Chapter 10 Ava
Ava
“Ready, miss?”
The driver, Travis, clears his throat and gestures toward the car.
Probably because I’m still standing here like a pathetic rom-com extra, half-expecting my lumberjack to come striding back. Full arrogance. Delicious dominance. 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.
Still, my stubborn brain whispers, just five more seconds.
Nothing.
A camera clicks nearby, and my shoulders tense. Not the paps. Just two teenage girls snapping a selfie.
Then they look my way.
Uh-oh.
I pivot fast.
Travis clocks it instantly. He steers me to the back seat and opens the door without a word.
I slide in.
He shuts it, circles to the front, and suddenly, it’s over.
Deflated, I stare back at the terminal and sigh 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 was into me like peanut butter in a Reese’s cup.
Or is that just wishful thinking?
Just because an innocent bystander has a mild reaction to a tongue down his throat doesn’t mean anything.
I glance back one last time.
He’s not interested in you. Give it up.
Ugh. I shake my head, then fish my phone out of my backpack.
I shove the big grizzly lumberjack out of my brain, ready to give Travis the address to the Evans’ place, when my phone lights up and pings like a pinball machine.
A text from Kali and several back-to-back ones from Myra. Kali first. At least she makes me smile.
Wild Kard
You’re checking into The Barrington under Viviana Kent.
The Barrington. I’m not sure Myra could get more pretentious if she tried.
Me
As in Mrs. Clark Kent?
I love it when you pick a superhero I can get behind.
Wild Kard
Or under.
That’s what besties do.
Deliver on-call superheroes, ready to serve your every need.
It’s followed by a kissy face emoji.
I tap out a quick thank-you and brace myself for Myra’s barrage of go-dos.
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.
I’ve got a designer on standby if you need him.
Toodles.
I mouth toodles at my phone like it’s a four-letter word.
I love Ricardo Ricci, but I don’t need him.
And as it happens, I already have a gown.
Well.
Almost.
It’s a design I’ve been working on for weeks, but I hit a wall with the backless structure. Normally, that wouldn’t scare me.
Except this one is cut from an incredible cherry-red fabric that moves like water in the wind. Beautiful and dramatic.
And completely uninterested in holding its shape.
It isn’t exactly ideal for structure.
Still, my fingers itch to play with it. The fabric is gorgeous and stubborn, which only makes it more irresistible.
I’ll figure it out between interviews. Work it on the go.
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.
“Can you pop the trunk?”
He nods. I’m already moving as it releases with a soft click. I grab the gown and my sewing kit, and feel a familiar spark of excitement light up.
Then I slide back into the car.
“The Barrington, 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.”
Travis gestures as he drives. “That’s the Chrysler Building. And over there is the New York Public Library. Let me know if you have any questions.”
I smile and nod, but my attention drifts.
Something about the skyline sinks. The lines. The symmetry. The quiet way all the buildings fall into place.
Art deco.
That’s it.
A solid structure framed by memorable elegance.
For the next forty minutes, my hands move with the fabric, and for once, it cooperates.
“Is that what you do for work?” Travis asks as we crawl through traffic, nodding toward the dress.
I shrug. “More of a passion project.”
“Where’d you learn to sew like that?”
“I grew up doing alterations in my family’s shop. Hemlines, darts, last-minute wedding saves.”
“Weddings?”
I nod, knot a stitch, then shift to the bodice. “Mostly bridal. But as my abuela likes to say, the women in our family need a challenge.”
I lift the gown so he can see it. “Challenge accepted.”
He whistles softly. “You’re talented. Whoever ends up wearing that will command the room.”
I wish Lumberjack were in that room.
Traffic finally breaks, and the city starts moving again. Travis points ahead. “Your hotel is right over there.”
It’s tall. Polished. Ridiculously expensive looking.
And exactly the kind of place Lumberjack could probably leap over in a single bound. Shirtless. Obviously.
Would he hate a place like that? I wonder what he’s really like.
I bet Travis knows.
Would it be weird to ask if his boss does this often? Plays knight in rugged flannel for every woman he meets?
Does he have a name, or am I supposed to keep calling him Lumberjack in my head for the rest of my life?
And while we’re at it, is enormous his actual shoe size?
Because that feels like relevant information.
But before I can ask anything, we’re suddenly pulling into the hotel’s drop-off.
Travis hops out and retrieves my suitcase from the trunk as the valet swings my door open. “Welcome to the Barrington.”
“Thank you.”
I step out, fully prepared to thank Travis profusely for driving me all the way out here. Maybe even casually mention that I’d love his boss’s cell number and, no, I’m not mentally unhinged.
But he’s already back on his side of the car.
“Enjoy your stay,” he says, patting the hood once before sliding behind the wheel and pulling away.
I mumble a thanks and give a little wave, pretending I’m not a total nutjob. Though telepathically, I’m begging him to turn around and toss me a lifeline.
Lumberjack’s name would be great.
It doesn’t work.
Why does my brain refuse to believe my run-in with Lickable Mount Saint Hot Guy is over?
Spoiler alert, Ava.
It is.