Chapter 10
AVA
“Where to, miss?”
The driver, Travis, clears his throat, gesturing toward the car.
Probably because I’m still standing here like a pathetic rom-com extra, waiting for Mountain Man to come striding back—full arrogance, delicious dominance, and that maddeningly steady gaze.
To… I don’t know.
Ask me out.
Ask my name.
Hell, I’d settle for him wanting my Netflix password.
I blow out a huff.
He won’t.
That much is obvious.
But my stubborn brain whispers, just five more seconds.
Nothing.
Deflated, I sigh and slide into the car like someone just popped my last balloon.
Here’s the thing. I’m not delusional. I know when a man is into me.
And that man? He’s more into me than peanut butter in a Reese’s cup.
Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking, Viviana.
Ugh.
I’m about to shove the big grizzly out of my brain and give Travis the address to the Evans place when my phone lights up. Three buzzes.
Back-to-back Celeste.
Drama Queen
I know you said no circuit, but I’ve already committed you to 2 shows this morning, 3 in the afternoon, and the charity gala.
Go straight to the hotel.
Glam is waiting in your room.
World-renowned designer Ricardo Ricci is waiting.
Toodles.
I mouth toodles at my phone like it’s a four-letter word.
From the driver’s seat, Travis arches a brow like he’s just picked up an escaped lunatic.
He’s not wrong.
But he’s still waiting for a destination.
“The Langford, please,” I say, then add, “As slowly as possible.”
His mouth curves. “How scenic do you want? I can take you by way of the Jersey Shore.”
I smirk, settling back into the seat. “So tempting.”
He has no idea I’d never survive that much time alone with my thoughts.
“Just a few city highlights then.” Travis nods and eases into traffic. My fingers hover over my phone, ready to fire off: Are you deaf? I said no! But I don’t.
Knee-jerk texts have a way of resurrecting at the worst possible moments—usually mid-negotiation. And full damage-control mode means Celeste’s manicured claws are out, slashing in every direction.
Besides, it’s not like I’ll actually stay at the hotel tonight.
I’ll show up, get the glam, smile for the camera, do the circuit I never agreed to, and then head straight for the Evans sanctuary.
Travis gestures out the window. “That’s the Chrysler Building… and over there’s the New York Public Library. Let me know if you have any questions.”
I smile and nod like I’m fascinated by architecture. Truth? The whole ride, I’m biting my tongue not to ask the only questions that matter.
What’s your boss like?
Does he play knight in flannel for every woman he meets, or am I… different?
Does he have a name, or should I just keep calling him Mountain Man in my head forever?
And is enormous his actual shoe size?
Hmm? Who said that?
By the time we pull into the hotel, I know I’ve got one last chance to score a scrap of intel on the man.
Travis hops out, grabs my suitcase, and the valet swings my door open.
I hesitate—tip? handshake? request for his boss’s personal cell? But he’s practically back behind the wheel.
“Enjoy your stay,” he says, patting the hood once before pulling away.
I mumble a thanks and wave, pretending I’m not a total nutjob—disappointed he doesn’t pick up on my telepathic begging and toss me a lifeline. Or at least a business card.
I’ll never admit it with my outside voice, but part of me doesn’t want to believe my run-in with lickable Mount Saint Hot Guy is over.
Spoiler alert, Viviana: it is.
?
Eight hours later
I’ve been primped, pawed, pinned, and poured into more outfits than a Barbie in a preschool.
Twelve wardrobe changes.
Twelve!
Because Celeste’s little PR panic tour has turned into a three-ring circus.
She’s somehow crammed in more than twice as many shows—prime-time debutantes who wouldn’t give me the time of day yesterday suddenly tripping over their couture to get a selfie with me.
In the infamous words of the PR gods, any publicity is good publicity.
The fact is, I’m running on fumes. Or maybe that’s just the dejection talking.
Either way, I’m getting hangrier by the second, and if I see another pair of four-inch stilettos, I might cover them in ranch dressing and eat them.
I step out of the rent-a-limo Celeste arranged, dressed to the nines.
The couture red dress is cinched at the waist, slit to heaven to show off the shoes. My breasts are practically gift-wrapped to my chin, because as everyone in the business knows, breathing is for amateurs.
At the venue, cameras fire like I’m under siege.
My anxiety spikes to Neptune, but I paste on my well-trained smile, wave, and sidestep a dozen questions engineered to bait me into a headline.
When a hand slides around my waist and clamps down, every muscle in my body locks.
Tens of thousands poured into today, Celeste, and not one damn bodyguard.
“You look good enough to eat,” a familiar yet annoying voice whispers.
It’s the prick.
Pierce.
I’m ready to weaponize both these beautiful Sophia Webster butterfly stilettos and shove them straight up his ass, but I stay all smiles.
“What are you doing here, Pierce?” I murmur without moving my lips.
“As if there’s anywhere in the world I couldn’t find you.” Sweet thought—if he didn’t say it at a volume loud enough for all of Alaska to hear him.
I roll my eyes and fake-bake the smile. “If you don’t remove your hand from my waist, I’ll…” My lips curve. “…tell everyone you get your balls spray-tanned.”
He freezes. “You wouldn’t.”
“You’re right. I wouldn’t.” My smile turns lethal. “But I’d casually mention which tanning salon might be willing to spill for the right price.”
The second his grip vanishes, I’m gone.
I slip into the event, fast.
But the obnoxiously loud bassoon is right behind me.
“Ava! Wait!”
God, can’t he take a hint?
I cut through the crowd, duck into a side hall, and shove open the first door I find, slamming it shut behind me.
Breathless, blinking, and one heartbeat from swooning, I swallow hard.
And stare.
Holy…”
“Fuck.”