6. Amy
Amy
The company chose a picturesque location for the shoot, so I fly into the small airport in Monterey, California after a 6-hour layover in Los Angeles.
It's gorgeous.
And the hotel is ocean-side, which is— ugh, luxury.
It's like being flown straight into a fairy tale. Dream gig. Dream location. Dream hotel.
Am I dating a billionaire without knowing it?
No. If I was, I'd have flown in on a private jet, not a rickety plane that disembarked straight onto the tarmac.
My phone buzzes as I walk towards the section for baggage claim. Fishing it out of my pocket, I glance at the screen.
Unknown number:
Ms. Sloane, I'm here to pick you up. Let me know when you're ready and I'll meet you at passenger pickup.
Amy:
Sorry, waiting on my bags and dog. Be there soon.
Unknown number:
No problem, take your time. I'm in no rush.
Huh. How weirdly friendly for a random driver. I'm used to curt one-word responses, not this casual chattiness. Asher Sinclair really knows how to run a business.
I shove my phone back in my pocket and make my way to the conveyor belt, scanning for my garish pink suitcases in the sea of black and navy. There—that eye-searing shade of magenta I thought was so cool when I ordered the set online. I wrestle them off the belt with a grunt.
Now for Lucky. I follow the signs to the oversized baggage area, my stomach twisting with each step. I know flying is safe for pets. I've done an insane amount of research... but I still worry. She's my baby.
Relief floods me as I spot her crate, her little nose poking through the grate. "Hey buddy," I croon, crouching down. "You ready to get out of there?"
She gives a few excited bark-whines and I laugh, signaling to the attendant that this is my dog. She helps me fill out the paperwork and then I'm clipping on Lucky's leash, my other hand juggling my two suitcases.
Okay. Bags, check. Dog, check. I'm as ready as I'll ever be.
The passenger pickup area has cars everywhere. There's a sleek black town car, a taxi—I don't see many of those anymore—a few rideshares with little neon signs that declare them as such in their windows…
But, of course, I don't know what to look for.
My phone pings again, just in time.
Unknown number:
I'm in the red Tesla. Take your time. Let me know when you're out.
Red Tesla. Could this get any more surreal? The car's not far, and I make my way over, wondering what the hell I've gotten myself into.
My knuckles rap against the tinted window of the sleek red car before I can gather all the butterflies in my belly. It's like a different world here, with a luxury vehicle picking me up.
The door swings open and a man unfolds himself from the driver's seat, rising to his full height.
Holy shit.
My breath catches. He's gorgeous. Huge. Not only tall, but built . Wide in the best, muscle-bound kind of way. His face is great, too—his jaw is dusted with stubble, his eyes are a gorgeous blue-green that reminds me of the ocean I'd seen from the plane, and he has short blond hair that's artfully tousled. A face made for billboards and magazine covers.
His shoulders fill out his suit in a way that I'd expect out of some sort of FBI agent in any of those cheap thrillers that thrive off sex appeal more than plot. If he came up to me with a gun and told me to follow him to survive, I'm ashamed to admit that I'd go with him, losing all my brain cells in the process.
He's way too sexy to be driving a car for a living, even if it's a Tesla.
Shit. I don't normally feel dwarfed as a woman standing a solid 5'6", with some extra weight tacked onto that, but—damn.
He makes me feel tiny.
Like a cute little flower next to a freaking bear.
His gaze rakes over me, lingering on my curves. Heat slides along my skin, welcoming the attraction like soil soaks in water.
Get it together, Amy! He has to be used to women drooling over him. I'm no one, just another fare. And not all men are into my kind of curves, anyway.
Then he crouches down, face splitting into a boyish grin as he looks at my dog. "Well hello there, cutie." Lucky strains at her leash, tail wagging as she coats his face with enthusiastic licks. He laughs, ruffling her soft white fur. "Aren't you the sweetest thing?"
A man who loves dogs is always a good sign, and it brings a smile to my face, half-hidden behind giant shades. It's part of my travel gear. I didn't have travel gear before today, but oversized sunglasses seem to scream vacation .
He stands, gesturing to the passenger door. "Go ahead and get settled. I'll take care of your bags."
"Oh, um, thank you." I hesitate, feeling awkward. "I'm so sorry. This is my first time using a car service. Am I supposed to tip you? I have cash..."
He flashes me a smile that's all gleaming white teeth and dimples, blinding me with his brilliance for a moment. "Don't worry about it, sweetheart. It's all taken care of."
I blink. Sweetheart? The pet name throws me off balance. It doesn't seem like the kind of thing someone who doesn't want a tip would call you. "Are you sure? I really don't mind—"
He straightens to his full height, towering over me. "I insist. Your money's no good here." His eyes hold mine, and I'm captivated again by those pretty aqua eyes. Ocean eyes, where the waves hit and churn into a lighter blue-green.
So pretty.
"Consider it a welcome gift," he says, not distracted at all, while I'm daydreaming about his face between my thighs.
Fuck.
I've got to stop.
I must be overly wired after the letdown of sex with Paul Willowdick.
"That's very kind of you, thank you." I'm not sure what else to say. This level of service is leagues beyond anything I'm used to. Am I a country bumpkin? Is this normal for people?
Lucky chooses that moment to sneeze, breaking the strange tension. The driver chuckles, giving her one last pat. "Alright, hop in. Let's get you ladies to the hotel."
I slide into the buttery leather seat, feeling entirely out of my element as he loads my fuchsia monstrosities into the trunk. Peeking in the rearview mirror, I swipe on some lip gloss and attempt to fluff my travel-flattened curls.
God, why do I care what I look like right now? He's the driver. An extremely hot driver, but still. No idea if he's married or dating. No idea what his name is. Just a dude. There's no reason to treat him like a sex object.
Get a grip, Amy. You're better than this. You hate when guys do it to you.
The door clicks shut and then he's sliding behind the wheel, the scent of his cologne wafting over me. Something crisp and clean, with a hint of spice. Delicious.
"Comfortable?" He glances back at me, lips curving.
"Very." I attempt a smile that I hope doesn't look as awkward as it feels. "I really appreciate this, Mr...?"
"Taylor. But you can call me Liam." His eyes meet mine in the mirror, crinkling at the corners. "And it's my pleasure, Ms. Sloane. I'm happy to help."