He leans into the table and grins. “Em…we made millions. We traveled all over the world. We had a beautiful home, a great marriage, an amazing daughter, a couple sports cars. We could do anything and go anywhere and have anything. And we had that all in our twenties.”

I blink at him, processing all those details. “I thought that was all from your inheritance, or from your parents.”

“No, we stuck most of my inheritance in the bank. My parents helped us out a little when we had the baby, but that’s it. We bought all this with money you and I made with our careers.”

“Oh.”

Smiling, he reaches for my hand across the table. “It’s okay to not know, Em. It’s not like I walked into your hospital room with our bank statements and stacks of receipts and royalty reports.”

“I guess I just didn’t realize that your music made so much money.” I was under the impression that most musicians struggled financially. Not all make it big. Asher doesn’t look or act like a millionaire. Other than the short tour he went on recently, he’s been with me every day.

“Good music and hard work does.”

I sip my water. “It’s a lot to take in. You don’t really act like a rich person.”

I wonder if I did. Was I snobby? Demanding? Materialistic? Content? Did I clean my own house? Did I go to spas?

“We never let the success change us. The money and the cool stuff were only exciting for a little while. Once we bought all the things we really wanted or needed, we just stashed it all in the bank. We donated a lot to charity and animal rescues. All the years I was alone, I wrote music, toured, and sat here in the house with our daughter. I hardly spent a dime on myself.”

“And you paid for the hospital,” I add. “That must’ve cost thousands upon thousands of dollars. I’m surprised you’re not broke.”

He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t even care. It was for you. I would’ve lived in a tent in the parking lot to take care of you.”

The intensity in his eyes confirms every word is true. And I believe without a doubt that he would’ve given up everything—money, fame, even his life—to make sure Ember had everything she needed. Even if she wasn’t capable of ever knowing the sacrifices he made or the lengths he went to care for her.

Isn’t that what true love is? Doing something for someone with absolutely no expectation of receiving anything back in return?

“Ash…”

“Ready for dinner?” The waiter interrupts, putting a new plate in front of me. “Can I get you anything else?”

“I think we’re good,” Asher replies. “Everything’s delicious.”

Asher picks up his knife and fork and starts to cut into his steak. “Teriyaki chicken and steak stir-fry,” he says, gesturing toward my plate. “Your favorite.”

Oh, no! Not chicken! I can’t eat a cute little chicken…

Forcing a smile to cover up my horror, I pick up my own cutlery, thankful for the rice and vegetables.

“Mmm…” he groans over his own food. “Delicious.”

I launch into idle chat about my range of motion improving and the garden statues I ordered online with Sarah’s help, distracting him as I avoid the poor little chunks of chicken on my plate, hiding it under rice and veggies.

I feel like maybe I’m being abnormal.

I feel like a child hiding my food.

I feel like my perfect date just hit a speed bump.

I feel disappointed.

Chapter Twenty-Four

After dinner, we move across the deck to the velvet couch for dessert. The candles are still burning, their almond scent carried by the breeze.

When the waiter serves us vanilla mousse with a red, heart-shaped cookie sitting atop, I’m glad I didn’t eat much of my dinner. I have lots of room for yummy sweetness.

In between bites, I pet the soft peachy-fuzz fabric of the couch. It’s luxurious, the plush fabric changing to a dark blood red beneath my fingertips.

“Where did you get this?” I ask. “It’s pretty.”

“It’s from our recording studio downstairs. It used to be in my mom’s office years ago, but we took it when she redecorated. She wrote her entire first erotica series sitting on it.”

“Interesting. It does have a sort of sensual feel.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “It does.”

The waiter comes back one more time to take the last of our plates and surprises me with a cup of my London fog tea.

Smiling, I take it eagerly from him, relieved to have something familiar.

“I didn’t want you to miss your tea,” Asher says. “I gave him detailed instructions on how to make it.”

“Thank you. Everything was delicious.”

I hate to lie on our special date. But he looks so happy, and he obviously put a lot of effort into making sure the chef made all of Ember’s favorite foods. I don’t want to ruin the night for him. Haven’t I ruined enough of his life already?