Page 46 of Wicked Heat

It’s harder than it sounds, especially since this came out of nowhere, and I am about to have a full-blown panic attack right here on the Upper Crust patio surrounded by the morning coffee crowd. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Once again, I tell myself to just breathe, but it’s hard to hear with the fuck mantra slamming through my head. Then I jump when reality breaks through in the form of a hand at my elbow.

“Hey, hey.” The voice is calm. Soothing. “It’s me.”

I close my eyes as Ash makes a second attempt to take my elbow. This time, I don’t freak out. “Are you okay?”

I take one breath, then another. Then I look around. No one is staring at me. As far as I can tell, no one other than Ash even notices me.

I tilt my head and see the furrow in his brow. The worry behind his eyes. “Bree?”

I swallow. “I’m fine. I just—I was thinking about a character. I got lost. In the plot. You know.”

“Sure. Happens to me all the time. Only I’m thinking about a car or an engine. And there is no plot. Otherwise, totally the same.”

I hear the humor in his voice and meet his smile, grateful he hadn’t called me out. Maybe he has no idea that I’d frozen, but I doubt it. There’s not much that man misses.

I’m standing there grappling for something to say when another voice that is far too perky blasts into the moment. “You-hoo!”

I glance over to see Maggie Bridge wiggling her fingers at us from across the patio. A familiar looking blond guy in an Upper Crust tee is standing behind her, leaning over to point to something on the menu.

I want to melt on the spot, and I look up at Ash. “She saw my freak out, too, didn’t she?”

“Just tell her you didn’t eat breakfast and got light-headed.” His eyes are hard on mine. “Don’t try the character story on her. She won’t buy it. And you can tell me what really spooked you when we talk later.”

I nod. He’s right about Maggie. And as for that last bit… I’m not sure if he’s talking about what spooked me just now… or four months ago when I ghosted him at the airport hotel.

I shove the question aside for later. Right now, I have to deal with Maggie. And that’s more than enough to take on.

Once again, I’m overwhelmed with regret that I didn’t call and cancel. But my publisher had been so thrilled when Evelyn set this up, that I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

And the truth is that an interview with Maggie really will be good for the book. As much as I hate to toss her kudos, Maggie’s influence really has helped kick some books higher on bestseller lists and even get picked for celebrity book clubs and other cool things.

And as awkward as it is to be around Ash after totally ghosting him four months ago, his presence gives me a shot of courage. Besides, as much as it pains me to admit it, I need him. Somehow, someway, I’m going to muster up the courage to ask him for a boatload of money.

Bottom line? I can do this thing. Hell, I can do all the things.

“Darlings!” Maggie calls, as the blond guy passes us with a bus tub filled with dishes.

Martin, I think, then congratulate myself on remembering his name. I’ll have to ask Kari if they’re still—wink, wink, nudge, nudge—working hard together.

“Look at you both,” Maggie squeaks. “I’m so excited that I’m getting two for the price of one!”

She stands up, arms out and ready to take me in. I parry, then take the chair across from her. The table is square, but Ash doesn’t take a side for himself. Instead, he scoots his chair around and settles in beside me. I tell myself I should be annoyed that he’s invading my personal space. In truth, I appreciate the solidarity and wish he’d take my hand under the table, too.

Maggie flashes an overly white smile. Everything about her is just a bit too much. Her hair is one shade too dark for her complexion. Her eyebrows too thin for her face. Her lips too plumped. And the overall effect is that she looks just as fake as she is.

I suppose that’s appropriate.

“Look at you two.” She releases a dreamy sigh. “Do I hear the tweet of lovebirds.”

“No,” I say scooting my chair away from Ash. He does the opposite and twines his fingers through mine. I scowl, trying to ignore the fact that two seconds ago I’d wanted him to do that very thing.

But then he sets our joined hands on the table as if he’s presenting a prize to Maggie. I grimace, fighting the urge to stomp on his foot or elbow him in the ribs.

“Come on, Maggie,” he says. “You know better than to ask that. Some things should stay off the record.”

I pin him with The Gaze of Fire, but the bastard just chuckles.