Page 12 of Wicked Heat

I blow out of the coffee shop parking lot so fast, it’s a wonder I don’t roll over Ashton’s toes, and I keep my eyes on the road except for one quick peek into the rearview mirror.

He’s still standing there, and even though I’m quite a few yards away, I can see his frown, his brow furrowed as if I’m a total mystery to him.

I hit the gas and watch in the rearview until Ash disappears into the distance.

Gone. And that’s just fine with me, so long as Ash doesn’t decide to track me down and force an explanation as to why I blew him off at the airport hotel four months ago.

A squiggle of guilt curls in my belly. I’d left a total cop-out message for him instead of calling and actually talking to him. I know I should remedy that. Pull up my big girl panties. Dial his number. Explain that I can’t be what he wants.

Hell, I can’t even be what I want. There’s certainly no way with Ashton. We can’t even be “just friends.” Not knowing the way he makes my heart beat faster. The way my skin tingles when I’m around him. The way he makes me smile.

If I were any other girl with any other history, maybe I could tell him my reasons for staying far, far away. Bree Bernstein, though? She hides her secrets deep. And that’s as it should be. Because open or closed or slightly cracked, that door is best left untouched.

The bigger problem is that, whether I want to or not, I’ll be seeing him in less than twenty-four hours. Because as much as I want to avoid talking to that snake, Maggie Bridge, I know I can’t really cancel. My friend Evelyn Dodge—a semi-retired agent who knows everyone who’s anyone—jumped through a zillion hoops to set up the interview, to my editor’s great delight. “You may not like Maggie Bridge,” my editor had said, “but she’s got one hell of a readership. Evelyn Dodge is a goddess.”

Since that was one-hundred percent true on all counts, I’d agreed to the interview. And even though I hate that Ash is going to be on the perimeter, I have to suck it up.

As if I didn’t already have enough to deal with.

I grimace, realizing that, if nothing else, my mental side-journey into All Things Ash got that horrible message and website out of my head for at least a couple of minutes.

But it’s back now, and if I let it in, I know it will overwhelm me. I need to get small. To go inside myself the way I learned to years ago. Even if only for the forty-some-odd minutes I have left before hell rains down on me again.

My hand is shaking when I plug in my phone and order up a classic rock playlist. I crank up the volume and let the Rolling Stones, Queen, and AC/DC fill the car so there’s no room for thinking at all.

Except it doesn’t work. The terror of that message swirls inside me with too much force, and my mind is a raging storm of fear by the time I reach Burbank and my two-bedroom fixer-upper.

For a moment, I sit in the driveway, the car turned off, but my hands still tight around the steering wheel. I don’t know what to do. I need help. I need the police. Or a private investigator. Someone.

But the rules…if whoever is doing this found out I broke the rules….

Fuck.

With a determined swipe, I brush away the tears that cling to my lashes. Then I throw the door open, grab the gift basket and the fucking QR card that tainted it, and head for my front door.

“I was wondering when you’d get—” Aria begins, looking up from the sofa as I stumble inside. Her short hair is rumpled and her long, lean body is decked out in Snoopy leggings and her NYU tank top. She has the expression of a person with nothing more than chilling on her mind.

Then her expression changes, her pale blue eyes narrowing as she tosses her book aside and stands up. “What’s wrong?”

The worry in her voice causes a fresh round of tears to rise in my throat, but it’s the fact that she knows me so well that twists my heart. And without any warning, all the pain and fear and confusion and—dammit—memories burst out of me in a torrent of sobs and sniffles and hot tears that trail down my cheeks to tease the corners of my mouth.

Aria’s at my side so fast she might have teleported, and before I know it, we’re both on the lumpy garage sale sofa we bought two months ago after Aria finally left New York to move in with me. “Hey,” she whispers. “Hey, it’s okay.”

Her arms are around me, wrapping me up in love and comfort. Aria gives the best hugs on the planet, which she says is because she’s hugging with all eight of her arms. Her given name is Ariadne, because her mom thinks spiders are the coolest of creatures, and, yeah, it suits her.

Right then, I don’t care why her hugs are amazing. All I know is that I want to stay like that, letting my best friend comfort me until all the horror is washed away in a torrent of tears.

But that’s not going to happen. It’s not going away—in fact it’s coming back in just minutes—and crying won’t do shit for me.

With a massive effort, I ease free, then lean forward and bury my face in my hands. Aria knows not to keep holding me, but she grabs my favorite wearable blanket off the back of the sofa and puts it over my shoulders. I shove my arms through the sleeves, then pull it tight around me as I order myself to breathe. No crying allowed. Just. Freaking. Breathe.

“Was the signing terrible?” Her voice is overly calm. It’s the same tone she uses with the spooked animals who come to the clinic where she’s been working for the last ten days. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come. Dr. Kay wanted me to stay with Beyonce-the-bull-dog since he’s been so⁠—”

She cuts herself off with a sharp shake of her head. “Doesn’t matter. You want to talk about it?”

I don’t.

I don’t want to think about it, talk about it, write about it.