Chapter 8
"Name?"
"Asher."
Andrea clicked her tongue, unimpressed. "That one was too easy." She tapped her fingers against the blanket covering her lap before tilting her head, eyes narrowing in thought. "Okay, what kind of work do you think you did? You know, before crash-landing in Montera Springs and blowing your brains out?"
It was Christmas morning, and this was their new game—Andrea asked questions, and Asher answered with the first thing that came to his mind. Since his only real memories had surfaced through conversation, they had decided to use this as an experiment.
Asher barely hesitated before replying with a completely straight face, "Beatboxer or a circus master."
Andrea made a face. "You are not taking this seriously," she hissed, swatting at his arm.
He only grinned, utterly shameless. "I am taking it seriously! You said to say the first thing that comes to mind, and that’s what I did. What, you don’t think I could be a beatboxer?"
Andrea gave him a flat look. "Absolutely not."
"Rude," Asher gasped dramatically, clutching his chest as if she had gravely wounded him. "I’ll have you know, I could have been incredibly talented."
Andrea rolled her eyes. "Okay, next question. Where did you live?"
He hummed, pretending to think about it. "I’d like to say Hawaii, but I was probably from New York."
Andrea let out an exaggerated groan. "Those are literally two opposite places!"
He shrugged, completely unbothered. "Hey, I didn’t say my subconscious was consistent."
So far, they had established that his name was Asher, he was either a beatboxer or a circus master, and he had lived in either Hawaii or New York. None of it made any sense.
Andrea sighed. "Fine. How many family members do you have?"
Asher’s lips quirked as he started ticking on his fingers. "Probably lots of brothers and sisters. Two loving parents. And I’d like a grandmother, too."
Andrea nodded along. Finally, a reasonable answer.
Then, his voice took on a thoughtful lilt.
"Or maybe," he added slowly, "I have a beautiful wife… somewhere. And a child."
Andrea’s breath hitched slightly.
Something in the way he said it—so soft, so deliberate—made her glance up.
And that was a mistake.
Because Asher was already looking at her.
His blue eyes were locked onto hers, glinting with something unreadable yet undeniably teasing. His lips curled at the edges, just the barest hint of a smirk. He held her gaze effortlessly, as if waiting for her reaction.
Her face heated instantly.
Andrea quickly looked away, her fingers tightening over the edge of the blanket as if holding onto it could somehow anchor her.
He’s flirting with you, her mind screamed.
And worse—he was good at it.
Asher had always been charming, but lately, it had become something else entirely. The once weary, gaunt man she had taken in was gone. In his place stood someone taller, stronger—his body no longer thin and fragile, but solid, his broad shoulders filling out his shirts in a way that was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
His face had sharpened, too—his cheekbones more defined, his jawline strong, and his blue eyes full of something dangerous. Mischief. Amusement. A knowing kind of confidence that made her stomach do things it absolutely shouldn’t be doing.
And then there was that smile.
Just a little too smug. A little too cocky. A little too aware of the effect he had on her.
It was downright unfair.
Andrea wanted to roll her eyes. She wanted to pretend it didn’t affect her, that she was immune to whatever ridiculous spell he was trying to cast. She wanted to throw a sarcastic remark right back at him—something cutting, something to wipe that damn smirk off his face.
But she was eight months pregnant.
This was a big no.
So instead, she did the only thing she could.
She pulled the blanket up to her chest, turned away from him, and muttered under her breath, “Go flirt with someone else, Asher.”
Except, she felt him lean in just a little closer.
And in that low, teasing voice of his, he murmured, “Why would I do that when you’re right here?”
Andrea really wished she had the strength to throw a pillow at his head.
She looked away, pretended not to understand, and ignored the way her pulse had quickened just a little too much.
Lately, Asher had been spending more and more time outside. Even on Christmas morning, he was gone before Andrea woke up, the house feeling oddly empty.
When he finally returned, he came bearing bags of groceries—real groceries. Not the cheap, tinned, boxed food they had been surviving on for weeks, but fresh ingredients. Eggs, ham, cheese, a loaf of warm bread that smelled like heaven.
Andrea frowned as she watched him unload everything onto the tiny kitchen counter. "Where did you get the money for all this?"
"I got a job," he said casually, but there was a flicker of something nervous in his eyes.
"Cleaning snow?" she guessed, remembering how he’d earned money before.
"No, not this time." He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. "I, uh… did tax returns for Mr. Dylan and his son’s car repair shop."
Andrea’s eyebrows shot up. "You did taxes?"
"Apparently, yes." He shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal. "I saw Mr. Dylan struggling yesterday while I was taking a break from shoveling snow. Sat down for a little coffee, peeked at the papers… and somehow, I just knew what to do. Turns out, I can do taxes—and I think I’m actually pretty good at it. Saved him almost two thousand dollars."
Andrea blinked at him. Then she smirked. "And you thought you were a beatboxer?"
Asher laughed, the sound filling the tiny house with warmth. "Yeah, maybe I need to rethink that theory."
But then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the amusement drained from his face.
Andrea watched as his expression shifted, his features growing more serious, more distant. His hands slowed as he sorted through the groceries, fingers lingering a little too long on the loaf of bread, as if grounding himself.
"I was probably a finance guy," he muttered after a long pause. "Some corporate worker, nine-to-five job, sitting in an office all day, staring at numbers on a screen." His voice was flat, almost resigned, as if the realization tasted bitter on his tongue.
Andrea softened, her gaze filled with quiet reassurance.
“Don’t be sad, Asher,” she said gently. “You’ll figure it out. I’m sure you’ll get back there.”
She meant it as comfort, a promise that whatever pieces of his past were missing, they would find their way back to him. That one day, he’d remember the life he had before. That he’d reclaim it, step back into whoever Asher Remington was supposed to be.
But the words didn’t land the way she intended.
Asher’s expression flickered—so fast she barely noticed. His fingers curled just slightly tighter around the grocery bags, his knuckles turning pale under the strain. Then, without a word, he turned away, his shoulders tensing as he walked toward the kitchen.
Andrea didn’t push. She didn’t see the way his jaw clenched or how his eyes darkened with something unreadable.
And she didn’t hear the whisper that slipped from his lips, barely more than a breath.
"That’s what I’m afraid of."
Because Asher wasn’t afraid of not remembering.
He was afraid of what would happen when he did.