Chapter 9 Ava
Ava
The carousel makes a lazy round a few million times before my bag finally appears.
In a sea of jet-black luggage, mine is easy to spot. The pretty purple one, plastered with sugar skull stickers and a Day of the Dead tag.
I yank it off the conveyor and step aside, already mentally pricing out a Lyft and wondering if the guy upstairs is still hollering my name like I owe him money.
I pat my pockets.
My phone isn’t there.
A slow, cold awareness creeps in.
I twist, reach back, and go for my backpack.
My hand closes on air.
Dread sinks to the bottom of my gut like a lead weight.
Gone.
My backpack.
My phone.
Along with my calendar, contacts, and Apple Pay. The holy trinity of modern survival. My entire existence lives inside that backpack, along with two bikers, six billionaires, and an obscene number of lumberjacks.
Sure, technically, I could live without the boys. But my phone? Without my phone, I’m basically a pioneer woman wandering the wilderness.
And I can’t even borrow a phone to call Kali, because who memorizes phone numbers anymore?
People who churn their own butter. That’s who.
I spin, scanning the lobby, my pulse skidding out of control.
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.
Was it stolen?
I think hard. Where did I last have it?
Realization dawns.
Oh no.
The elevator.
With Mr. Distraction and his insufferably wonderful man-scent. Gah. Who wouldn’t get distracted by him?
Lumberjack scrambled my brain like Abuela’s Sunday migas. It’s a miracle I remember my own name.
I swallow the panic and force air into my lungs.
I don’t walk. I sprint, urgency pounding with every step.
If that bag walks off, I am screwed.
I round the corner and spot the elevator.
Please still be there.
I pick up the pace.
The doors slide open just as I rush in.
And plow straight into him.
Again.
This time, I’m dragging a suitcase the size of a baby elephant.
“Oof,” he mutters, one massive arm sweeping around me and steadying me by reflex.
Our eyes lock for a beat too long. My senses kick in when I hear the faint chime of my phone.
I blink and look around.
In Lumberjack’s other hand is my black backpack.
Relief hits. “That’s mine,” I blurt, lunging for it.
He lifts the backpack, dangling it over his head, just out of reach. “Not so fast, Pixie Stick. What’s the magic word?”
I plant a hand on his chest and shove, pushing away from the human refrigerator.
An inferno roars to life behind those glacial blue eyes, and the heat radiating off him makes my insides liquify.
I don’t let on.
In fact, I do exactly what you’re not supposed to do when confronted with a grizzly bear.
I poke it.
I jab him to the beat. “Give. Me. My. Bag.”
He scoffs. “Bzzz. Try again.”
My phone pings from inside the backpack.
I lunge for it.
He lifts it higher.
I lose my temper and stomp my foot like a toddler. “Bruto. Don’t test me, or I will knee you straight in your oversized balls.”
“Oversized?” One brow lifts. “Thanks for noticing.”
The elevator doors slide shut behind me with a smug little ding.
Just me.
Him.
And enough sexual tension to blow the doors off this elevator, along with half the city’s power grid.
I leap for my bag again.
Not only does he keep it just out of reach, but to add insult to injury, he snags my suitcase, too.
“What are you doing?” I snap.
“Rescuing you.”
I fling a hand at it. “From my suitcase?”
“In ten seconds, those doors will open,” he says calmly. “And a group of bloodthirsty paparazzi will be waiting on the other side. So, unless you want a suffocating amount of unwanted attention, you’ll do exactly as I say.”
I glance at the doors. Then back at him.
“Why should I trust you?”
He leans in, closing the last inch of space between us. “Because you don’t have a choice.”
I frown.
He begins to count. “One Mississippi. Two Mississippi—”
“Okay. Okay.” I throw my hands up. “Fine.” I glare up at him. “What do I do?”
“Simple.” He drops the backpack over his shoulder. “Hide behind me. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“How?”
He doesn’t answer.
Instead, he wheels the suitcase to his left as if the small purple beast covered in sugar skulls belongs to him.
Before the control freak in me can open her mouth, the elevator dings.
The doors open.
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 practically frisking you as it is,” I mutter.
“Try not to skip straight to a third-base cavity search.”
I roll my eyes.
We step out.
And my living nightmare spirals around us.
A throng of reporters pauses. Footsteps scrape. Voices murmur. “Where is she?” And “They said she was here.”
Who’s they, I wonder.
He starts moving, and I stay tucked behind him. He shields me like an armored wall.
Which, he absolutely is.
He navigates through the chaotic crowds with surgical precision, cutting off angles and keeping me behind him, completely out of sight.
