Nine
Collision Course
MIA
IT’S BEEN A FEW days since the kiss. A few days of me trying—and failing—to pretend it didn’t happen.
That his words didn’t matter. That I’m not suddenly looking at him like he’s something more than the guy I roped into this ridiculous charade.
But here I am, sitting at the table in the staff room, pretending to read through invoices while my phone mocks me from the corner.
No messages.
No calls.
Not that I’ve been waiting or anything.
The door chime rings, pulling me out of my spiraling thoughts, and a gust of cold air follows as Austin strolls in, looking like he owns the place.
He still has his sunglasses on his face.
Stupid idiot.
“Miss me?” he says, waving at me with that infuriating grin firmly in place.
“What are you doing here?” I try to act annoyed, but my pulse betrays me, kicking up at the sight of him.
Damn him and his stupid, perfect grin.
“Just thought I’d check in on you,” he says, leaning against the counter like he’s been invited. “You’ve been ghosting me, Mia. I was starting to feel unloved.”
“I’ve been working,” I snap, trying to sound professional. “Some of us have jobs, you know.”
He doesn’t even flinch. “And some of us know when to take a break. Which is why I’m here. Adventure time.”
“Adventure?” I arch an eyebrow.
“Yep. New bar. Highly rated. Very exclusive.” He pauses dramatically. “Also, it has Jalape?o poppers. I thought of you.”
I hate how much I want to laugh. Instead, I sigh, closing my laptop with more force than necessary. “Fine. But one drink.”
He smirks. “We’ll see about that.”
We’re halfway across the car park when it happens.
One second, we’re walking to his car, and the next, a loud honk splits the air. My head snaps up just in time to see a black Range Rover careening around the corner, heading straight for us.
“Move!” Austin barks, grabbing my wrist and yanking me backward just as the Range Rover swerves, tyres screeching.
The massive vehicle misses us by inches before slamming to a halt, and my heart is somewhere in my throat.
“What the actual hell?” I gasp, my pulse racing as I cling to Austin’s arm.
The car door swings open, and a man in a dark suit stumbles out, looking pale as a ghost. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” he yells, his voice shaky. “I lost control! Are you ok?”
Austin steps forward, his body tense, every bit of his playful charm gone. “What the hell were you thinking?” His voice is low, dangerous, the kind that makes your spine stiffen. “You could’ve killed someone.”
The man stammers, his hands up in surrender. “I—I didn’t mean—my brakes just—”
“Save it,” Austin growls. “Get your car fixed before you hurt someone. And learn how to drive.”
The man nods frantically, muttering apologies before retreating to his Range Rover and speeding off.
“Fucking prick.” Austin mutters as he watches the car disappear into the distance.
I’m still shaking when Austin turns back to me, his eyes scanning me like he’s checking for injuries. “You ok?” he asks, his voice softer now.
I nod, swallowing hard. “Yeah. Just . . . surprised.”
“That makes two of us,” he mutters, his hand still wrapped around my wrist like he’s afraid to let go.
I glance down at his hand, then back up at him. “You can let go now. I’m not going to faint or anything.”
He releases me but doesn’t move back, his eyes locking onto mine. “You scared me,” he says, his voice quiet but steady.
The words hit me harder than I expect, and I don’t know how to respond. Austin Conall, scared? That’s not a thing.
“Thanks for . . . catching me, I guess,” I say, my voice shaky but steady enough to save my pride.
He chuckles softly, the tension breaking just a little. “Anytime, Jameson. Just try not to throw yourself in front of any more cars, yeah? My reflexes aren’t that great.”
I laugh despite myself, the sound shaky but real. “Noted.”
As we climb into his car, the adrenaline starts to fade, leaving something else in its place.
Something heavy.
Something unspoken.
He starts the engine, glancing over at me. “Still up for that drink? Or did that near-death experience scare you off?”
I exhale, leaning back in the seat. “Let’s go. I need it more than ever now.”
He grins, but his eyes linger on me for a second longer than they should. “Let’s get pissed.”
AUSTIN PULLS HIS SLEEK BMW into a space. The engine hums like it’s too fancy to be idling on this cracked asphalt, and so is the man sitting behind the wheel.
The bar Austin promised is packed. Low lighting, soft chatter, and the faint thrum of bass-heavy music setting the tone. It’s trendy enough to make me wonder if I’m underdressed, but not so intimidating that I want to run back to the car.
Austin holds the door open for me with an exaggerated flourish. “After you, my lady,” he says, his grin annoyingly smug.
“You’re insufferable, you know that?” I mutter, stepping inside.
“Yet, here you are,” he fires back, his hand grazing the small of my back as he guides me toward a table near the bar.
