2. My Active Imagination

2

MY ACTIVE IMAGINATION

Asher

I’ve found Maeve in some unusual places over the years. At my door, dressed as a coquettish French maid, holding a butler costume and asking me to a last-minute costume party. In an empty lecture hall on her college campus, crying on the anniversary of her mother’s death. Stuck in a roadside gas station restroom after a concert one night. (Her hairpin came in handy to free her that time.) But this is tops.

Still, I didn’t think when I spotted her darting into this room that I’d find her on the floor…like this .

Maybe I should have, but this is fucking distracting. Because there’s…cleavage and kissable flesh on display. There’s a sexy bra in my line of sight and wildly inappropriate ideas forming in my head. Disheveled is a surprisingly good look on Maeve.

I never knew zebra print was hot.

Except…she’s Beckett’s sister and she’s my best friend. Best to banish those dirty thoughts to a faraway land because there’s no place for them in our friendship. Or in my life, frankly. I have plans and shit.

But before I can even ask what the hell happened, she pops up, hastily grabbing at the tattered top of her dress, trying to jam the fabric back together with sheer will. “So much for being a good luck charm,” she says, her voice trembling. “I can’t go back in there looking like a bad omen.”

She’s right. She can’t go back in there looking like this. Because nearly every man will stare at her hungrily, and I’m not okay with that.

But first things first. “You’re not a bad omen,” I reassure her.

“I am. I’m the worst, Asher. I’m so sorry,” she says as she tries to tie the tops of the ripped sides together with her talented fingers. She’s good at all things creative, but I’m pretty sure fixing a torn dress without a needle and thread is out of her wheelhouse. “I ruined your night. I came in here looking for a cell signal, and instead, I turned into…” She flaps her hands, letting go of the bodice. “A fucking agent of chaos.”

Well, she is an agent of chaos and it’s one of her many endearing qualities. But now probably isn’t the right time to point out that Maeve is simply being Maeve. I have to go back on stage for the bidding in seven minutes, and I need her in the audience. I went looking for her to make sure she hadn’t lost track of time or, I dunno, discovered a stray dog or cat or duck that she needed to take home tonight. All viable possibilities.

This is potentially a big night for a lot of reasons, and not simply because I want to keep up the tradition— though, of course, I do. The exposure that comes with winning big will help the plans Beckett and I have to launch a new charity. It’s not necessarily difficult to get people to pitch in for stray dogs and cats; it’s harder to know how to help underprivileged kids. Our charity can bridge that gap… if I can get their attention in this media-saturated world.

But that’s a few weeks down the road. This is now. Like we’re on the ice, behind in the third period, and it’s up to me to send the puck to the net, I say, matter-of-factly, “Let’s fix it.”

That’s what I do best. Solve problems for people. Help my friends.

Shutting the library door, I advance into the room.

“How?” she asks, plucking at the lace in a way I can’t let distract me. “I don’t have a sewing kit with me.” A moment later, she brightens. “Do you think somebody does? Reina? Maybe Everly? She’s backstage, right?”

Everly is both the team publicist and Maeve’s good friend. But who carries a sewing kit in their pocket? Even if she did, that rip is inches long and would take more than a few minutes to fix. “There’s not enough time. We need a fix in this room,” I say.

Maeve bites the corner of her lips. “Will you forgive me? I’m such an idiot. I should never have climbed that ladder.”

“Forgiveness?” I laugh; this is nowhere near the unforgivable zone, and she should know that. “On one condition.”

“Name it.”

“I have to know—what made you climb it? Was it because it was there? Because honestly, that’s reason enough.” Every moment with her is a delightfully unpredictable show, and this one might just be the most Maeve thing yet.

As she fiddles with the pieces of the dress, trying vainly once more to fix it somehow, she confesses, “Angelina said she’d email me tonight.” Angelina is Maeve’s agent, and Maeve has been waiting to hear about a particularly coveted commission that could be a big break for her.

“Did you get the gig?”

She shrugs. “No idea. This sort of took precedent,” she says, gesturing to her ripped bodice. She spins around, searching the library. “Wait! What if I carry a bunch of books in front of me? I can hold them like a prop!”

“That might be a little obvious.” But that word— obvious— presents the solution. For fuck’s sake, how did I miss this?

I shed my suit jacket and thrust it at her. “Here.”

“You’re brilliant,” she says as she slides her arms into it, the cuffs hitting the tips of her fingers. A laugh bursts from her. “Why do you have to be so big?”

But that’s not really the problem. The problem is the button in the middle, since that’s where jacket buttons live. When she fastens it, the jacket doesn’t even begin to cover up the top of her breasts, which, wow, look particularly lush and tempting right now.

Get it together.

“It looks better on you anyway,” she adds, shrugging off the jacket and handing it to me. I set it on the ornate arm of the forest-green couch.

“Not sure I agree. Looked pretty good on you.” Though I’d never admit just how good.

Maeve, ever the optimist, scans the room. “Think there’s a wrap or something lying around? Maybe a fancy scarf or a throw forgotten by some posh guest?”

Her suggestion is cute, but I have another plan. It just requires a little ingenuity. “I’ve got a better idea,” I say, brushing my fingers over the fabric of my vest, then glancing at her elegantly twisted hair. The solution is right there. “But I’m going to need your help. Can you hand me one of those hairpins?”

