Chapter 11

Eleven

Four Months Ago—Ash (the airport)

She was, Ash decided, the most frustrating woman he'd ever been attracted to. So frustrating, in fact, that he ought to suck it up, rein in his ego and libido, and settle for being nothing more than her friend. At least that was true. Wasn't it?

He frowned, thinking back. The first time he'd met her at his father's house, they'd tiptoed around each other. Primarily because he'd been an ass then. But as he settled into a relationship with the father he'd come to know, the stepmother he admired, and those siblings he adored—well, he'd also settled into a casual friendship with Bree. She was the kids' nanny, after all. Or, she had been. Now she was both a tenant and the part-time nanny.

Either way, she was a fixture in the household, and the only one close to his age.

Of course, they'd become friends.

And that's how they should remain.

That would be the smart path to follow. And he was a smart man, wasn't he? That's what everyone said, and they'd been saying it his entire life, even in those early days when the fact that he was smart had seemed to turn everyone in his family against him.

And, yeah, he'd been smart enough to dial it down. To keep to himself and not flaunt his grades. To read only when he was alone and undisturbed, and to keep his books in the back of his closet behind his dirty laundry and hidden from Abigail, the great-aunt who'd adopted and purportedly raised him. If put-downs and regular beatings were the way to raise a kid.

He'd gone from being a quiet child who never got in trouble, to being the guy who knew how to draw attention for reasons other than his brains. He'd gotten into sports. Into cars. Anything that let him go fast. Anything that helped him outrun the thoughts that spun in his head like demons, telling him to go faster, faster, faster.

Maybe if he went fast enough he'd outrun the whispers and rumors.

Maybe he'd finally be able to catch up with the secrets that floated on air, but that he could never quite grasp. Secrets about Ashton Stone, whoever the hell that really was.

Maybe if he ran fast enough, he'd finally learn.

That, however, wasn't possible. And the fact that he'd realized as much early on was one of the downsides of being smart.

So, yeah, he had kick ass reasoning skills, a seriously impressive head for science, and a pretty solid grasp on psychology.

Right then, every single synapse of his well-praised mind was telling him that the smart thing to do was to walk away from Bree. To drop her at her terminal, then drive on to the parking area and use the next few months to push her very firmly out of his mind.

That would be the smart thing.

But apparently, he wasn't as smart as his PR suggested. Because instead of dropping her off, he heard himself suggesting that, since they were both early, they could spend the time before their flights in the first class lounge.

"They've got a decent buffet," he added as an extra incentive. "Although I think those cookies would be better than anything they'll be offering for dessert."

"Even without snickerdoodles, you still want to spend time." She pressed a hand over her heart. "I'm honored. Truly. Of course, I'll join you."

"You just don't want to sit in those horrible gate chairs where you have to buy your own coffee."

"Don't be silly," she said as he pulled into the valet parking lot. "I'm not remotely interested in coffee. But I've heard those hoity-toity lounges have an open bar."

Her smile—and her voice—had a flirty lilt that he assumed was unintentional even as he hoped otherwise. A hope for which he then chastised himself. Over the years, he'd spent far too much time casually shaking off the shackles of friendship as she slid into his fantasies.

In reality, though, he'd hold his secret close, and maybe she'd never have to know how twisted he'd been or the horrible things he'd done, because he damn sure wouldn't tell her. He wasn't that man anymore. But he would spend every day for the rest of his life paying penance for all the mistakes the fucked-up version of Ashton Stone had made.

An hour later, they were tucked away in a U-shaped booth where they'd been talking, sipping their drinks, and snacking on a variety of food from the excellent-as-advertised buffet. As predicted, though, the cookies in the box out-did everything the dessert buffet had to offer.

They'd already split a snickerdoodle—a pleasant surprise for both of them when she opened the box and saw that it contained a mix of four flavors: chocolate chip, snickerdoodles, oatmeal raisin, and white chocolate macadamia.

But what really impressed Ash was the fact that Bree tried all four along with him, making her the first woman he'd met in Los Angeles who actually ate dessert. Most declined because they were "too full," or simply pushed it around on the plate, as if that would trick him into thinking she'd both eaten and enjoyed the treat.

Why not just say no? Why the pretense?

Or, better, why not dig in with gusto as Bree had?

He knew it shouldn't bother him, but he'd grown up in a household that spent more time trying to shift reality than living in the moment. It had made him a cynic in things both large and small.

