There's a relentless buzzing somewhere near my ear, the kind that worms into a dream and refuses to leave. At first I try to ignore it and burrow deeper under the blankets, but it only gets louder, sharper, more insistent, until my half-asleep brain finally catches up.

"What?" I groan, rolling over and dragging the blanket higher.

"Get up. We're going for breakfast." Cam's voice cuts through the fog in my head, far too awake for a Sunday. When I don't move, he adds, "Unless you don't want a greasy sausage and egg McMuffin. With an extra hash brown."

That's enough to make me crack one eye open. I peel the blanket down from my face and squint into the morning light streaming through the window. Cam and Asher are standing side by side by the kitchen counter, both of them looking at me, and the second my eyes meet Asher's I feel heat rise under my skin. His gaze drifts down towards the couch where I'm sprawled, and I follow it instinctively to one of my bare legs poking out from the blankets, pale and long in the sunlight.

I sit up too quickly, brush my hair out of my face, and stretch my arms above my head like I can make the whole scene feel casual. "For the record," I say, my voice rough with sleep, "your couch is awful, Cam."

He snorts and tells me to get ready. Both he and Asher look away when I stand, falling into some low conversation while I dig through the disaster zone of my bags and pull together something passable for a lazy Sunday morning.

Upstairs, I change quickly and undo the plaits I slept in, shaking my hair loose over my shoulders. I pause in front of the mirror longer than I should. It's a terrible idea, but I find myself trying to imagine what I look like through Asher's eyes. The pale skin, the freckles, the long copper hair I got from Mum. I wonder whether all that would look soft against the sharp edges of him, whether I would suit that dark, tattooed, impossible thing he has going on if I stood beside him somewhere ordinary, like we belonged there.

"I have it bad," I mutter to my reflection.

By the time I'm brushing my teeth, I'm trying to talk myself down. I hope he turns out to be irritating, I think. I hope he's arrogant or shallow or somehow unbearable once you get to know him. It would make this easier. But the memory of that smile from last night keeps undoing the thought before it can settle, and Cam would never keep someone close if he thought they'd treat me badly. He's infuriating, but that's one thing I know about him.

"Are you ready?" Cam yells from downstairs.

I spit, rinse, tuck a piece of hair behind my ear, and head back down. Asher is by the front door, keys turning loosely between his fingers.

"I'm driving," he says.

"Shotgun," I answer immediately, and the grin that spreads across his face is enough to make me feel ridiculous.

Cam is deeply offended the second we step outside and he realises I claimed the front seat before he could. He complains all the way to the car, grumbling about loyalty and betrayal like a child being exiled from his rightful throne, and then folds himself into the back seat with theatrical misery.

I slip back into the leather passenger seat and catch the scent of the car properly this time. It's warm and musky and faintly clean, the kind of smell that settles low in my chest before I can stop it.

Asher looks slightly too big for the driver's seat, all long limbs and broad shoulders, but he settles into it easily, pushes the seat back, and curls one hand around the gearshift as he starts the engine. I look at his hand, then keep looking. The tattoo on the back of it catches in the morning light.

"Jesus," I whisper under my breath.

I have no idea how something as ordinary as driving manages to look so indecent on him.

From the back seat, Cam kicks the back of my chair and continues complaining about his demotion while I glance sideways and catch Asher looking at me again.

He smiles, then stretches one arm behind my seat as he twists to reverse out of the driveway. My eyes snag on the movement of his forearm before I force myself to look away.

"How was your date, Cam?" I ask, mostly because I need my brain to focus on something else.

"Give me the front seat and maybe I'll tell you," he says, leaning between us. "Homewrecker."

"Maybe that's why Mum's never met Asher," I say. "Because he's actually your boyfriend."

Asher laughs, low and warm. The sound rolls through the car and right under my skin. I reach up and pull my hair over one shoulder so I have something to do with my hands.

"I should probably meet your mother," Asher says, smiling.

Cam reaches forward to smack his shoulder, and I watch Asher change gears smoothly as we turn through the next roundabout and head for the drive-thru. There's something stupidly attractive about how comfortable he looks doing all of this, as if every movement belongs to him.