“Sure thing.” Always game, she reaches up to pull one out, and as she does, the bodice of her dress slips lower.

Her dress was already hanging by a thread. Now, gravity tugs down, leaving nothing but the barest of barriers between us and something far more dangerous. Rogue thoughts conjure scenarios I’ve no business entertaining—her dress torn away, her body laid bare, her lips daring me to do something reckless.

I fight to clear my head, but my imagination has always been a double-edged sword. As a kid, I was always pretending I was someone else—a superhero, a spy, a pirate, a fireman, and sometimes even a professional hockey player.

Okay, that last one came true. But that doesn’t mean this push-Maeve-up-against-the-wall one will. Because it’d be a very bad idea. Our lives are too tangled together. Something might go wrong. I hate when things go wrong.

Focus—fix the dress, help her out, get your head back in the game. But damn, if it isn’t a struggle when Maeve is this close, this vulnerable—a temptation I never expected I’d struggle to resist.

Focusing on things I can control, I take the hairpin and blow out a steadying breath.

“Question for you,” she begins.

“Yeah? ”

“What’s the plan?”

Wresting control of my thoughts, I give her a don’t you worry grin. “Do you trust me?”

Her head tilts. “You know I do.” It comes out soft and true. A promise made again and again over the years.

A promise kept.

“I’ve got this, then.” I tuck the hairpin in my pocket then make quick work of the buttons on my vest. Good thing there are more of them. Good thing they go higher than the one on my jacket did. Maeve’s eyes widen with intrigue and then with understanding.

“Are you MacGyvering me an outfit?” There’s excitement in her voice now. Maybe even a thrill.

I don’t say a word. I answer with actions, sliding the vest onto her. One side, then around her, then the other side. My hands feel a little buzzy as they touch her arms.

“Good thing I told you to wear a vest,” she says.

“And I resisted. But you knew best.”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t give me too much credit tonight. You’re the one fixing my dress without a sewing kit.”

But I’m giving her all the credit because, so far, she looks extraordinary in my clothes.

She slips on the dark blue vest, and I do the buttons up. Her scent tickles my nose. At her brother’s wedding it was wildflowers. Now it’s like sweet plums, something I’d pick from a tree in the summer and sink my teeth into. My pulse surges as my fingers skate over her soft skin. This is ridiculous, these reactions to her. She’s a friend—that’s all.

I slide the final button in, a vein throbbing in my neck.

Or something is throbbing, and it’s not in my neck.

This moment is dangerously close to that wedding two years ago all over again. I remind myself I have an active imagination, and thoughts are not actions. Wild scenarios don’t need to come true.

I step back.

She looks down at her new ensemble, her smile spreading fast.

“It hits just right,” she says, choosing the words she’d said to me when I tried the vest on at her suggestion.

“A little loose, though,” I say, my voice gravelly. I move behind her, grabbing the hairpin from my pocket. Quickly, I gather the silky fabric at the back of the vest and fold it over, tightening it, then sliding the hairpin over it to hold it in place. “How’s that?”

“You’re a tailor,” she says, tucking the pieces of lacy fabric out of sight under the front of the vest while I adjust the back. I smooth a hand over it, making sure the pin will stay.

“Everything good back there?” she asks.

I roam my eyes up and down her. You have no idea how good .

“It’s great,” I say as evenly as I can. I move around her, and holy fuck…

That vest does unfair things to her tits. It boosts them up, but not too much, she’s not too risqué. Just right.

She offers a hopeful smile as she makes a few final adjustments to the ripped fabric. “Do I look good in your clothes?”

The question echoes through my head. Does she look good in my clothes ? She looks fucking incredible, and I don’t know what to make of that. “You look like…”

Mine .

The word forms on my tongue. How could she look like anything else but mine when she’s wearing my vest? Instead, I amend my statement to, “You look like the best lucky charm. Now, go check your phone.”

“You know me too well.”

“Yeah, I do,” I say.

She flicks open the case. A few scrolls and her shoulders slump. She groans when she meets my eyes. “Angelina says they haven’t decided and they’re putting it off for another week or two.”

She swallows hard, gulping down her disappointment, I’m sure. I wish I could make things easier for her. She’s made inroads in her career for sure, nabbing opportunities here and there, chances to paint some murals on buildings, and to showcase some of her more unusual pieces of art—bedazzled lamps made from liquor bottles—at a night market. But it hasn’t been easy. It’s been years of desperately trying to make it. Years of yearning.

“Who’s the job with?” I ask, wondering if it’s one of the galleries or gigs she’s mentioned to me. If I know more, I can give her a pep talk. Keep her spirits up.

She shakes her head. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me,” I say.

She smiles faintly and pats my shoulder. “It’s your night. You’re the ultimate prize. Let’s get in there.”

We leave with two minutes to spare. When we pass the restroom on the way back, Maeve nods to it and says tightly that she’ll pop in there for a second. “I promise I’ll be out in thirty.”

I gesture to the ballroom at the end of the hall. “I’ll meet you inside,” I say.

“I’ll be there,” she adds quietly.

“I know,” I say, a little like Han Solo, but I can be cocky for a moment. It’s a good feeling to know she’ll be there.

It’s a feeling I don’t want to ever lose.