Accidental Hero (Unintentionally Yours #15)

Chapter 1

Asher

“Sir, I’m going to need you to remove your shoes,” the airport security woman shouts.

I swear, the people standing in line behind me can hear the verbal face-slap I just got.

Despite having TSA PreCheck, I comply, but only because I cannot miss this flight.

It’s the last direct flight until tomorrow.

And tomorrow, it’ll be too late.

It still doesn’t stop me from scowling, though. I pay to keep my shoes on.

“Your phone, sir,” she says, and I pull it from my pocket and toss it in the bin.

“Do you have a laptop in your bag?”

“I don’t usually have to–”

“Laptop in a separate bin, sir,” she says over me.

After I begrudgingly jump through all the hoops that DIA security can come up with, thoroughly convinced the woman is getting paid to pull it out of her ass on the spot, I attempt to march through the scanner.

Of course the thing goes off like a fucking air raid alarm.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter.

“I think it’s your belt, sir.”

“Are you fucking–” I stop mid-sentence when a security guard with the temperament of a bulldog puffs his chest.

I whip the belt off and toss it in the bin, too. Only when I am half-dressed and my carry-on is completely disheveled do they let me pass. You’d think this bitch was Gandalf the Gray. I grab my bag off the line, zip it up, and dash towards my gate; passport, phone, wallet, and shoes in hand.

I think this would be a good time to mention that I am not a rash man.

Am I boarding a flight to Costa Rica right now? After impulsively catching a redeye instead of going home, ordering take-out, and watching the Broncos game like I’d planned?

Yes.

Did I book a secluded beachfront villa miles from civilization and pack nothing but a carry-on containing only two changes of clothing and the shoes on my feet? Well, in my hand?

I did.

Did I also purchase two seats on the plane for the flight back instead of one?

You better believe it.

Because while I, Asher Levine, am not a rash man, it recently came to my attention that my best friend’s little sister and my nemesis are in Costa Rica as we speak, getting ready to walk down the aisle.

And I intend to stop them.

Alright, so I do sound a bit crazy.

Harper St. James is a bottle rocket. Long red hair. Bright green eyes. Perfect pouty lips and a laugh that makes everyone within a twenty-five-foot radius stop and smile.

Am I being cringey?

Yes, but everything I am saying about her is true.

Which is why I can’t let her marry him.

Daniel Colby.

Like me, he owns multiple top-notch restaurants around the Denver area.

Unlike me, most of his ideas, recipes, and cocktails were stolen. He has guys that he sends into other establishments to taste food, critique it, talk to the cooks and persuade them to come work for him, bringing those secrets with him.

Is it illegal? Not really, but for enough cash, people will do it. For enough cash, most people will do anything.

We all sell a little part of our souls to the devil, though, don’t we?

The flight from Denver to Costa Rica is approximately five and a half hours.

Since we are bulleting due south, it’s the same time zone.

Meaning, I will land at 3:30pm giving me just enough time to grab my rental car and haul ass to a resort near Tamarindo to stop the bride from walking down the aisle at sunset.

As I drive, listening to a tour guide turned comedian on the radio talk about freshwater alligators with an appetite for Americans. I look out the window and actually take the place in for the first time.

It’s beautiful. Tropical, green, mountainous, lush. If I were here under any other circumstances, I might be enjoying myself. But it’s a little hard to feel like you’re on vacation when you’re literally about to commit what might be considered in most countries…kidnapping.

Fingers crossed Costa Rica isn’t one of those countries.

From what I hear, you can buy off the cops in most situations. It circles back to that for enough cash scenario.

I pull up to the valet and throw the door open before the concierge has a chance to open it for me.

“Buenas tardes, senor,” he says with a slight look of panic on his face. It’s probably because I look like a bull ready to charge.

“I’m here for the wedding,” I say as a woman with a tray full of fruity cocktails with little umbrellas hands me a glass.

“Do you have a brochure for your stay?” he asks with a thick, velvety accent, brimmed with alarm and irritation. Because of immigration laws, you have to provide proof of paid travel everywhere you go here; even just to get through customs. Luckily, I have everything I need.

