Page 38 of Wicked Heat

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?”