Chapter 4
Ava
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain. We’ve got a slight delay, but we 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 Sleeping Beauty’s 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 about brushing his teeth.
Would a mint kill him?
I read Mama’s text:
5-6-8-3
Right. The code to Casa del Evans.
Evans? I’m guessing that’s his last name.
He must be part of the brotherhood of frogmen.
I stare at my phone, trying and failing not to fixate on the tiny, mildly terrifying fact that I’m about to crash at a strange man’s house.
Not that he’s strange. Just… a stranger. Though Gabe and Mama trust him, so statistically speaking, how unhinged can he be?
Probably not axe murderer level. But what if he’s a slob? Or a vegan? I’ll never be able to properly thank him for his hospitality with my cooking.
Knowing Gabe and his brothers in arms, he probably lives on zero sugar and spends his non-working hours at the gym.
A vision of a sculpted chest and carved abs flashes through my head. Gabe showed me exactly one photo from their deployment. The man had just unzipped a form-fitting wetsuit.
His cap and goggles were still on, so his face was blurred. But there was just something about him…
Anonymous.
Dangerous.
My brain promptly filled in all the blanks.
That man could be my personal slip and slide any day.
Who said that?
I shove aside every last inappropriate thought.
Ugh. Get a grip.
Yes, it’s been dry as the Sahara, but any friend of Gabe’s is a friend off-limits. Permanently.
I know my brother. He runs with the alpha stallions of the player circuit. And if I wanted a player, there are plenty to choose from back home.
Los Angeles. The fuckboy capital of the world.
My stomach tightens at the thought of home.
Or maybe it’s the thought of a brick house bodyguard at my beck and call.
No. No. No.
I’ve already learned that lesson. The hard way.
Besides, it’s not like my chronically overprotective big brother would ever send me into a lion’s den. He absolutely trusts the guy.
Which means he must be safe.
Or celibate.
Or gay.
My fingers strum along the armrest. It’s not like I have a choice.
I let out a breath, deflated. I need to be somewhere off the radar. Somewhere no one will find me. And Gabe’s place is definitely out.
A black light and a little Luminol, and his condo would light up like Times Square on New Year’s Eve.
A Bad Bunny son blasts through my phone, mid-booty anthem.
I silence it in a rush and catch the name.
Mamá.
I guess she has a new ringtone.
Thanks, Gabe.
The man next to me gives me a dirty look, and I answer, whispering, “My plane’s about to take off.”
“Good,” she says. “That gives me exactly one minute to remind you that you are not the kind of woman who cries over a boy who spray tans his armpits. His armpits, mi hija.”
Here we go.
She exhales, long and heavy, like it’s taking every ounce of self-control to cushion the truth bomb she’s about to drop.
“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, I miss it.
She clicks her tongue. Her most Mexican form of judgment. “Heat is everything.”
When I say nothing, she softens. “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.
Thirty years together, and Mamá still looks at Papá like he strung the stars across the sky just for her.
So, yes. The woman knows her shit.
Just like she knows me. And she knows Pierce. Despite the myriad of women falling to their knees for him, she’s right. With him, there’s nothing.
No spark. No blaze. No heat.
Pierce has never melted any part of me. Not unless you count my dignity and career.
I grab a wad of tissues from my pocket and dab at my face as the guy next to me gives me the universal wrap it up look. “I have to go.”
“Okay, mi hija. Call me when you get there.”
“I will.”
I hang up just as a string of texts bombards my phone.
It’s Kali, my PA.
I’m grateful she’s not calling. Talking it out would turn me into a blubbering mess, and I already used her shoulder as a personal Kleenex 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 and ignore her when it pings again.
It’s a meme of a dumpster fire with the caption Everything’s Fine.
I laugh out loud.
Wild Kard
I told the paps you left the country.
To marry Prince Harry.
Me
Prince Harry is already married.
Wild Kard
Yes. To an actress, which makes it totally believable.
Nothing gets those bloodsuckers on a plane in the wrong direction like a sisterwife situation.
I swear, she’s the only one who can cheer me up in a crisis.
I smile and watch the bubbles dance.
Wild Kard
Are you okay?
I could’ve driven you to the airport.
Considering I slipped off her sofa before the ass crack of dawn and raced to LAX, she probably tracked me through the locator app.
I suck in a breath and type three important words.
Me
I will be.
Wild Kard
Booze helps.
Best when body-shot off some hot guy’s navel.
Me
Tequila rimmed with belly button lint. I think not.
Wild Kard
Speaking of rim… Brielle Blakely?
Really??
She’s an emotional rim job.
With lip filler.
I snort a laugh.
Wild Kard
You are a goddess.
He is an asshole.
Me
No argument there.
Wild Kard
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 media outlet on speed dial.
Crowned king of spin, lies, and damage control.
Me
Of course, he’s lying.
Wild Kard
So, he doesn’t know where you are?
Me
No one knows.
Wild Kard
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 bulletproof alibi.
Wild Kard
On it. Crisis averted. I’ll reschedule all your shit, hold down the fort, and wrangle your mayhem of a calendar into submission.
Me
Thanks, Kali!
Remind me to give you a raise I can’t afford.
Wild Kard
Already noted.
In bold.
And underlined.
Enjoy your flight!
The guy next to me sighs like I’ve personally ruined his flight. More like he’s ruining mine. I stare in disbelief as he peels off his shoes.
Then socks.
Gross.
Another buzz from my phone. The ringtone chimes out the Miss Gulch theme from the Wizard of Oz, and I ignore it.
It stops. Then starts again. Stops. Starts. Until the unobtrusive chime becomes blaringly obtrusive.
My shoeless bunkmate scoffs, loud enough for everyone within five rows to hear. “Do you mind? We’re about to take off.”
He’s in a fuck society T-shirt and shorts that are probably technically underwear.
Considering his enormous, hairy forearm has completely swallowed the armrest between us, I smile.
“Doors aren’t closed yet,” I say pleasantly. “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 pure spite.
That, and because I’m contractually obligated to.