Chapter 10

Ten

Four Months Ago—Bree (Upper Crust Bakery & Cafe)

One thought fills my head as I speed from the Starks' Malibu mansion to the Upper Crust bakery: Maggie Bridge is a royal bitch.

Yup. After careful study and consideration, that is my final opinion. And I should know. After all, I graduated from NYU with a degree in journalism, then topped that off with an MFA from UCLA. Which means I'm watchful. I know how to ask questions and how to write a damn good article.

It also means I know a hack when I see one. And Maggie Bridge is a hack in reporter's clothing.

Bottom line? I really don't like her. Especially after sitting in the Starks' beautiful house while enduring her inane questions and innuendoes for what felt like a century, but in reality didn't even hit the half-hour mark. Yeah, it was that painful.

Bitch.

I tap Maisy's brakes lightly as I take one of the many curves on this section of Pacific Coast Highway, then sigh. Maggie Bridge is definitely a bitch. But I was probably an idiot to agree to the interview in the first place. I mean, it wasn't like she even needed to talk to me.

She'd come to the Stark house to interview Damien and his family for what was supposed to be a fluff piece celebrating Damien's life and career. It's not like anyone's going to be flipping the pages of the magazine in their rush to read about me.

Then again, I was kidnapped along with Damien's daughter. So there's that.

"Idiot, idiot, idiot." I bang my fist on the steering wheel for good measure. Honestly, what was I thinking when I agreed to let her ask me about the kidnapping? Especially after Damien had made it clear that I could flat out decline.

But noooo. I'd had to go and be all gee-I'm-a-girl-so-I-want-to-please-of-course-I'll-do-your-stupid-interview-you-annoying-bitch.

Really. Don't. Like. Her.

At least I scored points for having the foresight to say I'd cut the interview off if it got too personal. But that attempt at putting up limits backfired because, hey, kidnapped.

And that's personal by definition.

Despite all that, it could have been fine. Except it was Maggie Bridge. And she poked and prodded and insinuated stuff about Damien and the kidnapping and guilt and all sorts of bullshit until I wanted to race out of that room and have a shower. And—yay me—that's exactly what I did.

I let her get under my skin.

I put myself out there, and she dredged it all up again.

Idiot.

At least I learned one thing. I'll never sit down for an interview with that woman again.

With a firm nod, I push Maggie Bridge out of my head as I accelerate into a sweet curve that straightens out right in front of The Upper Crust's parking lot. I'm going faster than I should, but Maisy can handle it, and I don't even skid as I make a hard right out of the curve, practically soar onto the lot, then glide into a parking space that fate put there especially for me.

I'm grinning when I kill the engine. That's one way to erase the lingering stench of Maggie Bridge.

"You look happy," Kari says once I'm inside and at the counter. "You sounded annoyed when you called."

I shrug. My flight's a red eye, so I'd hung around to watch over the Stark girls until after Maggie was out of the house. Then I called Kari as I was leaving to tell her that I was on my way, and that I needed the biggest, most chocolatey cookie in the place, along with a giant latte. Sadly, the Upper Crust doesn't sell the alcohol I desperately need. I figure I'll get that at the airport.

She's already got my order ready, and she passes it to me, then holds up a finger for me to wait while a broad-shouldered god with sun-blond hair slips up beside her. He puts his hand on her waist as he leans in to ask her a question. When he does, I notice his ginormous class ring. At least, I think it's a class ring. It's hard to get a good look at it because he's using his thumb to spin it around on his finger.

Nervous habit , I think, and then I smile as I look between him and Kari.

She nods, then blushes, turning back to me only after he slips away, then parks himself at the cash register further down the counter.

"Martin Street," she says when her attention returns to me. "New hire."

"And what does he work besides the register?" I ask, adding a salacious little lilt to my voice.

"You have a dirty mind," she says. "Let's just say he's a very… hard… worker."

"He likes working with you," I say, and she goes beet red.

"What makes you say that?"

I just shrug. No sense mentioning the ring. Poor guy hardly needs Kari focusing on that when they're out together. But when a guy's nervous like that around a girl, like is very much on the table.

"You really think so?"

"Yes, dufus," I assure her, then roll my eyes when she fans herself, first looking around to make sure no one else is listening.

Kari's a manager at the popular hangout, and we've become pretty good friends. Good enough that she'll show her true colors to me… but will otherwise try to be professional.

Try being the operative word.