"A Tic Tac for your thoughts."

He looked up at her. "What?"

"I don't have a penny."

"My thoughts aren't worth even that much. I was just thinking about dessert."

"What? My cookies aren't good enough for you?"

"Your cookies are amazing."

"I should hope so. I spent hours not slaving over a hot stove. And as for dessert, I'd split another cookie with you. I was thinking about getting another glass of wine, too. But I probably shouldn't." She checked the time on her phone's lock screen. "I'm boarding soon."

He glanced up at the monitor. "Looks like a lot of flights are starting to get delayed or canceled," he said. She'd been closing the top on the cookie box, but now she twisted to face the screen.

"I'm still okay for now," she said. "Hopefully we'll both get where we're going."

He nodded, pointing at the TV displaying the Weather Channel on another wall. "Those are some nasty storms all through the center of the country. I'm going to Texas. You're going to New York. The odds aren't good for either of us."

She tilted her head to study the monitor herself, then looked back at him. "I'm going to channel the critically ill eternal optimist that lives deep inside me and say that we're both going to be just fine."

He leaned back in his chair, wondering at her tone. There had been a touch of humor in it, but it was underscored by something he recognized as pain. He didn't know what had happened to her during the kidnapping, but as far as he was concerned, she was more of an optimist after going through such an ordeal than he would ever have been. She was a damn strong woman. And he wasn't sure she realized it.

"—for the lounge."

"I'm sorry. Mind wandering. What?"

She flashed that darling smile of hers. "I said thank you for the lounge, for bringing me in here, I mean. I've never actually flown first class. Well, not since I was a little girl, and they don't serve alcohol to five-year-olds. It was really nice of you to share."

"You're heading out?" He felt like she'd just tossed cold water all over him. "Don't you want to wait to see if we actually have any place to go?"

"Eternal optimist, remember? Or eternal optimist in training," she amended. "I kind of fell off the wagon a few years ago. Pushed off, actually. And I ended up more than a little broken when I hit the ground."

He wanted to pull her close and comfort her. To ward off her memories. But all he did was meet her eyes as he said, "Maybe you did crack to pieces, but you're strong. You're back together now."

"Ash…" She looked down at the dregs of her drink, but she didn't take a sip. After a moment, she stood. "I should get going."

"I'll walk you."

"No, please, I'm fine. You still have more than half your drink left, and I need to hit the ladies' room on the way."

He wanted to kick his own ass. His father had told him she didn't like to talk about the kidnapping—and, really, who would? He should have kept his mouth shut.

He cleared his throat, suddenly feeling awkward in a way he hadn't experienced since high school. "Well, anyway, enjoy spending time with your parents."

"It'll be nice to see them. Mostly, I'm going to do the theater thing." She kept one hand on the handle of her wheeled bag, then slid the other into the pocket of her jeans. "Enjoy Texas."

"Yee-haw."

She rolled her eyes. "Work on that."

"Yeah, well, I'm based in Austin. Very tech-heavy city. And more like LA than cattle country. I'm not sure I'll ever get that twang down."

"But I bet you look good in the hat."

He had to laugh. "Actually, I do."

She grinned. "Has anyone ever accused you of modesty?"

He pretended to think. "Now that you mention it, no." He knew he was stalling and wondered if she was, too.

In time with the thought, he stepped closer and pressed his hand to her cheek. He bent in, then gently kissed her forehead. He felt the tension go through her like a snap, and she stepped back, stumbling against her wheeled bag and knocking it over.

"Bree, shit. I'm sorry."

"No. No. You just—I mean—I wasn't expecting, and?—"

"And I was an ass." Shit, she looked like a cornered rabbit. "I'm so sorry. Blame it on the open bar."

"Totally," she's said, the color coming back to her face. "Open bars are such troublemakers. Damn your frequent flyer perks."

He wanted to flog himself, but there was never a whip around when you needed one. "So, we're okay? Because if I?—"

"We're fine." Her voice was end-of-discussion firm. "The judges have ruled, and it turns out forehead kisses are not only appropriate but also common among friends. I shouldn't have jumped out of my skin."

He wanted to say something else. Something witty that would erase the awkwardness. "If the judges say so," was the best he could do.

"Totally. Completely by the book." She straightened her bag, then cocked her head. "I'll just, you know, head on out. And, um, I guess I'll see you the next time you're in LA. Thanks again for the lift and the peek into high society. "She reached for his hand, then squeezed it. "Despite the Morning of Maggie, this turned out to be a good day, Ashton Stone. Thanks."

