Page 32 of Wicked Heat

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.”