Chapter 33
Ava
By the time I finally drag myself downstairs, Chase is outside committing multiple parking violations in a black Mercedes.
Not near the curb.
Not adjacent to the curb.
Fully in the street with the blinkers on like hazard lights are LA’s equivalent to diplomatic immunity.
Traffic snakes around him in angry bursts of honking while he leans against the hood, ball cap low, his trademark everyone can fuck off grin firmly in place.
Which isn’t his fault.
There are approximately four parking spots for four million people in this city. At some point society just collectively decided fuck it.
The second he spots me, Chase straightens.
“My, my, my.” I eye the car as I approach. “If this is an advance on your next movie, let me guess… Porn.”
“Close.” He takes my suitcase from my hand. “Underwear ad.”
I stop short. “Another one?”
“Apparently America finds my junk reassuring during difficult times.”
“You’re the only woman alive immune to my charms.” He checks my forehead dramatically. “You’ve been ill for years, poor thing.”
“If by charms you mean ass, I just don’t see it.”
“Har.”
I glance at his license plate. “Wrong1? As in attention women of Earth: emotionally unavailable, prone to unsolicited dick pics, and the reason group chats exist?”
A laugh slips out of him. “My dad comes from a long line of the ‘right’ sort of people. He always called us bad seeds.” He blows out a breath. “The wrong Cartwrights.”
There’s something unexpectedly soft in the way he says it.
He taps the plate. “I prefer to think of it as one giant middle finger aimed straight at his face. Every time he sees it, an angel gets its wings.
“Someone’s getting a vanity plate for Christmas,” I say solemnly. “ASSHAT. All caps.”
Chase snorts.
Then he tosses my suitcase into the trunk and looks behind me.
“Where’s the rest?”
“That’s it.”
He slowly turns back toward me. “Ava. You’re not going on a Cancun weekend tequila bender. You’re going to Iceland.” He pretends to shiver. “You need actual clothes. Preferably warm ones.”
Deflated, I wave a hand. “I’m not emotionally capable of packing right now. I’ll just buy things there. Become one with the locals.”
“I’ve seen your bank account,” he says dryly. “You should really pack.”
I point to my purple suitcase covered in sugar skull stickers. “Honestly, I’d rather roll the dice with whatever you threw in there when I went to stay with Harrison.”
His mouth twitches.
And immediately, dread washes over me.
“What did you pack for me?”
“At least eight vibrators.” He grins. “TSA’s about to have the most confusing day of their careers.”
He opens my door.
Not because he’s romantic. Just aggressively overeducated.
Turns out expensive European boarding schools really hammer in manners before eventually expelling you for recreational drugs.
And hookers.
He shuts the trunk and looks at me for a second too long.
“Ready?” he asks softly.
No.
Absolutely fucking not.
My marriage just imploded. How am I supposed to leave the only home I’ve known in years?
A sharp ache twists through my chest so suddenly my eyes burn.
Stop it.
He’s not worth crying over.
“Yup,” is all I manage, shoving on the biggest, darkest sunglasses I own.
“Finally,” Chase says. “Those glasses you spent a year saving up for are earning their keep.”
I slide into the passenger seat. “Honestly, if Chanel can’t hide a mental breakdown, what’s even the point?”
“That should be their new slogan.”
He slips behind the wheel and pulls into traffic.
“Want me to kill him?” Chase asks casually, one hand loose on the steering wheel.
I huff out the world’s saddest laugh. “You’d sacrifice your manicure for me? You really are my friend.”
“What?” Chase glances over, appalled. “No. I said kill. Not bury. Your brother handles logistics.”
I choke on a laugh despite myself.
It’s funny because it’s true.
I’m actually hoping news of this disaster reaches Paris by carrier pigeon because the second my brother hears about this shitshow, Harrison Evans will rue the fucking day.
Gabe will not care that Harrison is my husband.
Gabe will not care that Harrison is technically his boss.
What Gabe will care about is that Harrison made his little sister cry.
Which, in Gabe’s mind, is punishable by death, identity theft, and wallpapering the office with Harrison’s awkward middle school photos.
Talk about a hostile work environment.
After an hour of hellacious traffic, Los Angeles reminds me exactly why I can’t leave fast enough.
Horns blare nonstop.
Motorcycles weave in and out of traffic like stunt doubles on Red Bull.
And directly in front of us, a minivan crawls along at the speed of the continental drift.
“Oh my God.” I check the time and nearly have a stroke. “If we don’t start moving, I’m going to miss my flight.”
And because I’ve had no sleep, no food, and I’m currently balancing on the razor’s edge of sanity, I lean forward and scream at the windshield.
“LEARN TO DRIVE!”
The minivan continues its slow march of death, blissfully unaware of my suffering.
Beside me, Chase doesn’t even blink.
“Someone needs food.”
“No,” I correct. “Someone needs a vodka IV.” I gesture around the car wildly. “You’re in a luxury sports car. Just pass them already.”
“Drive recklessly in a vehicle that goes zero to sixty in three-point-two seconds?” He downshifts like it’s the best news he’s heard all day. “If you insist.”
The Mercedes surges forward.
We cut around the minivan so aggressively my stomach drops.
Thank God for seatbelts.
I lower my sunglasses slowly. “You drive like a maniac.”
“You sound surprised.”
He adjusts the rearview mirror.
Then, casually, “Let me ask you something. If you could see Harrison right now, would you want to?”
Ugh.
Why is he asking me this?
“That’s never going to happen,” I mutter.
“Answer the question.”
I fold my arms tighter across my chest.
I don’t want to talk about Harrison.
I don’t want to think about Harrison.
And I definitely don’t want to think about the way he looked before he walked out the door.
Like leaving me was ripping him apart too.
My throat burns.
“No,” I bite out.
The word comes out too fast. Too sharp.
Silence stretches for half a beat before I blurt, “Why are men assholes?”
Chase glances over.
Then reaches across the console and squeezes my hand once.
“Because we are,” he says simply.
And somehow, that almost makes me laugh.
“Uh-oh.”
I tense instantly. “What now?”
“We picked up a tail.” He glances in the mirror. “Local news van.”
My stomach drops.
“Oh my God.” I immediately sink lower in the seat. “They cannot see me like this.”
“It’ll be fine.” Chase squints dramatically. “You currently look like you’re avoiding paparazzi after your third husband’s mysterious yacht accident.”
“Chase!”
“Too soon?”
I twist around just as the news van speeds up behind us.
“Oh my God, they’re following us.”
“And you said illegal drag racing would never pay off.” Chase slams the gas. “Buckle up, buttercup.”