"A very, very good day," he agreed.

Then she gave him one final smile before leaving the lounge with her purse and her carry-on.

But she left him the box of cookies.

Four Months Ago—Bree (at the airport)

As far as I'm concerned, rolling suitcases are the greatest invention of all time, far surpassing not only fire (more discovery than invention, but who's counting?) but also waterproof mascara and buy-one-get-one-free sales.

I'm clutching the extended handle of my rolling bag in one hand, my purse is snug on top, and I'm strolling along like I don't have a care in the world.

That, of course, is an illusion. Right now, I'm totally weighed down with care.

And what I'm caring about is Ash.

Caring about. Worrying about.

Thinking about.

Yeah, I'm thinking about him far too much. So much that it had taken all of my willpower to decline his offer to walk with me. Honestly, I'm not sure where that resolve came from. Some reservoir of strength I didn't even know I had, I guess. Because the truth is, sitting there with him in the lounge, sipping our drinks and talking about nothing and everything, was one of the best times I've had in a long time.

I'm not sure if that makes him an interesting raconteur or me a very easy audience. All I know for certain is that I had to get out of there. Because if I hadn't, that silent, throbbing thing growing between us might have ended up going somewhere. And I really don't want it to.

Liar.

Except I'm not. I'm not a liar at all. I don't want his kisses. I don't want his touch. I don't want to close my eyes and feel his fingertips on my naked skin.

I don't… and I do.

But it's don't that's going to win. It'll win because it has to.

Thankfully, I've reached my gate, and that puts an end to the Circle of Ash Angst that's going round-and-round in my head. I check the monitor, thrilled to see that we should be boarding in half-an-hour. Then I take a seat and pull out the book I'd grabbed for the trip. I'm two chapters into an Eve Dallas mystery, when I hear the people around me start shuffling and muttering. Since that's never a good sign, I glance up at the monitor, then groan as a voice over the PA announces what I've just learned: the flight's been canceled.

Well, shit.

Like everyone else, I get up and stand in line, hoping that they'll be able to put me on another flight or at least get me out in the morning.

As a rule, airports are not super fun places for waiting. They're even worse when you're waiting in line. I spend the time bouncing from foot to foot, irritating the people standing near me, and poking around on my phone as I try to find out for myself if there's any other way I can get to Manhattan today.

From what I can see, there's not.

Apparently, I have picked the most popular day in the entire year to travel. Ironic, since there's literally nothing special about today. Except that it's the day I want to travel on.

Two hours and many chapters into my book later, I finally reach the help desk. The woman behind it looks almost as frazzled as I feel, but her smile is genuine. "We're so sorry for the delay. Rest assured that we're going to get everyone to their destinations. Is your final destination New York?"

"Yes," I say. The flight terminates at New York, but it has a stop somewhere in the middle of the country along the way. I don't even remember where.

"Okay. It looks like we can get you on tomorrow's eleven-fifteen flight. Will that work for you?"

It's not ideal, especially when she tells me the arrival time, but since I don't have a choice, I conjure my best smile and tell her that it's just fine and dandy. She looks relieved. I have a feeling I may be the easiest customer she's had all day.

"So, question for you," I begin, then continue when she flashes that perky smile again. "Is there some place to sleep in the airport?"

"We've booked a room for you at one of the nearby hotels. There'll be a shuttle taking you there, and a shuttle picking you up in the morning. It's all in this material," she says, as she bends down, gathers some papers off a printer, and sticks them in a folder. I take it, grateful to have a place to crash. I flip through the pages to make sure everything's there, then give her one final thank you.

And that's that. My luggage and I are on our way to a free night at an airport hotel. Let the good times roll!

By the time I'm on the airport shuttle, I regret my snarky sarcasm. It turns out that waiting around with a billion other people for an airport bus is not jolly good fun. By the time I get to the hotel, get checked in, and get to my room, I don't want to do much more than shower off the LAX grime, then crash on the bed and watch whatever happens to be streaming on the television.

Except, of course, there's nothing decent streaming. They have on-demand shows, but none of them appeal to me, and while I could watch something on my iPad, I can't seem to get motivated.

