up and down, her smile deflating into a scowl.

"Are you kidding me?" she says angrily.

"What is it now, Ashley?" I ask with a sigh.

"You're late and you show up to take me out wearing that? Have you even showered?"

"I tried telling you on the phone it's been a long fucking day," I grumble despite myself. "I came here straight from the McGreer ranch where I spent the day sticking my arm up a bunch of cows' asses. I was up half the damn night delivering a foal, I'm running on only a few hours of sleep, and frankly, all I want to be doing right now is sawing logs in my fucking bed. But here I am, taking you out to dinner because it can't be pushed off till tomorrow, heaven forbid. So do you want to have dinner tonight, or do you not? Because once I get to the house, I'm not leaving again."

Ashley pouts all the way to my truck, not saying a word. She waits for me to catch up and open the door for her. I let out a sigh, look pleadingly up into the evening sky, and follow after her.

We trail behind the hostess through the dining room, weaving by tables. Approaching an empty table, the hostess lays down the menus and rolled silverware and steps aside for us to take our seats. I can tell by the look on Ashley's face that we're about to have trouble.

"You want us to sit here?" Ashley asks the hostess, pointing at the table.

"Ashley, don't. This table is fine. Let's just sit down and have dinner," I say, trying to bring her back down.

"Absolutely not! I will not eat my dinner next to the bathrooms!" Ashley says, her fists pressed firmly into her hips.

"You're being ridiculous. The bathrooms are way over on the other side of the bar. Come on and have a seat."

I pull out a chair for Ashley to sit.

"I will not! I demand a better table." Ashley turns back to the now wide-eyed and nervous hostess.

"Um...Okay...That's fine, just let me see..." The hostess spins around, glancing over the dining room. "How about over here?" she asks, motioning to a table in the middle of the room.

"That's more like it," Ashley agrees.

I mouth an apology to the hostess as Ashley sinks into the chair I pull out for her. Rounding the table, I take my own seat on the opposite side. I scoop up the menu and begin scanning the laminated booklet for the entrées.

"You realize you're the reason they tried to give us a crappy table, right? Because you smell like a barn," Ashley says, scrunching up her nose.

"Ash, please don't start."

A waiter steps up to our table for our drink orders. Ashley quizzes him on their wine selection, trying to make up her mind. By the end of the inquisition, the young waiter is flustered. Relief floods his face when I simply order water, and he rushes away.

Everything is a fucking production with her. Nothing can ever just be, and nothing is ever good enough. Ashley doesn't belong in Montana. She belongs in a big city with all of the other wealth-chasing, designer-wearing, uppity nitwits. I chastise myself, knowing I shouldn't be feeling that way about my...significant other? I don't really know what to call her anymore, but I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that she's significant—a significant pain in my ass.

The waiter returns with our drinks. After placing the appropriate glasses in front of us, he pulls out a notepad and visibly gulps, as ready as he'll ever be to try to take Ashley's order.

"I'll have the salmon Caesar salad, but I want it with the vinaigrette, not the Caesar. And I don't want the parmesan on it, either. Or the croutons. But I want cherry tomatoes added," Ashley says. "And I want the cherry tomatoes sliced in half."

"Yes, ma'am," the boy tells her, nervously scribbling her instructions on his notepad.

"Actually, does the chef caesar the salmon before or after it's grilled?"

I roll my eyes.

"After, I believe, ma'am. I'll have to check with the chef to be sure."

"If it's before it's grilled, be sure to tell the chef not to put the caesar on mine. Just cook it plain."

"Yes, ma'am. And you, sir?" The waiter turns to me.

"Oh, this wine is horrible," Ashley interrupts. "I want it replaced with a bottle of Roero."

"Yes, ma'am."

"I'll have the ribeye," I say, glaring across the table at Ashley. "Medium rare?—"

"And just bring him a house salad with vinaigrette for his sides," Ashley interrupts again. She takes another sip of wine.

"No. No salad for me. I'm not a damn rabbit. I want a loaded baked potato and mac and cheese."

"Oh, no, Jacob. That's too many carbohydrates for one meal," Ashley says in a tone that suggests she's scolding a young child as the waiter retreats from the table.

"When I start giving a damn about my figure, I start being choosy about what I eat. Until then, I'll eat what tastes good. And that's not a salad."

Ashley leans back in her chair, swishing the glass of wine in her hand—the same wine she told the waiter needed to be replaced. Her eyes roam over me. What is she plotting? She sits up straight again and places her wineglass back on the table.

"I think I should move back in with you," she says matter-of-factly.

I arch an eyebrow.

"How do you figure?"

"We aren't getting anywhere like this. Work keeps you busy. Half of the time I get to see you, we're either out with your friends or you're a tired grump. There's no way we are going to make progress like this."

Ashley's point is valid, even if I don't want to admit it.

"How do you think us sharing a bed will change anything?" I ask her sincerely.

"Think about how much burden it would take off your shoulders. I'll handle the meals and the housework."

"Meaning you'll hire a maid and order out our meals." I take a sip of my water.

"Even so, it will be one less thing for you to worry about. And we can spend casual evenings together at home. We'll see so much more of each other."

Ashley leans forward and reaches across the table to take hold of my hands. I don't pull back but let her continue holding onto me. I let her words sink in for a minute. She's not wrong. Maybe I would be more patient with her if seeing her wasn't such an inconvenience.

It wasn't that long ago that I loved this woman sitting across from me. Surely I wasn't completely fooled about who she is. The woman I fell in love with has to still be a part of her. Maybe I'm too focused on the hurt still to find the bits of her I loved. But how can I trust her again?

"Can I think about it?" I ask, earning a soft smile from Ashley.

"Of course."