Chapter 1

One

My cheek muscles are sore from smiling so much, but I don't care because—hands down—this is the absolute best day of my life. "Do you want it signed to you?" I ask, taking the copy of Reveries at Dusk from the outstretched hand of the last reader in line—a wide-eyed blonde in a UCLA tee.

"Are you kidding? Of course." She pushes a lock of hair out of her eyes, then spells her name for me. Her copy of my first—and so far, only—book is already open to the title page.

It's now fifteen minutes past closing time, and while there are a few people still mingling in the store, she's the last person in line. As for me, I may look like I'm seated, but I'm really floating on a cloud, not quite able to believe that so many readers had come to The Ripped Bodice—an incredible bookstore in Culver City—to meet me and get a signed copy of the book.

And not just that. Before settling at the table stacked with copies of Reveries , I'd done a Q&A in front of dozens and dozens of readers.

Seriously—Best. Day. Ever.

Even better than the day my agent called to tell me my book, a steamy women's fiction novel with magical elements, had made the top ten of the USA Today bestseller list.

I finish my inscription, then sign my name—Bree Bernstein—below where it's printed on the title page.

When I pass it back, the smiling blonde hugs it to her chest. "Thanks so much. I've read it twice already, and I can't wait for the next one. I have to know if Ace comes back." She holds a hand over her heart and swoons.

I know how she feels. Ace is far-and-away my favorite character. Not too surprising considering who I modeled him after. But that little authorial tidbit is meant only for me.

I offer a benign smile. "Ace died."

She cocks her head. "Please. There's no way Bethany is letting death keep her from her love."

"Is that what he is? What about Dirk?"

She presses her fingertips to her temples and groans. "Oh, man. You're killing me."

I laugh. "I promise it's not meant to be torture. Thank you," I add. "It means a lot that you love them as much as I do."

We chat a bit longer, then she asks for a pic with me before heading over to the counter to pay for the stack of books she's collected in the store—with mine right on top.

I wait until she's done, then hurry to the checkout area and start spewing out my thanks to the owners, Leah and Bea, even as I tell them that I hope I was okay. This was my first ever Q&A as a published author.

"You did amazing," Leah says.

"Fantastic," Bea adds.

A small part of me fears they are just being nice—Did I stumble over my words during my talk? Did I give away too much of the plot?

But mostly, I believe them. Today felt good. Like it's the second half of my job. The first part's where I sweat out the book in blood. The second part's where I feel the love and know it was worth it.

I spend another fifteen minutes chatting with the store staff, but I know they probably have things to do in this last hour before the shop closes. So I repeat my thanks, then gather up the ridiculously amazing goodie basket from the store. A few fans also brought gifts, and those are piled in the basket, too. A mix of candy and wrapped packages and homemade bookmarks and other trinkets that I treasure.

The summer sun is low in the sky when I reach the door, and it's hitting the glass in a way that turns it into a mirror. I pause for a moment, just looking into my own brown eyes, my long, almost-black hair hanging loose around a face that is lit up with so much joy I barely recognize it as mine.

I turn back to my hosts. "Thank you both so much. Today was a keeper."

Leah grins. "That's what we like to hear."

"Thank you again for coming," Bea says at the same time. She glances at the clock. "Are you going to be late? I should have cut questions off a few minutes earlier, but it was going so well."

"Oh. No. Not a problem." I feel my cheeks go red. During the Q&A, someone asked how I was going to celebrate after the signing. Since head home and stream a romcom sounded lame, I concocted a party in Burbank. "They know I'm coming from over the hill, and my arrival time is a moveable target." A total lie, but, hey, I write fiction.

Leah grins. "Have fun."

"And pop in next week," Bea adds. "We'll have more stock for you to sign."

"Will do," I promise as I head out, giddy all over again at the idea. It doesn't get much more author-y than that.

He shouldn't have come.

As far as Ash was concerned, that was a given. Axiomatic. As true a truism as ever there was.

He should have left Los Angeles two days ago, right after his breakfast meeting. He should have canceled tomorrow's interview, then hopped the first flight back to his Austin office. He could be kicked back at his desk, reviewing the most recent test results on the INX-20. Or prepping for his upcoming meeting in Vegas.

Or, hell, he could be chasing typos as he proofread next week's shareholder report.

Anything— anything —other than sitting parallel parked in a red zone while he waited for a woman who hardly knew he existed to step out of a bookstore and into his line of sight.

No . That wasn't true. She felt the tug of attraction as much as he did. He was certain of it.

She knew him.

She wanted him.

She'd pushed him away.

And wasn't that a hell of a thing?