By the time we've ordered and pulled ahead to pay, Cam is still muttering from the back seat. Asher taps his card against the machine and takes the paper bag from the window, passing it to me with an easy smile that makes him look almost unfairly pleased with the morning.

Once we're moving again, the breeze coming through his open window starts tossing his hair around. In daylight it looks even messier, softer somehow, and I notice a few strands that catch gold in the sun. I'm still watching when he says, quietly, "You're staring again."

I look away at once. "I think you're just trying to embarrass me."

"I'm just telling the truth."

He pulls into a nearby car park and turns off the engine. Cam immediately grabs the food bag out of my lap like he hasn't eaten in a week, digs out what he wants, and shoves it back towards us. Asher hands me my McMuffin and unwraps his own.

"I'm surprised you don't care about getting crumbs in your car," I say.

He smiles behind the wrapper. "I care. I'm just not obsessive about it."

"That's a big word for a mechanic."

"Juliette," Cam says through a mouthful of food, scandalised on Asher's behalf. "Asher is very smart, aren't you, sweetheart?" He leans forward like he's about to stroke his face, and Asher knocks him away without even looking.

Then he turns his eyes on me and says, very calmly, "I'm very smart, Juliette."

A shiver runs over me so suddenly it feels visible. My full name in his mouth sounds altogether too good, and for one awful second my body responds so quickly I almost forget how to breathe. I fold my arms over my chest, and his eyes follow the movement for half a beat before he looks back up.

I go back to eating even though I'm suddenly hungry for something else entirely, and he turns the music up a little.

"Have you figured out how you're getting to work?" Cam asks after a while.

"What?" I say, then clear my throat. "Sorry—what?"

"Work," he repeats. "You don't exactly live near the office anymore."

"Oh." The realisation lands with a little jolt. "Right. I'll take the bus, I guess. It's only for a few weeks."

"I can drive you," Asher says, as if it's nothing.

I shake my head immediately. "You really don't have to."

"See?" Cam says. "Isn't he wonderful?"

Asher is wonderful. That is, in fact, the problem. He is so wonderful that it has become actively inconvenient. Still, I remind myself as firmly as I can, this is only lust. Lust is manageable. Lust can be controlled.

At least in theory.

When we get back, both of them disappear upstairs and leave me to myself, so I pull out my laptop and spend the next couple of hours half-heartedly organising my week. A music channel plays in the background, filling the living room with enough noise that I don't have to think too hard.

Eventually someone comes back downstairs. Of course it's Asher.

He's changed into a fitted cotton T-shirt and workout shorts, and the sight of him stops my thoughts dead. His legs are tattooed too. Of course they are. They're exactly as strong as I imagined, and I hate that my first reaction is the same immediate rush of heat.

"The more skin I see," I tell him, peering over the back of the couch, "the more convinced I am that this is a genuine addiction."

He smiles and tips his head back, then rolls his neck to glance at me. "You want to see more?"

Two fingers hook lightly beneath the hem of his shirt.

I blink. "Oh, so you are a menace."

His whole expression changes. "What? No."

The denial comes out so fast and so genuinely startled that a blush starts climbing up his neck almost immediately. He huffs, turns away, and heads for the kitchen, where he starts shaking up pre-workout and leaning against the counter as if nothing just happened.

I watch him anyway.

Then, without much warning, he says, "Do you want to come to the gym with me?"

I look at him. Then I look at him again. I picture the weight room, his arms flexing, the very likely possibility that I embarrass myself somehow, and decide my mouth cannot be trusted to answer this question. So I just nod.

It takes me all of five minutes to destroy the careful order of my bags while looking for workout clothes. Asher laughs at me while I do it, which should probably irritate me more than it does. Eventually I find a pair of gym shorts and a sports bra that roughly match, then stick my tongue out at him and disappear into the bathroom to change.

I tie my hair up, look at myself once in the mirror, and head back out feeling entirely too pleased with the result. When I bounce back into the room, Asher is still by the counter, scrolling on his phone and drinking from the shaker.