Chapter 11 Ava
Ava
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 Myra’s little PR panic tour has officially turned into a three-ring circus. She knows I hate this. And frankly, a full-blown invasion of privacy under a spotlight is the last thing I need.
Yet somehow, she’s crammed in four times as many appearances as she promised. As usual, I’ll be her sacrificial lamb to “all publicity is good publicity.”
If only she could do that for my next film.
If there is a next film.
The driver checks his map app.
“Is everything all right?” I ask.
He nods. “Just verifying the drop-off point.”
“Thank you.” I hope he knows where he’s going.
I grab my mirror and check my lipstick, the motion automatic.
My pulse picks up. Not from nerves.
From memory.
Crooked letters written on my dressing-room mirror. In lipstick. My lipstick.
You’re in my thoughts, Ava.
A shiver slides down my spine. I drop the mirror back into my purse. There’s no point. I don’t use lipstick anymore.
I steady my breath.
In LA, my driver would be armed and already moving us where we needed to go. Back doors. Service corridors. Layers of security between me and anyone who thinks they’re entitled to my attention.
Kali asked if I wanted her to arrange security.
Why did I say no?
Because I’m sick of feeling like a prisoner in my own life.
But out here, in the open, exposed?
Okay. This is definitely worse.
My thoughts suddenly swing to Lumberjack.
The way he moved without hesitation. Like this was familiar terrain.
Like he already knew to protect me.
A tower of muscle paired with a dimpled, wicked grin.
I cross my legs and shut that down.
Hard.
The more I think about that rugged lumberjack, the more irritated I get. How does a man that obnoxiously protective just… walk away?
Ugh. I need to stop thinking about him.
Though a small, traitorous part of me wishes he could see me in this dress.
It’s cinched tight at the waist. Slit to heaven because I ran out of time to fix that. And my breasts are practically gift-wrapped up to my chin, but at least the structure is intact.
Because a nip slip is not happening. Not on my watch.
Besides, as everyone in this business knows, breathing is for amateurs.
I smooth my hand over a seam, fingers tracing the clean line of the stitching. For something finished between interviews, entirely by hand, I couldn’t be prouder.
Ahead, I spot a flurry of reporters.
My stomach tightens. “Could you drive around back?”
The driver keeps going. Straight for the front entrance.
What’s he doing?
Maybe he didn’t hear me.
“Turn here,” I say, louder now, pointing. “Around back.”
“I was instructed to drive you to the door.”
I huff. “The back door.”
He ignores me and pulls right up to the curb, cameras already surging closer.
There’s no tint on these windows, and if I go into hysterics now, I’ll be trending by dawn.
Instead of opening my door, the driver grips the wheel.
I can’t tell if he’s an ass or just easily spooked by the ten-thousand-watt limelight.
Fine. I’ll get it myself.
I draw in a steady breath and open the door.
Cameras explode, flashes firing as if I’ve stepped into a lightning storm. My anxiety spikes clear to Neptune, but I paste on my well-trained smile. Wave. Pivot. Sidestep a dozen questions carefully engineered to bait me into a headline.
Then a hand slides around my waist and clamps down.
Every muscle in my body locks.
“You look good enough to eat,” a voice murmurs near my ear. Familiar in that deeply unwelcome way.
I’m ready to weaponize both of my Sophia Webster butterfly stilettos and drive them straight up his ass, but I keep smiling for the cameras.
“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.” He chuckles, saying it just loudly enough for half the Eastern Seaboard to hear.
I roll my eyes, teeth clenched behind a polite smile.
“If you don’t remove your hand from my waist, I’ll”—I lower my voice—“tell everyone you spray tan your balls.”
His face drains. “You wouldn’t.”
“You’re right. I wouldn’t.” My smile sweetens, all saccharine and venom. “But I might casually mention which tanning salon you frequent.”
His hand vanishes.
Then I do.
I slip into the venue, fast.
Unfortunately, the obnoxiously loud bassoon is hot on my heels.
“Ava, my love. 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 and panting, I swallow.
“Holy… fuck.”