“No, I’m not staying at the resort. I’m here for the–Hey! Can you not do that? I’m not staying.” I call out to the bellhop who is in the process of removing my bag from the trunk. “I am only here for the wedding.”

“Lo siento, senor, but the wedding is private. There isn’t even a wedding party. They ahh,…como se dice eloped?”

“Already?” I snap, throwing my suitcase back into the car and slamming the trunk.

“Sunset,” the woman with the tray of drinks swoons. “Muy, muy romántico…”

“Si. Muy,” I say flatly. Then I realize that love bird over here is my ticket in, so I nod my chin up at her, catching her brown eyes. “And where is this wedding taking place?”

“Senor,” the concierge cuts in, or tries to.

“The beach. By the gardens.” She tells me.

“Thank you. Gracias.” I say and turn to hand the guy a fifty, American. “Just leave the car right here, hermano. I’ll be back in less than ten minutes.”

With that, I run towards the doors. I can feel their eyes on me, his in disbelief, hers…

doing other things…but I keep going. If I had to guess, I am bigger than any of the security guys here; faster, too.

I run down the marble steps, past the fountains, through the back doors, and down another flight of steps.

Alas, my Tom Cruise-esque Mission Impossible entrance is short-lived because after that, I am clearly lost. The sidewalk splits in about seven different directions, all leading to different suites, shops, and restaurants. By the way, when they say all-inclusive, they really mean all-inclusive.

Fucking pig. He’s literally waving the world around in front of her so he can take the only thing she cares about.

I don’t know which way to go, so I just pick a path and start moving. The tree line is promising, and I assume that’s gotta be it. Meanwhile, the sun is dipping lower and lower in the sky.

Fuck.

I pick up the pace, calling out to people as I pass.

“Beach?” I ask several times, and after I get a couple of odd looks from bougie couples and landscapers, I ask, “Playa?”

A guy trimming a hedge into the shape of a bird simply stares at me and points. I give him a salute and keep trucking. I know I look crazy, but I have to get there before the I dos.

As I sprint across the property, past tiki bars and multiple pools, I am suddenly grateful that I’m in shape. At 39, this would have been impossible if I hadn’t started doing CrossFit with Jaylen.

Speaking of Jaylen, he has no idea I’m here.

He has no idea his sister is here.

But if he knew who she was here with and what she’s about to do, he’d be thanking me for being here.

I break through the trees and come to a halt. Flowers of every color and fragrance imaginable, in the shape of a pathway, surround me. The sun is just as brilliant, all reds and pinks and purples, hanging low in the sky above the waterline.

And there, right at the water’s edge, is a makeshift altar covered in white flowers and three silhouettes.

The officiary.

Daniel.

And Harper.

I stalk down the aisle towards them, and I can hear the pastor talking. They are right in the middle of taking their vows. Harper is gazing into Daniel’s eyes with a dreamy and oh-so na?ve smile, and Daniel is smirking down at her with dark eyes.

“If anyone objects to this union, speak now or forever–”

“I object,” I say as I come to a stop.

The pastor looks bewildered.

Daniel’s attention whips over to me.

Harper’s jaw literally drops.

“Ash?” she blinks and drops her flowers on the ground.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Daniel demands.

I take another step forward. “Ruining your plans,” I say sternly.

He’s not going to say it, but he knows exactly what I’m talking about. His motive has been clear to everyone except Harper, who’s been wearing rose-colored glasses since the day they met.

“Asher. Asher, why are you here?” she asks. Then her expression shifts. “Wait. Did Jaylen send you? Oh, my God.”

“No,” I answer. “He didn’t send me.”

“Then you should leave,” Daniel threatens. His smirk is turning into a sneer now. But I really don’t give a fuck.

“If I leave, I’m taking something with me,” I say.

“And what’s that?” he asks.

A smug smile tugs at my lips before I bend down, pick Harper up, and throw her over my shoulder. “The bride.”

Daniel is shouting.

Harper is kicking and screaming.

But I just walk away wordlessly, stalking through the resort and back to my rental car, kidnapping the bride.