Back down the stairs, through the dining room, through the kitchen, out the side door and past his truck parked next to the house.
There’s a detached garage out near the backyard, and he punches the code for the keypad on the door, pushing through once it beeps and blinks green.
It’s a small at-home gym.
Weight bench.
Free weights.
Rowing machine.
Treadmill and elliptical.
Mirrors line the back wall, another wall is painted charcoal gray, a dry erase board with his goals hanging on it. A calendar. Charts. Next to all that, other equipment: jump ropes, resistance bands, yoga mats.
It’s neat as a pin.
Clean.
Organized.
“Um. What is this place?”
Who is this guy?
He’s living like a man in his mid-thirties with his shit together and his life on track and I’ve never been more confused.
Is this how they raise them up in England? To be self-sufficient and self-starting and not fuck around when they’re in college, unlike their American counterparts who love getting drunk on the weekends and pissing their time away?
“This is the gym.”
“I know it’s the gym, I’m just…wow. This is…insanely cool.”
I walk to the bench press and straddle it, lying on my back, hat falling to the ground as I stare up at the ceiling.
My head looks to the side. “Is that a fridge with water bottles inside?” It’s a small refrigerator with a glass front, stocked with water bottles and sports drinks.
“Yeah. You want one?”
He’s so hospitable, and I wonder if he’s this nice to everyone.
“No thanks.”
But honestly.
I’m impressed.
“There’s no membership fee to join.”
“I use the gym at school,” I scoff, somewhat uncharitably. He’s being nice and I’m being a brat because I’m not sure what to do with myself.
“Yeah, but sometimes it gets crowded or the machine you want is occupied.”
“This isn’t a sales pitch.” I glance around, feigning indifference, as if I see garage home gyms like this daily. To be fair, I’ve never seen a garage home gym as badass as this anywhere, online included.
“I’m just pointing out fact. If I want to work out at ten at night, I can.”
I frown. “If I worked out at ten, I would be wide awake until three.”
“Huh. Maybe that explains why I’m awake until three.”
He winks at me before picking up what looks like a twenty-pound weight and beginning to do hammer curls.
Biceps strain, and I have to look away. “Would you stop?”
He blows out a puff of air as if the action is strenuous.
He is definitely showing off.
Ashley’s arm bends, and he kisses the bulging muscle. “Welcome to the gu—”
“Do not say gun show.”
When he flexes again, I lose it, erupting into a fit of giggles and practically falling off the weight bench. I reach down, scoop up my hat, plunk it back on my head.
Ashley sets the dumbbells back onto the rack.
“Should we eat?”
I thought he would never ask, and my ears perk up.
Now we’re talking! “You were serious about feeding me?”
I didn’t see any food sitting out when we passed through the kitchen just now, although it did smell good.
“Duh, we both gotta eat.”
He’s becoming a real vocabulary slouch living in the States, and I don’t know much about his mom, but I bet she wouldn’t approve of his slang.
Entering the kitchen again, Ashley goes straight to the oven, pulling it open and peering inside.
Stands and pulls open a drawer, retrieving two red hot pads.
Spellbound, I watch him slide a pan out of the oven: simmering chicken and vegetables, the smell hitting my nose in steamy ribbons.
“It’s not exciting, but it’s healthy.”
“Any food that’s not from the cafeteria or that I don’t have to prepare myself is basically gourmet. I’ll eat anything.”
The pan gets set on the center island.
“Is that a compliment?”
“It’s…” Was that a compliment? “I appreciate you feeding me. That’s my point.”
Ashley’s back faces me as he digs out utensils, grabs plates. “I learned to cook at school.”
“Boarding school?”
He stirs the veggies with a wooden spoon. “Indeed.”
Who says indeed instead of yes?
This guy.
“Well it smells delicious.” I glance around. “Should I grab anything else?”
“Salt and pepper?”
I shoot up, opening the cabinet next to the stove until I find the condiments. Place them on the island, feeling like I need to be doing more.
Snap my fingers. “Napkins!”
“Thank you.”
“What about water?” I ask, fishing glasses out of the cupboard.
“Please.”
Ashley Jones is so polite.
More polite than any human I’ve ever met, which only makes me wonder about his upbringing.
Boarding schools.
That must mean he was taught etiquette? Don’t they do that there? Drill manners into them?
I also wonder what kind of boarding school—aren’t there varying degrees? There must be, though I don’t have any knowledge about it. I’d do a search on the internet if I wanted to know more about him, but going down a rabbit hole right now would be weird, wouldn’t it?
We eat in silence after he’s done serving us, both starving.