Chapter 9
AVA
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.
I am now missing my backpack.
Correction—it’s not exactly missing. Not yet.
I know exactly where I left it.
In the elevator.
With Mr. Distraction and his irritatingly glorious man-scent.
And honestly, who can blame me for forgetting it? Mountain Man scrambled my brain like abuela’s Sunday migas.
It’s a miracle I remember my own name.
I swallow the panic and force myself to breathe. Then I’m moving, urgency thundering through my steps like I’ve just left a toddler strapped into a theme park ride.
That backpack has my life in it. Literally.
Not that the credit cards would be much use.
Most are maxed out thanks to a certain a-hole who turned ditching me at white-tablecloth restaurants into an Olympic event. The fanciest, most expensive ones he insisted we just had to try.
Funny how the check always arrived right when he had to “take a call, babe.”
I round the corner and spot the elevator, praying my backpack is still there.
Shit.
I pat my pockets. My cell is in it.
As in my entire existence crammed into one little rectangle.
Calendar, contacts, passwords, pictures, and the one sacred photo of me volunteering at the library. Proof positive that, despite what Celeste says, I can contribute to societal culture without removing a single stitch of clothing.
Without my phone, I’m a pioneer woman—wandering in the dark, rationing mud water, and gasping in a corset.
I pick up the pace.
The elevator doors slide open, and I plow into him.
Again.
Only this time, I’m dragging a suitcase the size of a baby elephant.
And in his Mountain Man’s hand?
My black backpack, plastered with sugar skulls because I have a mild obsession with them and zero shame.
“That’s mine,” I blurt, lunging for it.
He dangles it over his head like he’s LeBron in a highlight reel.
“Not so fast, Pixie Stix. What’s the magic word?”
Pixie Stix?
I plant a hand on his chest and shove the human refrigerator in front of me—futile against the wall of muscle.
An inferno roars to life behind those glacial blue eyes, heat rolling straight through me.
I don’t let on.
In fact, I do exactly what you’re not supposed to do when confronted with a grizzly bear—poke it.
I jab him to the beat. “Give. Me. My. Bag.”
He scoffs. “Bzzz. Try again.”
Both fists tighten at my sides. “Give it back right now or I will rack you right in your oversized jewels.”
“Oversized?” One brow lifts. “Thanks for noticing.”
The doors close behind me with a smug little ding.
Just me.
Him.
Enough sexual tension to blow the doors off this elevator and half the city’s power grid.
I leap for it. Not only does he keep it just out of reach, but to add insult to injury, he also snags my suitcase.
“What are you doing?”
“Saving you.”
I fling a hand toward it. “From my suitcase?”
“In ten seconds, those doors open onto the arrivals level. If you were hoping to make a mad dash for the pick up area and avoid whatever unwanted attention you’re hiding from, you’ll do exactly as I say.”
“I’m not hiding,” I tell him in the most atrocious lie of my life.
His eyes stay trained on me. Steady. Measured. Like he sees my bluff and can’t resist calling it.
He leans in, closing that last inch of space between us.
“One Mississippi. Two Mississippi—”
“Okay, okay. Fine.” I throw my hands up, exasperated. “What do I do?”
“Simple. Hide behind me and do exactly as I say.” He drops the backpack to his shoulder. “I’ll take care of the rest.”
“How?”
He doesn’t answer.
Instead, he just reaches down, plucks the suitcase handle out of my death grip, and wheels it to his left like it’s always been his.
Before the control freak in me can grill him for answers, the doors ding.
Now I have no choice.
I slip in behind him and catch that clean, maddening scent of him.
Not that I’m taking an extra-long whiff or anything.
That would be weird.
Low and gravelly, his voice is pure command. “No matter where I walk, stay glued to my ass.”
“I’m already close enough to frisk you. Let’s not skip to a third base cavity search.”
The doors slide open—and my living nightmare spills in.
A throng of reporters pause. Footsteps scrape, voices murmur—“Where is she?”—then fade as they hurry past.
I stay tucked behind him like he’s an armored wall. Which, he absolutely is.
“Stay close,” he murmurs.
The tone is pure business, but in my head? He’s running point on an op.
Focused
Calm.
Lethal.
Shirtless.
Who said that?
I peek around his arm.
The paparazzi is everywhere. My chest tightens, panic imploding. Minor hyperventilation incoming.
“Stay with me, Pix.”
He moves us with surgical precision, cutting off every angle, keeping me locked in his shadow like he was born to run cover.
Once we clear the crowd, he tucks me under his free arm like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“So, Pix, what are you hiding from?”
I yank my ball cap lower. “Who says I’m hiding?”
That’s right, girl. Deny until I die.
Two minutes later, his hold on me releases, and an empty feeling rushes in to take its place.
My mind spins. The jig has to be up—and if he’s a reporter, I owe him.
He really did save me. If he hadn’t come to my rescue, I’d be stranded in there for three hours and no rescue in sight. No bodyguards. No manager or PA. Nobody.
At the very least, I owe him a story.
Only if I wanted Celeste to have a heart attack.
Dinner?
Before the word leaves my mouth, a man rushes up. Before I can bolt, a big, broad arm hooks around me again, pulling me in close.
“He’s with me,” Mountain Man says.
I don’t usually like men touching me like this. Too familiar. But somehow, I feel… safe.
Before I can help myself, I’m leaning into him.
Like a girlfriend.
Or, a fucking psycho.
“Take her wherever she needs to go, Travis,” he tells the man.
“What about you, sir?”
Sir.
The man with the black expensive car is referring to the lumberjack as sir.
But I’m too busy absorbing the way his lips tighten, his gaze sliding somewhere far away as he pulls his body from mine. Like shutting a door I didn’t realize was open.
“I’ll get another ride.”
He hands Travis my suitcase.
Then my backpack.
Then says, “Careful with this one, Travis. Apparently it’s housing a small anvil.”
Travis smiles and easily takes them both. He loads them into the trunk.
The space between me and the Mountain Man grows, heavy with all the things neither of us is saying.
It’s a long, awkward goodbye.
“Thanks,” I finally say, sticking out my hand. “It was nice meeting you.”
“Likewise, Pix.”
His hand swallows mine, his grip firm, warm—steady in a way that makes me want to hold on just a second longer.
I hold my breath.
One Mississippi…
Two…
That lingering gaze, heavy with something he’s this close to saying, shifts.
He frowns.
“Take care of her, Travis.”
His features cool, the warmth in his eyes knocked down like a wildfire hit with ice.
Mission over.
And just like that, my big, burly Mountain Man is gone, returning to the terminal without a single glance back.