We met because my cookie addiction meant that I was popping in every day. We started out with small talk, then started hanging out together when she got off shift. After a few months I realized that she'd mostly filled the gap I'd created when I'd moved to Los Angeles without Aria.

A wave of melancholy washes over me. I love Kari—I do. But I miss Aria, and I'm beyond excited that she's picking me up at JFK in the morning when my red-eye lands— that is a seriously true friend. Then we're spending almost the entire day together in Manhattan. After that, I'm going out to dinner with my parents before crashing in the house I grew up in.

"Want me to put a dozen in a to-go box?" Kari asks as she turns back to me. "My treat."

"Have I mentioned lately how much I love you?"

"Too bad I don't go for girls," she says. "Because considering the guys we both attract… and are attracted to…."

She'd dated Rory before I did, and now she acts like that's all a big joke. I can barely conjure a smile.

She may not feel like she constantly needs a shower after having gone out with that piece of shit, but Rory tainted me. So much that I haven't even been attracted to anyone since him.

Liar .

The word flashes in my mind like neon, and I try to shove it down, but all that does is conjure pictures of him in my mind.

The one man who has caught my eye.

The one man who has snuck into my fantasies.

Ashton Stone .

But that's not attraction. Not really. It's just a reaction to an exceptionally good-looking man. After all, I barely know him. I mean, yes, we've talked in the months since he crashed Nikki & Damien's celebration. I'd thought he was an asshole then—albeit a ridiculously hot asshole. But he'd redeemed himself, and I'd been glad. Not for selfish reasons, though. I was glad he'd come out on the non-asshole side of the equation for Damien's sake. Not mine.

Sure, we shared a few glances. But that's normal, right? I mean, we were the only twenty-somethings in the house. It's not like I had any illusions about Ashton Stone, a guy who goes through women the way someone with a cold goes through Kleenex. Anyone who pays attention to celebrity gossip knows that.

Even if he weren't a major player, there's no way a guy like that—a guy who'd started from nothing and built a fortune—would be interested in the family nanny. Not even one on her way to being an author. That was the stuff of romance novels and Lifetime movies.

And my life was about as far away from a fluffy romcom as the earth is from the sun.

My happiness in learning that he isn't a total jerk had nothing to do with him. On the contrary, I was simply grateful that Nikki and Damien and the kids didn't have to suffer through another asshole in their already asshole-filled family tree.

I wouldn't even go so far as to call him a friend. He's an acquaintance. I like the guy. He's polite. He's interesting. And he hasn't been a shit to me.

But I'm not attracted to him. Not at all.

Not even a smidge.

Truly.

I haven't been attracted to anyone in years.

Sometimes, I wonder if I ever will be.

And the truth is that I hope I won't. What would be the point? Getting involved is terrifying enough even if all you're worried about is whether the two of you will mesh. Toss in my baggage, and the thought of starting out in a relationship is enough to send even the sanest person running into a closet and curling up in a ball.

And I'm not the sanest person. Not anymore.

Not by a long shot.

"You should have just jumped him."

I jerk my head up to find Kari back in front of me with a box filled with cookies. "What? Who?"

She cocks her head as she raises her brows. She doesn't say a word, but I get the message anyway: Girl, do not even.

"A, I don't know what you're talking about. And, B, I have no interest in getting involved with anyone, least of all Ashton Stone."

I say this last part in a whisper so low she has to lean forward to hear me.

"Who said anything about getting involved? Besides, from what I've read, Ashton Stone doesn't do involved. But you, my friend, need some touch. No, hear me out," she adds when I take a step backwards, my fingers in a cross to ward off evil.

Kari just rolls her eyes and barrels on. "It's like you're stuck in the mud. Take a leap. Take control. Sleep with Ash. Hell, sleep with any guy. Enjoy it. Then move the hell on."

"Kari…"

"You know I'm right. Teresa said pretty much the same thing, didn't she?"

I scowl, but I don't answer. Teresa's a good therapist. I, however, am a lousy patient. And besides, Teresa didn't tell me to fuck around. She told me to open my heart to possibility. Frankly, neither option works for me.

I cross my arms as I push the thoughts away. "You about ready?"

She glances at the mounted clock, then nods. "Give me another fifteen. Lisa will be here then," she adds, referring to another manager. "We've got plenty of time, right?"

