Chapter 4
AVA
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain. We’ve got a slight delay, but will be taking off shortly.”
When my phone pings, the obnoxious guy wedged into the seat beside me jolts awake, delivering a side-eye because I guess I disturbed his beauty sleep.
Please. Like he’s one to judge.
Until three seconds ago, Mr. Charm was open-mouth snoring, each raspy breath assaulting me with proof he cares less about fellow passengers than he does brushing his teeth.
Would a mint kill him?
I silence the phone, eyes snagging on Mama’s text:
5-6-8-3
Right. The code to casa del Evans.
Evans. I’m guessing that’s his last name.
Ah, yes. A proud member of the sacred fraternity of military men who strictly go by their last name.
I stare at my phone, trying and failing not to dwell on the tiny, mildly terrifying fact that I’ll soon be crashing at a complete stranger’s house.
For all I know, this Evans guy could be a deranged psycho. Or, a slob. Though mama did say her stay there was lovely. And she warned me pretty much anything beats the option of staying at Gabe’s.
A black light and a little luminal, and my playboy brother’s place will light up like a nuke.
But, to his credit, my overprotective brother wouldn’t send me there without a hundred precent trust in him.
Plus, how bad can it be?
From what Gabe says, he’s got a one-track mind. Period. The world spins on its axis for his kids, and women aren’t even on his radar.
And a week where the center of attention is on anyone but me?
Sounds like a dream.
Bad Bunny blasts through the phone—mid-booty anthem.
I silence it with a sigh.
Mamá’s new ringtone.
Thanks, Gabe.
I answer with a flat, “My plane’s about to take off.”
“Good,” she says. “That gives me one minute to remind you you’re not the kind of woman who cries over a boy who spray tan’s his armpits. His armpits, mi hija!”
Here we go.
She exhales, long and heavy, like she’s been holding in whatever truth bomb she’s about to drop like an overstuffed pinata.
“He’s not the one.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Mamá, not now.”
“?Por qué no? Now is perfect. Tell me—did you feel fire?”
“Mamá.”
“Heat?”
I roll my eyes. “Heat is overrated.” Though I hate to admit it, she’s right.
She clicks her tongue. The most Mexican form of judgment.
“Heat is everything.”
She softens. Just a little.
“Destined souls don’t cross paths. They collide. Burn hot until every sharp edge is gone. Until your heart forgets where it ends… and his begins.”
I blink. Hard.
The guy next to me’s giving me the wrap it up face, but I’m too wrecked to care.
Thirty years together, and Mamá still looks at Papá like he strung the stars across the sky just for her.
So yeah…the woman knows her shit.
And Pierce never melted any part of me.
No spark. No blaze. No heat—
Except for the time he threw my flats in the fire so I’d wear the tacky heels he bought for some stupid gala at the Santa Monica Pier.
I loved those flats.
And I nearly snapped my ankle halfway to the Ferris wheel.
I shake my head. Still pissed. Still…sad and pathetic.
“I have to go.”
“Okay, hija. Call me when you get there.”
“I will.”
I’ve just hung up with a string of texts come in from my PA, Kali.
I’m grateful she’s not calling or I really will break down. I already cried on her shoulder for six hours yesterday.
I’m too tired.
Too puffy-eyed.
Too emotionally cracked open to do this on a packed plane.
I’m about to shove my phone into my backpack when another ping lights up the screen.
Chaos Queen
I told the paps you fled the country.
Are you okay?
Considering I slipped off her sofa before the asscrack of dawn and raced to LAX, she probably tracked me through the locator app only three people have access to: Mama, Gabe, and Kali.
Me
I will be.
Chaos Queen
Booze helps.
Best when body shotted off some hot guy’s navel.
Me
Polite pass on the tequila cocktail rimmed with belly button lint.
Chaos Queen
Speaking of rim…Brielle Blakely?
Really??
She’s an emotional rim job.
With lip filler.
I snort a laugh. A short, sharp bark I try to smother behind my hand.
Chaos Queen
You are a goddess.
He is an asshole.
Me
No argument there.
Chaos Queen
Said asshole just gave a public statement saying he’s “working things out” with you.
Tell me he’s lying.
Oh, for the love of God.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Pierce Maddox.
Douchebag with every paparazzi on speed dial.
Crowned king of spin, lies, and damage control.
Me
Of course, he’s lying.
Chaos Queen
So, he doesn’t know where you are?
Me
No one knows.
Chaos Queen
Thank fuck. I was two seconds from catching the next flight…
Packed with plausible deniability…
And bail money.
Me
More like Don Julio 1942 and a bullet-proof alibi.
Chaos Queen
On it. Crisis averted. I’ll reschedule all your shit, hold down the fort, and wrangle this mayhem into submission.
Me
Thanks, Kali!
Remind me to give you a raise I can’t afford.
Chaos Queen
Already noted.
In bold.
And underlined.
Enjoy your flight!
With the guy next to me sighing like I’ve personally ruined his day, doubtful. Especially as he’s now peeling off his shoes.
And socks.
Gross.
Another buzz.
But this time, it doesn’t stop.
It’s a call.
My bunkmate to the right immediately scoffs, loud enough for everyone within five rows to hear.
“Do you mind? We’re about to take off.”
He’s in a f*ck society t-shirt and shorts that are probably technically underwear.
Considering his enormous hairy forearm has swallowed the armrest between us, I smile.
“Doors aren’t closed yet. When I need to hang up, the flight attendant will announce it.”
To everyone.
Another side-eye from Ten Toes beside me, and I answer out of spite.
That, and I’m contractually obligated to.