Chapter 7
AVA
By the time we land, it’s been the longest five hours and twenty-six minutes of my life.
The kid did puke.
Twice.
Sadly, never on the man next to me.
Instead, I got hit with a misting. Caught in the splash zone of the worst theme park ever.
His mom mouthed I’m so sorry at least ten times.
His dad looked like he aged a decade before we hit Denver airspace.
And me?
All remaining desires for children have officially left my uterus like yuppies fleeing Fyre Festival.
I grab my backpack, still half-suspecting it reeks of stomach acid and chocolate milk, and step off the plane…only to be blinded by a wall of flashing lights and camera lenses.
A full swarm of reporters.
Microphones.
Cell phones.
Shouts of “Ana!” and “Where is she?”
Oh, Thank God. No one recognizes me.
Someone even threw out, “Any comment about the Maddox-Blakely love child?” to a woman who barely resembles me except that she has dark hair and is about my height.
Which I want to comment on so badly, considering Pierce has a vasectomy and still uses condoms. Because, and I quote, “you can never be too sure.”
And then there’s the guy with the messy bun holding a laminated sign with my name, shouting, “AVAAAAA ALVAREZZZ,” like he’s calling cattle to auction.
Which means he’s my ride. With a gazillion reporters flanking him.
Okay, no need to panic. I have a few choices:
1. Face the paps with zero makeup, puffy eyes from crying, and the faint, unforgiving stench of airborne child vomit clinging to my clothes.
2. Get the hell out of here.
I go with option number two.
And run.
My gaze slices across the terminal, heart in my throat and adrenaline gnawing through what’s left of my connection to rational thought.
And because Lady Luck doesn’t totally hate me today, I spot it: a gap in the crowd.
I yank my ball cap lower. Shove my sunglasses higher.
Grip my bag like it’s holding an Oscar-winning script and the last shred of my dignity—
And I bolt.
My Chucks slap the tile like I’m sprinting for my life.
Or, at least for the life of my career.
Behind me, voices scatter across the crowd—
“Where’d she go?”
“Is that her?”
“I think I see her.”
That one sends me into a full sprint.
The second the elevator doors begin to open, I lunge—head down, breath ragged—and hurl myself inside.
Like a woman possessed, I crash into a brick wall of flannel.
Muscle. Heat.
Grizzly-sized. Broad as a billboard. Built for impact.
He barely shifts.
Steady as a boulder. Unbothered.
And I try not to stare at his eyes—cool, clear, annoyingly… blue.
“If you’re gonna body slam a guy, a little warning would be nice.”
I can’t tell if he’s being fresh or annoyed.
And I don’t care.
I shove him gently—but also not that gently—toward the back and jab the Close Doors button like it owes me money.
The doors slide shut behind us with a merciful ding.
Silence.
I drop my eight-hundred-pound backpack to the floor.
Because yes, I did buy twelve books at the airport bookstore—six of them hardcover.
And yes, I will suffer for my love of billionaires and bad boys.
I slump against the wall, chest rising and falling like I just sprinted through an open fire paintball zone.
I turn on my phone. Kali’s text pops up.
Chaos Queen
You’re checking into The Langford under Viviana Kent.
Of course, Celeste wasted no time.
Me
At least she picked a superhero I can get behind.
Chaos Queen
Or under.
I tap out a quick thank-you, suddenly aware of his gaze—icy-blue, unflinching, and entirely too intense—burning a hole straight through me.
Like he’s trying to figure out where he knows me from.
Or if I’m completely unhinged.
Which, to be fair, isn’t exactly off the table.
Considering the way I barreled into him like he was holding the last pair of Lulus at a Black Friday sale, deranged feels sadly fitting.
I keep my head down and count the seconds.
Three.
Four.
Five…
Then I realize—he’s still staring.
Not in an a-ha way.
More… curious.
The kind of stare that studies.
Memorizes.
And it’s paired with denim that should be illegal and arms that could probably bench-press me… on a Harley.
His stare isn’t creepy.
No. It’s so much worse.
The quit-my-life-and-fly-to-Cancún kind of worse.
I blink and realize I’m still standing there.
Just…staring back.
Here’s the thing. I’ve been around handsome men. Hell, Pierce Maddox is the poster boy for Hollywood sex appeal—rockstar swagger meets silver screen genetics.
And yet, this breathing god in front of me has me heating up in all the wrong places.
At the worst possible time.
“W-what?” I ask, suddenly defensive.
Wait.
Did I just stutter?
Three years of linguistics coaching and this guy has me stuttering.
He blinks, lifts a hand, and gestures casually to the panel.
“The big metal box we’re in doesn’t move unless you pick a floor.”
Oh. Right.
I jab the button for G—assuming that’s ground—then glance back at him.
He doesn’t move, though I detect the faint trace of a smile.
He crosses his arms.
Shoulders carved from military-grade stone.
Flannel stretched over muscle like it’s fighting for its life.
Auburn hair.
Lickable scruff.
Wait a minute…
“Hey. You…didn’t pick a floor,” I say, eyes narrowing suspiciously.
He shrugs, the corner of his sinful mouth twitching as if fighting off a smirk. “That was my floor. I was about to step out—until you linebackered my ass.”
Oh, God. Did I just make this guy miss his flight?
Or worse…
What if he’s a pap hoping for an easy sound bite?
Heat ignites in my chest. “Well, can you blame me?” I wave a hand up and down his broad frame. “Your man-o’-steel body was blocking the entire doorway.”
He leans against the wall, utterly unfazed, his eyes sparking with amusement and something darker. “Is that so?”
By this point, I’m flustered. Irritated. And the heat rolling off his body is so damn combustible, I lash out.
“Word to the wise, mountain man: I come hard, fast, and without warning.”
His eyes widen a fraction.
Holy fucking…fuck.
That came out way dirtier than intended.
Dammit. If this guy works for Page Six, I just handed him the sound bite of the century.
The press will be brutal.
My family will disown me.
And my BFF Celeste? She’ll drop me faster than a muddy pair of Louboutins at a sample sale.
My entire career flashes before my eyes, spontaneously combusting in a fiery ball of humiliation.
I swallow.
Hard.
Silence.
I glance up and mentally beg the earth to crack open and swallow me whole.
The mountain man just blinks this slow, lazy, unfairly long lashes framing eyes lit with quiet, wicked amusement. The corner of his mouth twitches ever-so-slightly.
He clears his throat. “Noted.”
Shit.