I hate how that small touch sends a shiver down my spine.
Focus, Mia.
We sit, and before I can even glance at the cocktail menu, Austin’s waving down a waiter. “Two whiskeys,” he says, then turns to me, smirking. “Unless you want a pi?a colada or something less, you know, strong?”
I glare at him. “I can handle whiskey, thank you very much.”
“Sure you can,” he teases, leaning back in his chair like he owns the place. “But just to clarify, I’m not holding your hair back later when you can’t.”
“You’re so thoughtful,” I deadpan.
The drinks arrive, and Austin raises his glass. “To spreadsheets,” he says, his grin widening when I groan.
“To you shutting up,” I counter, clinking my glass against his.
The whiskey burns, but I refuse to wince. Austin watches me with a mix of amusement and . . . something else. It’s unnerving, and I don’t like it.
“So,” I say, setting my glass down and leaning back in my chair. “What’s your deal with this bar, anyway? It doesn't strike me as ‘your kind of vibe’?”
He shrugs, swirling his whiskey. “What can I say? I’m full of surprises.”
“More like full of—”
“Careful, Jameson,” he cuts in, pointing at me with his glass. “You’re already on wafer thin ice after that near-death experience earlier.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the small smile tugging at my lips. “Oh, please. You act like you saved my life or something.”
“I did save your life,” he says, leaning forward, his tone mock-serious. “I’m basically a hero. You know, you should be buying me drinks.”
“Right,” I say, leaning in to match his posture. “Because nothing says ‘hero’ like screaming at a guy in a suit and then demanding Jalape?o poppers.”
“Speaking of Jalape?o poppers,” he says, flagging down the waiter again.
“Oh my god, you’re actually ordering them?”
“Of course,” he says, feigning offense. “What kind of savage do you think I am?”
“I don’t even know anymore,” I mutter, shaking my head.
The Jalape?o poppers arrive, and Austin immediately grabs one, holding it up like it’s some kind of trophy.
“To life-saving snacks,” he declares, biting into it with zero shame.
I try not to laugh, but the sight of him—this ridiculously cocky, irritatingly charming man—wielding a Jalape?o popper like a sword is too much. A giggle escapes before I can stop it.
“There it is,” he says, pointing at me again. “The elusive Mia Jameson laugh. Rare, but worth the wait.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, reaching for a popper to hide my smile.
But the banter doesn’t stop. It never does with Austin. He teases, I snap back, and somewhere in the middle of it all, the tension that’s been building between us starts to feel . . . lighter.
“You know,” he says after a while, his tone quieter now. “You’re not so bad when you’re not acting like you have a stick up your—”
“Finish that sentence, and I will throw this at you,” I warn, holding up a half-eaten Jalape?o popper.
He chuckles, raising his hands in surrender. “Ok, ok. Truce.”
Silence settles for a moment, but it’s not comfortable. It’s thick, heavy, and full of things I don’t want to think about.
“Why do you do that?” I blurt out, desperate to break the tension.
“Do what?” His voice is light, but his grip on the wheel tightens just slightly.
“Act like life is all one big joke. Like you don’t care about anything.”
He exhales sharply, his grin faltering for the first time. “Who says I don’t care?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say, my tone sharper than I intended. “Maybe the constant teasing? The endless smirking? The refusal to take anything seriously?”
He doesn’t respond right away, and when he finally does, his voice is quieter. “You ever think that maybe I act like that because it’s easier than the alternative?”
His words hit me harder than I expect, and I look over at him, caught off guard. “What alternative?”
He glances at me briefly, his jaw tight. “The part where you have to admit that some things scare the hell out of you. That some things actually matter.”
I don’t know what to say to that. I didn’t expect him to open up, to give me even a glimpse of the real Austin Conall. And it terrifies me.
“So,” he says, breaking the quiet. “What’s next? Dancing? Karaoke?”
I snort. “You? Karaoke? I’d pay good money to see that.”
He leans in, his grin turning wicked. “Careful what you wish for, Jameson.”
We walk over to the karaoke lounge and head straight to the adjoining bar, Austin orders for both of us, and slides a glass of something amber in front of me.
“To letting go,” he says, raising his glass.
I hesitate before clinking mine against his. “To not making me regret this.”
He laughs, that soft, genuine laugh I’ve only heard a few times.
The lounge is dimly lit, with neon signs casting a bluish glow over the small stage at the front. The air smells like beer, cheap perfume, and the promise of regret. Austin looks far too smug as he glances around, already basking in an imaginary spotlight.
“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” I mutter, clutching my drink like it’s a lifeline.