Once we clear the crowd, he tucks me under his free arm like we’re just another couple passing through an airport.
It feels strangely natural.
He directs us towards an exit across the way and whispers, “So, Pix.” His breath is warm against my hair. “Since I’m doing something for you, you need to do something for me.”
Of course, he wants something.
Great.
Here we go.
What’s it going to be? A photo? An exclusive interview?
More?
I suddenly imagine his hot breath against my sex.
I clear my throat. Hard.
“And what exactly do you want?”
“I want—”
He cuts himself off. His hand slides to my waist, wrapping me that much firmer against him.
Every nerve snaps to attention.
We nearly collide with two men sporting massive cameras around their necks.
Effortlessly, Lumberjack swings me to the side and pins me against the nearest wall, followed by his large frame towering over me.
When the two men pass, his smile returns. Along with a dimple.
“Looks like I saved you again.”
I lick my dry lips. “You were demanding a ransom.”
“Less ransom,” he says, amused, “more… professional curiosity.”
“Professional curiosity?” I echo.
We start moving again, his hand firm at my back. But we’re not heading for the exit.
I want to ask where the hell he’s taking me, but I don’t get the chance.
“Look,” he says plainly. “If rescuing you is about to become a full-time job, I need answers.”
My nerves prick.
The last thing I want to give anyone is answers. Though…
He really did save me.
If he hadn’t, I’d still be trapped in there, probably hiding in a bathroom stall. No bodyguards. No manager. No PA.
“What do you want to know?” I ask, braced for the worst. “I’ll tell you anything.”
He weaves us left, through a set of double doors.
Suddenly, we’re outside.
We stop, and he drops the backpack from his shoulder into his hand. “For starters, Pix, what the hell’s in this bag? Gold bars? A body?”
I glance at the overstuffed backpack, then back at him. “At least twelve bodies.”
“That explains why it cut off my circulation.”
He smiles.
I smile, too.
We hold our stare a second too long.
I should offer him something.
Dinner?
The word barely forms in my head before a man rushes toward us.
I tug my cap lower, ready to bolt.
A strong arm hooks around my waist, cementing me in place. “It’s all right,” Lumberjack says calmly. “He’s with me.”
I don’t usually like men touching me like this. Too… I don’t know… familiar.
But somehow, I do like it. It feels safe. Comfortable.
For no good reason at all, I lean into him.
Like a girlfriend.
Or a complete psycho.
“Take her wherever she needs to go, Travis,” he orders the man.
Travis gives a swift nod. “What about you, sir?”
Sir.
The man with the expensive black expensive car is referring to the lumberjack as sir.
“You’ve already done enough for me,” I say quickly. “I can’t take your car.”
My objection is met with a raised hand.
“I’ll get another ride,” he says. Like he’s used to having the last word.
He steps back, and the warmth goes with him.
Instantly, I miss it.
His jaw tightens. And those misty blue eyes find anything to look at but me.
It feels like coming face to face with a door I didn’t realize was open until it suddenly swings shut.
On cue, he hands over my suitcase.
Then my backpack.
“Careful with this one,” he adds. “It’s housing a good-sized anvil.”
Travis grins and takes both easily, then loads them into the trunk.
The space between Lumberjack and me closes in. Heavy. Crowded 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. And the closeness makes me want to hold on a second longer than I should.
I hold my breath.
One Mississippi.
Two—
And because I am me, and patience is the polar opposite of my strong suit, impulse takes over.
I rise onto my toes and, without warning, press my lips to his.
It’s not the soft, chaste kiss you see in the movies.
Nooo.
It’s hungry.
Urgent.
All in.
I take his mouth like an asteroid is barreling our way. This kiss is all reckless tongue and the faint clink of teeth. Desperate to learn every inch of him like I might never get another chance.
God, I already know I’ll feel the scrape of his stubble for days.
And when he finally caves, when the dam breaks and he stops holding back, I can’t breathe.
His hands cradle my face, and he takes full control. So, so good.
A dizzying wave of desire that has me weak in the knees.
I’ve been kissed plenty of times. Occupational hazard.
But this?
This feels like I’ve never been kissed before in my life.
Is that a thing?
A revirginized tongue?
By the time it ends, I’m lightheaded and unsteady, gasping for air. My hands fist in his flannel, feeling the solid muscle underneath.
When he’s sure I’m steady on my newborn giraffe legs, he pulls back.
Then frowns.
“Take care of her, Travis.”
And just like that, his expression cools. The blazing heat in his eyes snuffed out, like a wildfire drowned in ice.
And then he’s gone.
My big, burly lumberjack disappears into the terminal without a single glance back.