She wasn't the first woman to reject him, of course. But he had ego enough to remind himself that it didn't happen often. Still, she was different. With her, the rejection had stung.

When they'd met, that first glimpse had felt like a punch in the gut. Albeit a pleasant—hell, arousing —punch. But he hadn't pursued anything. Wrong time. Wrong place. Wrong vibe.

Wrong man.

Back then, he'd been angry—drenched in hate for Damien Stark, the father he thought he understood, and on a mission to destroy a family he'd resented.

The nanny for his father's kids, Bree had merely been part of the scenery, and yet she'd pulled his focus without even trying. But the last thing he'd needed was the distraction of a woman, no matter how much he'd craved that distraction.

Even later, after the dust had settled and he was back home, she'd pop into his mind. Hundreds of miles between them—and much fewer words exchanged—and yet there she was. The beautiful girl with the haunting eyes who'd made his cock go hard with nothing more than a sideways glance.

That soft skin. That adorable smile. That sharp mind and stunning body he was certain would fit perfectly against his own. A body he shouldn't desire. But he did, and in his fantasies, they'd make love sweetly under the sun, her bare skin glistening with sweat as he thrust inside her. As she whispered that she knew him. That she believed in him.

That she wanted him.

But that was all just his fantasy. Why the hell would she want him? Not after what he'd done.

He might have fooled the press. They'd gone from calling him reckless, to praising his determination and skill, to telling the world that he never backed down. That he was the man who went after what he wanted and wrote his own damn rules.

He was Ashton Fucking Stone, and when he set a goal, he achieved it.

That's how the media spun it, anyway.

But Ash knew better than anyone that those reporters were morons.

Yup, Ashton Carrington Stone was a walking, talking lesson in the decline of journalism. Because he wasn't the man they described. Not really. Maybe he could toss them a bone in the context of business. But in the personal?

Not even close.

But—damn him—four months ago, he'd let himself believe his own press. He'd spent a few days in his father's house, and once again, Bree was there.

That's when he'd seen it. That flicker of heat in her eyes. More, he'd felt it. The way the air had sizzled when they stood close. When he'd caught her arm as she'd stumbled on the stairs.

It had been late—well past two in the morning—and she'd been wearing a tank top that accentuated her figure and baggy sweats that suggested she didn't care how she looked. Her long hair had been pulled into a messy bun, and when she'd met his eyes, hers were dark and heated.

More than anything, he'd wanted to fall into that fire with her. To lose himself in the heat of her touch. The warmth of her kisses.

So, yes. He'd leaned in. Then his little sister had called out, and Bree had bolted.

Disappointing, but probably for the best.

A few days later, both their flights had been canceled and they'd ended up together at the airport hotel's bar.

She'd been right beside him, their hands had brushed, and that simple touch had sent a riot of lust and longing racing through his veins. And in that moment, he'd been certain that she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

He'd never been so wrong.

He'd given her his spare key, then waited for her, pacing his room as he sipped Scotch, but tasted anticipation.

She'd ripped his guts out. Left him hanging.

It had taken him two drinks to realize the truth. A sad testament considering how much the press praised his intellect. Apparently, that only applied to math and science. Because she never showed, and he hadn't seen that coming. Why would he? Ashton Fucking Stone hadn't been stood up before. Not one single time.

He didn't much like the feeling.

He'd called, of course. But she didn't answer her phone. And the only thing that finally quelled his rising fear and certainty that something had happened to her—because surely she wasn't intentionally staying away—was the flashing light on his room phone. And the message she'd left on the hotel's voicemail.

I can't.

Two little words.

Two tiny, throwaway words from a woman he barely knew, and yet they'd hit him with more force than a Formula One race car crashing into the sidewall.

It had been a definitive message. A solid goodbye. More than that, it had been a firm go away.

The woman didn't want him.

So why the hell was he now sitting outside a bookstore some four months later, hoping to talk to her? Did he really think he'd be able to change her mind? Or that he'd be satisfied just being friends?

Better to walk away, but he couldn't make himself do it. There was desire on both sides, he was certain of it. And one way or another, he was going to make Bree Bernstein his. He was Ashton Fucking Stone, after all. What was it the press was always saying? That he never backed down? That when he set a goal, he achieved it?

They were right. He got what he wanted. Always.

Everything except Bree.

"You're an idiot, Stone. And you've got one hell of an ego."

Fuck that.

He turned the ignition key, firing the engine and fully intending to pull away. He even went so far as to put the car into gear and give it a little gas. Then he spat out a curse, slammed on the brakes, and shifted back into park before killing the engine.

And then, as he had for the last ninety minutes, Ashton Stone sat in the borrowed Mercedes… and waited.