I'm not a big drinker—my afternoon with Ash notwithstanding—but right now I want to be around other people. Since the entire hotel is probably filled with travelers stranded because of the weather, I decide to go downstairs and have a drink in the lounge with other sympathetic humans nearby. Maybe I'll even grab some nachos. Nachos are messy enough that I rarely eat them, but they sound like the perfect food to pair with the occasion.

Decided, I wrestle a fresh pair of jeans and a faded My Chemical Romance concert tee out of my bag, then head to the door, not even bothering to put on makeup.

Soon enough, I'm sitting at a two-top pretending to check my phone as I scope out the people sitting at the bar. Because writer . It's character research.

I see two couples who are clearly traveling together. There are six other women and four other men. The men are hitting on the women. I watch, amused, because it's clear to me that none of those men are going back with any of those women. And when the waitress brings me my glass of wine, I lift it in a silent toast to the men for at least giving it a try.

I take a sip, feeling a little bit sorry for myself. I won't be going back to the room with anyone either. Then I remind myself why that's a good thing.

A few minutes later, the harried waitress returns, this time with her tablet so that she can take my order. "Just nachos," I say.

"Oh. We don't have nachos." She nods at the menu that's on the table. I hadn't bothered to look at it. What bar doesn't have nachos?

"Just give me a second and I'll pick something else."

"No problem," the girl says. "I'll be right back." But I know she won't be right back, and I start to ask her to wait because I don't want another hour to pass before she comes around again.

But before I can get a word out, a familiar voice from behind me says, "She'll have cheese fries, two orders, and the crispy Brussels sprouts. And a second glass of wine. Plus, a double shot of Macallan 18. One ice cube."

The waitress actually titters as she flashes the kind of gooey smile that I imagine Ash is very familiar with. Then he walks around the table, and when I see the way he's smiling at me, I can't blame her for tittering at all.

"Can I join you?"

"It's a little late for that, especially since I'm making you pay. You ordered a hell of a lot more than I planned to."

"I don't want you going hungry."

I press a hand over my heart. "He cares."

"He does," Ash says, only his voice doesn't have the same goofy quality as mine.

I run my finger over the rim of my wine glass because otherwise I might look up at him. And I really don't want to look up at him. "I assumed you got out okay," I say to my Pinot Noir. "I figured you'd be in the clear heading south-ish."

He pulls out the chair opposite me and sits. Which means I can see most of him whether I want to or not. I take a sip, put down my wine, and give up the charade.

He grins, but whether it's because of my wine machinations or something else, I don't know.

"Apparently the storm is moving like a wall from one side of the country to the other. I was irritated at first. Now I'm kind of happy about it."

I lean back and study him. "Let me guess. You want to add tornado chasing to your repertoire of dangerous hobbies."

The corners of his mouth turn down as he slowly nods. "Interesting. I think I will add that to my list of possibles. Thanks for the suggestion. You'll have to go with me, of course."

"Why's that?"

He leans forward, then puts his hand on mine, his fingers making a V around the stem of my wine glass. "Because I think you'd like it. The speed. The chase. The danger."

I yank my hand back, leaving him with the wine. "You think wrong."

My pulse has kicked up tempo and I tell myself it's a panic attack.

It's not a panic attack. Although maybe I am panicking. Just a little.

"My mistake." He flashes that smile again. "I mean, who doesn't love chasing wind tunnels that can lift an entire bus and throw it a mile? I just assumed."

I'm saved from answering by the arrival of our order. But he's redeemed himself with me. A little, anyway.

We chat as we eat, and he scores even more points when he doesn't give me the eye when I polish off most of a basket all by myself. Over the years, I've noticed a horrible trend with LA guys, food, and women. As in, if you eat like you enjoy it, they get a look of fear in their eyes. One background actor I was set up with actually told me that if I wasn't careful, I'd "balloon" from a six to a twelve by the end of the date.

I told him I was an eight, and that pretty much ended our relationship right there. If I were to track down his Tinder profile—because I'm sure he has one—he probably only dates twos and fours.

All of which is to say that Ash seems entirely non-plussed by my appetite—which is only partially driven by my stress-eating tendencies. Mostly, I'm just having a good time. That, and the fact that I really like his food selection.

We don't talk much—it's been a long day for both of us. When he smiles, I smile back, but I'm not big on flirting, so I don't try. It's not necessary, anyway, because Ash is easy to talk to even though today is the first time we've had an extended conversation.