"Oh, yeah." My flight isn't until eleven-thirty tonight, and it's barely seven. Kari's driving me to LAX in Maisy, and I'm letting her borrow the car for the three weeks I'll be doing the Manhattan pilgrimage since hers is in the shop.

"Cool." She takes my cookies and hides them away under the counter.

"Hey!"

"Oh, please. You'll get them back. Come on," she adds, coming around the counter and nodding her head for me to follow.

"Where are we?—?"

"While you wait, I figured you could plug all the holes." She pushes through the glass door that opens onto a lovely beach-front patio.

"The holes?" I am totally confused. "What are you talking ab?—"

I gasp, stopping cold as the far-corner table comes into view.

Maggie. Fucking. Bridge .

She's sitting right there, a yellow pad on the table in front of her and her fancy quill pen between her fingers.

"What?" Kari asks, her brow furrowed as she turns to face me. "She said there were still some things to cover, and I thought?—"

But I'm not listening anymore. Instead, I toss her my keys. She misses, and they clatter onto the wooden decking. Across the patio, Maggie looks up, sees me, and starts to wave. I turn my back on her and head inside.

Kari's right behind me. "What's wrong?"

"That woman is vile," I say. "Why would you set this up? How do you even know her?"

"I don't. I mean, I know she's a reporter, and she said she wanted to get some more details about?—"

"I'll catch an Uber."

"What? No. I'm driving you. I just need to finish up, and you can talk with?—"

"I'm catching an Uber," I repeat, but my shoulders sag a little despite my fury. "It's not you," I say. "I just need to go. And you can't leave now, so…"

"But—"

I lift my hand. "I'll call you tomorrow. I'll explain." Irritation dances like a snake in my gut because I shouldn't need to explain. She shouldn't be railroading me with reporters. But I know she was just trying to do me a favor, and how's she supposed to know that Maggie is a pain in my ass?

"Okay. If you're sure." Her voice is low. Steady. Like I'm a bomb and any change in tone will set me off.

Who knows? It might.

"I'm sure," I say, then offer her a half-smile. "Can I still have the cookies?"

The relief that spreads over her face is palpable. "Of course. Hang on." She trots back to the counter, then returns with the box. "Try not to eat them all on the way to the airport."

I roll my eyes like she's joking, but she's not. I'm a stress eater, and Kari knows it. And while I'm now certain she didn't do it on purpose, we both know that I'm now totally stressed out.

"I'll save one or two for the plane."

"Out of two dozen? Sounds about right." She grins, then moves in for a hug, which I gratefully return. Yeah, I'd freaked out on her, but I know she didn't mean to throw me under the bus.

"See you in a couple of weeks," I tell her, then hurry out the door, juggling the cookie box in one hand and trying to pull my phone out of my back pocket with the other. Easy enough, but I have to put the box on Maisy's hood in order to find the rideshare app. I put in the order and am relieved to see that the driver's only a couple of minutes away. So I grab my suitcase from the backseat, sling my purse over my arm, and curl my fingers through the very handy handle built into the top of the cookie box.

It takes me no time to cross the lot to where the entrance to the parking area intersects Pacific Coast Highway, so I'm surprised when a car glides to a halt in front of me. The surprise turns almost immediately to fear, though, because in that same instant, I realize that my rideshare driver is in a Toyota. And the cherry red sedan in front of me is a bright and shiny Mercedes.

I take a step back, then another. It's still plenty light outside, but you just never know.

I'm about to turn and hurry back into the cafe when the passenger-side window glides down. "Hey, Bree."

I tremble a little at the familiar voice, half-sure I'm imagining him. It wouldn't be the first time, though my fantasies aren't usually set in parking lots.

"What are you doing?" he asks at the same time that I bend over so I can see into the car.

It's Ash, all right. He has one hand on the wheel as he leans toward me, those wide shoulders seeming to fill the space as his body covers the center console.

"I thought you were heading to the airport."

That's what I'd told him when I'd left the Stark mansion after our interview together.

"I… well, Maisy." I sound like a total dufus, so I cough and try again. "I'm leaving my car with Kari. I'm waiting on my Uber."

"Get in."

I lift my phone. "No, it's ok. It's on the way." I point down PCH. I think that might be him right now."

"Get in," he repeats. "Cancel the ride." He pushes a button and pops the trunk. "I'll give you a hand."

