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.
Three times.
With three heaves and two bags. Do the math.
And sadly, never on the man next to me.
I, on the other hand, wasn’t as lucky. Not that I took a direct hit, but I did get a misting.
It’s like being caught in the splash zone of the worst theme park ride ever.
His mom mouthed I’m so sorry at least ten times, and his dad looked like he aged a decade before we even hit Denver airspace.
I secure my ball cap, grab my backpack, and wipe my sunglasses with my shirt before sliding them into place.
Eww. What is that god-awful smell?
I take a cautious whiff.
Bleh. Who thought it was a good idea to give chocolate milk to an airsick kid?
Oh, right. The genius next to me.
I glare in his direction and try to pull myself together as any remaining desire for children vacates my system like yuppies fleeing Fyre Festival.
Then it promptly returns when the little boy melts me with a quiet, “Sorry.”
I rub his thick mop of hair as his mom scoops him up. “You feel better, okay?”
“Okay,” he promises.
I step off the plane, only to be blinded by a wall of flashing lights and camera lenses. Panic spikes as a full swarm of reporters closes in, microphones and cell phones thrust forward.
How on earth do they know I’m here?
Shouts of “Ava!” and “Over here!” have me ducking my head and quickening my pace. Then someone calls, “Where is she?”
I slow. Breathe. And make my way through the crowd.
Thank God. No one recognizes me.
Apparently, kid puke and a ball cap are the best disguises ever.
I move quickly along, and someone shouts, “Any comment about the Maddox-Blakely love child?”
I spin on instinct, ready to comment, because the irony is killing me. Pierce had a vasectomy years ago, yet still used condoms the first and last time we had sex. Because, and I quote, “You can never be too sure, babe.”
But the pap isn’t asking me. He’s aiming the question at a woman who barely resembles me, aside from the dark hair and being roughly my height.
I snap to my senses and keep moving.
And that’s when I see him.
A guy in a suit holding a laminated sign with my name, shouting, “AVAAAA ALVAREZZZ,” like he’s working a cattle auction.
Which means he’s my ride.
I try to think as he draws the attention of pretty much everyone at the terminal.
Okay. Breathe.
No need to panic. I have options.
Option one: Face the paparazzi head-on.
Sure. With zero makeup, eyes still puffy from crying, and the faint but unforgiving stench of airborne child vomit clinging to my clothes. I can’t think of a faster way to make my career radioactive.
I instantly switch to option two.
Run.
My pulse roars in my ears as I scramble for a way out of this mess.
Thankfully, Lady Luck hasn’t completely abandoned me.
Though a small gap in the crowd, I see it. The elevator.
I grip my ten-pound backpack like it’s holding an Oscar-winning script and bolt for it.
Behind me, voices scatter across the terminal.
“Where’d she go?”
“Is that her?”
That one kicks me into a full sprint.
The second the elevator doors start to open, I lunge and slam straight into a brick wall of flannel.
Muscle. Heat.
Gloriously built for impact.
Despite the fact that I body-check him full on, I barely make a dent.
Then my eyes meet his. Two pools of icy coolness I absolutely should stop staring into.
“I think I see her!” someone shouts.
Shit.
I shove the lumberjack gently… as in pretty much plow him toward the back and pray they don’t find me.
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.
The doors slide shut behind us with a merciful ding.
Silence.
And yes, I will suffer for my love of bad boys.
I slump against the wall, chest rising and falling like I just sprinted through a paintball zone.
I’m suddenly hyperaware of his attention. His gaze is so intense, my skin heats like he’s picturing me naked.
Or worse. Like he knows I’m picturing him naked.
Not that I can help it. He’s standing tall, in denim that should be illegal, with arms that could probably bench-press me. On a Harley.
Hopefully, he’s not trying to figure out where he knows me from.
Or maybe he’s deciding if I’m completely unhinged.
Which, to be fair, isn’t exactly off the table.
Considering I barreled into him like he was guarding the last pair of Lulus at a Black Friday sale, deranged feels sadly accurate.
I nudge my dark glasses higher on my nose and pray he can’t place me as the seconds stretch.
Three.
Four.
Five.
I blink. He’s still watching me.
His stare isn’t creepy.
No.
It’s so much worse.
The quit-my-life-and-fly-to-Cancún-with-me kind of worse.
Here’s the thing. I’ve been around handsome men. Hell, Pierce Maddox is the poster boy for Hollywood appeal, all lean rockstar swagger and silver-screen genetics. And none of it ever really moved the dial for me.
I thought I was immune.
And yet this living, breathing god in front of me flips a switch I didn’t even know existed. Is there such a thing as a horny switch?
There must be, because heat floods, fast and unforgiving, lighting me up in all the wrong places.
And at the worst possible time.
Finally, I snap, “W-what?”
Wait.
Did I just stutter?
Great. Three years of linguistics coaching down the drain. Along with my career, if I don’t get it together.
He lifts a hand and gestures casually toward the panel.
“The big metal box we’re in doesn’t move unless you press a button.”
Oh. Right.
I jab the button for G, assuming that means ground, then glance back at him.
He doesn’t move. But I catch it. The faintest trace of a smile framed in auburn hair and lickable scruff.
Then he crosses his arms, the motion stretching the flannel tight across shoulders carved from stone.
That poor flannel shirt is fighting for its life.
Wait a minute.
“You didn’t pick a floor,” I say, eyes narrowing.
He shrugs, the corner of his sinful mouth twitching in amusement. “That was my floor. I was about to step out.”
Oh, God.
Did I just make this man miss his flight?
“You were?” I glance around. No luggage. No jacket. Nothing.
“Yup.” His mouth quirks. “I was about to check on a passenger. That is, until you line-backed my ass.”
Fucking hell.
He’s a pap.
Damnit. Is being magnetically drawn to idiots my one true superpower?
I straighten, tip my chin up, and switch from defense to offense.
“Well, can you blame me?” I flick my hand up and down his broad frame. “Your human roadblock of a body took up the entire doorway.”
He leans against the wall, the move putting him that much closer, eyes bright and sparkling. “Well, instead of charging at me, you could’ve just asked me to step aside.”
By now, I’m flustered. Irritated. And the heat rolling off him isn’t helping. This man is straight-up combustible, a danger zone when I’m dry as a desert.
My mouth fires a shot before my brain can intervene.
“I did not charge at you.”
“Did so.”
“Word to the wise, lumberjack.” I point to his face. “If I come at you, you’ll know it. I come hard, fast, and without warning.”
His eyes widen. Just a fraction.
Holy fucking… fuck.
That came out way dirtier than intended.
What 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 Myra? 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 and try not to freak out.
The lumberjack just blinks, slow and unbothered. He clears his throat.
“Noted.”
Shit.