Chapter 115 Are You Feeling Awkward, Ashley?
The man's gaze was cool and detached, yet his fingers were hot to the touch. As they made contact, a flurry of hot and cold mixed, sending ripples through the calm.
This interrupted Ashley's imminent words, and, instead, she turned her face away from his touch.
It was an entirely instinctive reaction.
Damian's hand hung in the air, a bit of grime on his finger, which he showed her, "Messy!" He criticized her strictly, his voice a bit hoarse.
Ashley looked at her oily hands, probably greased from the wheel bearings, feeling awkward. "I'll go wash up."
Watching her stride toward the bathroom, Damian glanced at his hand, as if he could still feel her warmth on it.
He was becoming increasingly baffled by the workings of his mind, which had once been as clear and distinct as black and white. Now, it felt as if he had stumbled into a cave tangled with cobwebs, where things were cut but never clear, and yet he couldn't help but wander deeper.
It seemed like something had taken root in the cover of night, quietly growing wild behind his back.
Ashley gazed at herself in the mirror, her ears still flushed with a lingering pink, her cheeks feeling warm, and her heart beating a tad faster than usual.
She scrubbed the grease from her hands forcefully, cupping water to splash on her face several times.
‘What are you thinking, Ashley?’ she chided herself.
What would have happened if she hadn't avoided Damian's gaze? Would they have lapsed into another moment of inappropriate behavior, their bodies entangled once again?
‘Why do you demean yourself so? He came to your door to make a spectacle of you, to control you—to teach you a lesson. Have you lost your senses, entertaining such thoughts?’ Ashley slapped her cheeks with her hands, the pain bringing a bit more clarity to her mind.
"It's too late now. Let's leave this for tomorrow. I'll get someone to help with the assembly since your hand is injured," she stated.
Damian, who was poring over the assembly instructions for a bookshelf, looked up into the backlight to see a stern face, "Are you burning bridges already? Ashley, when you're ruthless, you don't spare anyone, do you?"
Ashley's fingers twirled behind her, "Aren't you the one who's reluctant?"
Damian crouched down with one leg in front, the other bent behind him—a casual yet graceful posture. As he looked over, his eyes brimmed with deep mockery, "Knowing that I'm reluctant, you could at least be nice and offer me a glass of water."
Ashley's initial intention was to send him away, but now he was making requests, "Damian, it's half past ten."
"I have a watch," he stated dryly.
‘That's not the point!’ Ashley surveyed the scattered parts on the floor. The bookshelf was complex, and wouldn't be assembled in a flash—would they end up working into the wee hours?
"Damian..." she began.
He interrupted, clearly impatient, "If you're not busy, come help. You truly are oblivious, holding the instructions and doing nothing. Find the corresponding wooden planks then put the wide ones on the left, and the narrow ones on the right. And pick out the longest screws for me."
Any protest from Ashley was stifled as she knelt to follow his orders and got to work.
Once they were engrossed in their task, time flew quickly. Most of the process was dominated by Damian's commands while she dutifully acted them out, their coordination a forced but silent understanding.
Finally, they assembled the bookcase, which stood neatly under the light.
A sense of accomplishment welled up within Ashley as she rubbed her aching back and excitedly exclaimed, "Damian, you're great at this!"
Perhaps the atmosphere was to blame, for she had even forgotten that just an hour ago, she was still angry with him.
Damian set down the screwdriver, patted the solid side of the cabinet, and replied without a trace of modesty, "You're right."
Ashley chuckled—a rare moment when she didn't reflexively retort. She genuinely gave him a thumbs-up, but then she noticed the bandage on his right hand seeping blood, "Looks like your wound has opened up."
Damian's white shirt had several creases, and a few strands of his meticulously styled hair had come loose. His elbow was smeared with grease, and the bandage on his wound was loose, soaked with traces of blood.
His left hand, free of gloves, was reddened at the base of the thumb.
This sight was beyond Ashley's wildest imagination. Damian, of all people, was assembling furniture. And the real shocker? He was willing to do it. Could she flatter herself with the thought that he was doing it to please her?
She really couldn't figure him out.
Damian extended his hand to her, saying, "Are you just going to watch?"
"I'd like to re-bandage that for you, but I don't have any bandages at home. Would you mind making do with a Band-Aid?" Ashley offered.
A vein throbbed on Damian’s forehead. "What was that again?" he asked.
Ashley's fleeting romantic notions retreated under the weight of his gaze and tone. She was probably just addicted to the idea of him being interested in her. "Maybe we should go to your place. You'll have everything we need there, and you'll be able to rest faster after we clean up,” she suggested.
The desire to stay in her cluttered living room, which looked like a dog's kennel with two new pieces of furniture lost in the mess, was nonexistent for Damian. The area's two hundred square feet was crammed with all sorts of smells, from the open hot pot in her dining area reeking of grease, endangering his promise of a clean and orderly living space.
"A nice house, and you turn it into a chicken coop. It's no easy feat being a woman like you," he muttered.
Ashley snapped back, "Did I eat the hot pot alone? Did your array of whims contribute nothing to this mess? And who complained that my living room was too empty and didn't feel like home? Now, as you desired, it's packed."
Damian, unamused, pressed her, "Aren't we leaving?"
She followed his steps, slamming the door behind them with all the force she could muster. If only it would break.
Damian's place was the epitome of cleanliness and order, despite the cool palette. Ashley, secretly, preferred this organized setting.
He read her thoughts. "Take a good look and learn," he muttered to himself.
"Should we take care of your wound now, or after you shower?" she said, deflecting his comment.
Damian couldn’t stand the scent clinging to his skin any longer, eager to strip down and feel liberated. "Wait for me in the living room," he instructed.
Ashley didn't wait long this time. In just a few minutes, Damian descended the stairs, his hair still damp from the shower. As he leaned over, droplets fell on the back of Ashley's hand, sending a cool tingle up her arm. Their proximity, the breathing, and the mere brushing of skin were all laden with an intimate tension.
She had to say something.
"I checked online just now," she started, "and the negative comments have been blocked, the photos can't be found. KM Road's PR did a thorough job cleaning up the mess. The next step is for the lawyers to collect evidence and proceed with the case. This lawsuit should be over soon."
Damian spoke in a cool voice, "Guilt lessened a notch?"
Ashley gently wiped the water around his wound before applying the medicine. "Maybe in your mind, I'm just having a Mother Teresa moment. Yes, I made a mistake this time. I didn't expect an ordinary woman to have such a powerful backer."
"Just say you want to apologize, no need to beat around the bush. I can't tell from your roundabout way," she said.
Wrapping the bandage, Ashley let go of his hand, her stomach ready to burst with aggravation. "What's the use of an apology if it doesn't solve the problem? Why do we even have lawyers, then? According to you, I'm wrong to apologize and wrong not to apologize. What do you want me to do?"
Damian admired the awkwardly wrapped bandage, realizing she wouldn't become competent anytime soon. "Ashley, don't you think you're being stubborn? Aren't you tired?" he asked.
Ashley's chest heaved, "What are you getting at now?"
