Chapter 1
Asher
“Sir, I’m going to need you to remove your shoes,” the airport security woman shouts.
I swear, the people standing in line behind me can hear the verbal face-slap I just got.
Despite having TSA PreCheck, I comply, but only because I cannot miss this flight.
It’s the last direct flight until tomorrow.
And tomorrow, it’ll be too late.
It still doesn’t stop me from scowling, though. I pay to keep my shoes on.
“Your phone, sir,” she says, and I pull it from my pocket and toss it in the bin.
“Do you have a laptop in your bag?”
“I don’t usually have to–”
“Laptop in a separate bin, sir,” she says over me.
After I begrudgingly jump through all the hoops that DIA security can come up with, thoroughly convinced the woman is getting paid to pull it out of her ass on the spot, I attempt to march through the scanner.
Of course the thing goes off like a fucking air raid alarm.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter.
“I think it’s your belt, sir.”
“Are you fucking–” I stop mid-sentence when a security guard with the temperament of a bulldog puffs his chest.
I whip the belt off and toss it in the bin, too. Only when I am half-dressed and my carry-on is completely disheveled do they let me pass. You’d think this bitch was Gandalf the Gray. I grab my bag off the line, zip it up, and dash towards my gate; passport, phone, wallet, and shoes in hand.
I think this would be a good time to mention that I am not a rash man.
Am I boarding a flight to Costa Rica right now? After impulsively catching a redeye instead of going home, ordering take-out, and watching the Broncos game like I’d planned?
Yes.
Did I book a secluded beachfront villa miles from civilization and pack nothing but a carry-on containing only two changes of clothing and the shoes on my feet? Well, in my hand?
I did.
Did I also purchase two seats on the plane for the flight back instead of one?
You better believe it.
Because while I, Asher Levine, am not a rash man, it recently came to my attention that my best friend’s little sister and my nemesis are in Costa Rica as we speak, getting ready to walk down the aisle.
And I intend to stop them.
Alright, so I do sound a bit crazy.
Harper St. James is a bottle rocket. Long red hair. Bright green eyes. Perfect pouty lips and a laugh that makes everyone within a twenty-five-foot radius stop and smile.
Am I being cringey?