"No, I've got it." The words are out before I even realize that I've decided to take him up on his offer. I'm traveling with only a carry-on, so it's easy to lift into his trunk to set beside his. I start to slide the cookies in, too, then change my mind. Not only might they get squashed if the suitcases slide around, but I want them close in case a cookie emergency should come up.

It could happen.

Soon enough, I'm settled in the passenger seat, the cookies at my feet and my phone in my hand.

"I didn't realize it took so long to cancel a rideshare," he says a few minutes later as we're speeding south toward the airport.

"Oh. I—sorry." I put my phone away, then immediately regret it, because now I have nothing to do with my hands. I drum my fingers on my jeans and sneak a sideways glance. His profile is all hard lines and angles, and sexy as hell, especially in contrast to the way his undoubtedly finger-combed dark hair brushes his forehead and the top of his ears.

From this angle, it's even more obvious how long his lashes are. I'm battling a bit of jealousy, actually, when he turns to look at me, those lashes now framing eyes of Caribbean blue.

I sigh a little, and desperately try to cover it with a cough.

"I have throat lozenges in the glove box," he says, and the words are so casual that I'm positive he knows I don't need a lozenge at all. Of course, I take one. "You?" I ask after I've popped mine in my mouth. Honey lemon. My favorite flavor. Honestly, I could eat lozenges like candy.

"I'm good. Thanks."

"Probably not good payment for the ride, anyway," I say. "After all, you're saving me about fifty dollars. More when you add in the tip. And they're your lozenges."

He turns to look at me again. "Does that mean you don't intend to pay me for services rendered?"

"I—oh." Despite the lozenge, my mouth has gone completely dry, and I squirm in the seat a little, other parts of me going decidedly damp as the first few wisps of a lovely fantasy start to play out in my mind.

Really not the time.

More important, not something I want. Fantasy is one thing—my very active imagination satisfies in more ways than just writing books that pay the bills—but that kind of reality's not part of the How Bree Copes In the World plan.

"Cookies," he says.

I look up at him, thrown by the unexpected word.

"That box at your feet. I've seen it before. That's the box the Upper Crust uses when you buy two dozen cookies." His mouth quirks up. "Sweet tooth?"

"Yes," I admit. "But I didn't buy them. Kari loaded me up. I'm going to share with my parents."

"Too bad for me." He taps the steering wheel and looks straight ahead when he adds, "Then again, absent cookies, I'll have to think of another way to get paid. Cash is so last year."

I fight a laugh. "Would it be terrible of me to admit that I'm now tempted to withhold cookies, just to see what kind of pervy imagination you have?"

His brows rise. "Pervy?"

I shrug, enjoying the game despite myself. "I won't know until I know."

"Be careful what you wish for." He turns just long enough to meet my eyes, and when he does, it's genuine heat I see in his.

My stomach does a little flip, and I manage a weak smile as I force myself not to beg him to let me out so I can call another Uber. What was I thinking? Flirting with Ashton Stone? I am not a woman who lives dangerously, and he's about as dangerous as it gets.

I slouch lower in the seat, then shift so that I'm peering out the window, trying to look like someone enraptured by the cute-but-too-close-together houses that line this part of PCH and the peeks of ocean we get whenever there's a decent-sized gap between them.

"What if I'm just wishing for snickerdoodles?"

I frown as I turn to face him, totally confused. "Snickerdoodles?"

"For payment," he says. "I'm a very big fan of snickerdoodles."

"Oh." I wince a little. "I'm a chocolate chip girl. I haven't looked, but I'd lay money that Kari loaded me up with chocolate chip."

"I'm easy," he says.

I raise a brow. "Yeah, I've heard that."

He laughs, then puts one hand over his heart. "Ouch."

"Hey, you reap what you sow."

"You do," he says, his voice more serious than I'd expected. "You really do."

I clear my throat. "So, cookies?"

"I think the going rate for delivering a beautiful woman to the airport is three chocolate chip cookies."

"Then you get five," I say. "I'm a big believer in tipping well. Even drivers who try to up their tips by tossing out blatantly false flattery."

"Don't even."

"What?"

"Don't even pretend that you don't know how gorgeous you are."

"Ash." I've already slipped out of my sandals, and now I pull my feet up onto the seat and hug my knees.

"I'm just saying…."

"You're just flirting. And I'm not your target audience."

He keeps his eyes on the road, but he tilts his head in the slightest of nods. "Fair enough," he says, and I bite back a sigh of relief. "But if you can't flirt with your friends, who can you flirt with?"