We've seen each other on and off for the last few years, but our verbal exchanges at the Stark home mostly consisted of me telling him how to work the espresso maker or asking him to watch the kids while I took a phone call. Nothing special. Not that someone could see, anyway.

But there was something underneath. At least, there was for me. And I liked to think there was for him, too. I especially liked to think that at night, when I couldn't sleep and would pass the time imagining that he'd slipped into the guest house. And then into my bed. He'd touch me in a way that kept the nightmares at bay, and I'd break apart under his touch before sliding into a blissful sleep, secure in the knowledge that nothing could hurt me in the strong, safe circle of his arms.

And now, as we sit here with each other chatting away like old friends, I force myself not to think about that familiar fantasy. Instead, I tell myself that I'd been right about the bigger picture. That we got along. That he was easy to talk to. And not in an icky sycophantic way, but in a click sort of way. As in we click.

It'd felt the same earlier today in the lounge, too. But now is the icing on the cake, because I feel as comfortable with him as I do with Aria.

She just fits. And so does Ash.

And two hours, two drinks, and a shared brownie sundae later, my assessment stands: Ashton Stone is great company.

"So what time is your flight tomorrow?"

I jump. "Sorry, mind wandering. What?"

"Tomorrow. When do you leave? Crack of dawn?"

I shake my head. "I have to be at the gate at ten-forty-five. So it's not bad at all. Apparently, the shuttles run every 15 minutes, so it should be easy enough to get back. You?"

"Eleven-fifteen."

I nod. "Nice not to have to get up with the sun," I say. "Especially since it's been a long day. A long day with alcohol," I add.

I see the way he's looking at me, his head slightly tilted. A slow smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. My mouth is suddenly dry, and I take a sip of wine before saying, "I should probably get some sleep."

"Probably," he says, his finger tapping on his second whiskey glass as he continues to look at me. "Or you could be bold and stay up a while longer."

His voice flows over me like warm honey.

"Oh." Once again, I lift my glass, only to find it empty. "Um, do you want to order something else?"

"Actually, yeah. How about ordering a movie?"

"A movie?" I consider that, not sure if it's relief or disappointment I'm feeling.

"I've got a suite with an insane entertainment system plus a wet bar. Seems a shame not to use it."

"You have a wet bar in your room? Then why are you down here?"

He finishes off the last of his drink, his eyes never leaving my face. "Full disclosure?"

I hesitate, then nod.

"I saw that the planes to New York were grounded. I thought you might be down here."

"Oh." I'm flattered. And in the kind of way that makes my skin tingle. "You have my number. You could have just called."

"Ah, but that's not a meet cute."

I laugh at his deadpan expression. "And cheese fries are?"

"Number one ranked meet cute according to IMDB. Trust me on that. So, movie?"

I'm biting back laughter even as I duck my head so he can't see my eyes. Going to his room would be a bad idea. A very bad idea.

I draw a breath and force myself to look at him, fully intending to decline. What comes out is, "A movie sounds great."

His grin broadens as he pulls out his wallet and puts two hundred-dollar bills on the table. "I don't feel like waiting for the check. I think that should cover it."

"Either airport drinks are insanely expensive, or you're an incredible tipper."

"Go with whichever makes me seem more interesting."

"Done," I say, then laugh when he twirls his hand in a tell me gesture. "No way," I say. "I keep my assessments to myself." I give him my best smile. "Wouldn't want you to get an inflated ego."

"It's too late for that," he says as he stands. "Shall we?"

"Sure. But I need to run by my room first." I have no idea what prompts me to say that. Except that I need a minute by myself. To settle this strange, rumbling feeling in my gut.

"All right. Let's go."

I shake my head. "Just give me your room number. I won't be long."

"I'll do better than that." He pulls the hotel's little paper key holder from his pocket and tugs out one of the two keys. Then he eases over to the empty table beside us and takes the Sharpie off the bill tray that the waitress had left. He writes his room number on the card, blows on it so the ink won't smear, then hands it to me.

"Perfect," I say.

"Don't take too long. I'm going to order wine and popcorn."

"Hotels deliver popcorn?"

"They better. Or I'll be having harsh words with the management."

A laugh bubbles out of me and I'm struck by how easy it is to be with this man. More than that, I see a little bit of his dad in him. A man used to getting what he wants because he has the personality and the means to make it happen.

Right now, he wants popcorn and a movie with me.

And damned if that isn't exciting… and downright terrifying.