Page 3 of Wicked Heat

That she wanted him.

But that was all just his fantasy. Why the hell would she want him? Not after what he’d done.

He might have fooled the press. They’d gone from calling him reckless, to praising his determination and skill, to telling the world that he never backed down. That he was the man who went after what he wanted and wrote his own damn rules.

He was Ashton Fucking Stone, and when he set a goal, he achieved it.

That’s how the media spun it, anyway.

But Ash knew better than anyone that those reporters were morons.

Yup, Ashton Carrington Stone was a walking, talking lesson in the decline of journalism. Because he wasn’t the man they described. Not really. Maybe he could toss them a bone in the context of business. But in the personal?

Not even close.

But—damn him—four months ago, he’d let himself believe his own press. He’d spent a few days in his father’s house, and once again, Bree was there.

That’s when he’d seen it. That flicker of heat in her eyes. More, he’d felt it. The way the air had sizzled when they stood close. When he’d caught her arm as she’d stumbled on the stairs.

It had been late—well past two in the morning—and she’d been wearing a tank top that accentuated her figure and baggy sweats that suggested she didn’t care how she looked. Her long hair had been pulled into a messy bun, and when she’d met his eyes, hers were dark and heated.

More than anything, he’d wanted to fall into that fire with her. To lose himself in the heat of her touch. The warmth of her kisses.

So, yes. He’d leaned in. Then his little sister had called out, and Bree had bolted.

Disappointing, but probably for the best.

A few days later, both their flights had been canceled and they’d ended up together at the airport hotel’s bar.

She’d been right beside him, their hands had brushed, and that simple touch had sent a riot of lust and longing racing through his veins. And in that moment, he’d been certain that she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

He’d never been so wrong.

He’d given her his spare key, then waited for her, pacing his room as he sipped Scotch, but tasted anticipation.

She’d ripped his guts out. Left him hanging.

It had taken him two drinks to realize the truth. A sad testament considering how much the press praised his intellect. Apparently, that only applied to math and science. Because she never showed, and he hadn’t seen that coming. Why would he? Ashton Fucking Stone hadn’t been stood up before. Not one single time.

He didn’t much like the feeling.

He’d called, of course. But she didn’t answer her phone. And the only thing that finally quelled his rising fear and certainty that something had happened to her—because surely she wasn’t intentionally staying away—was the flashing light on his room phone. And the message she’d left on the hotel’s voicemail.

I can’t.

Two little words.

Two tiny, throwaway words from a woman he barely knew, and yet they’d hit him with more force than a Formula One race car crashing into the sidewall.

It had been a definitive message. A solid goodbye. More than that, it had been a firm go away.

The woman didn’t want him.

So why the hell was he now sitting outside a bookstore some four months later, hoping to talk to her? Did he really think he’d be able to change her mind? Or that he’d be satisfied just being friends?

Better to walk away, but he couldn’t make himself do it. There was desire on both sides, he was certain of it. And one way or another, he was going to make Bree Bernstein his. He was Ashton Fucking Stone, after all. What was it the press was always saying? That he never backed down? That when he set a goal, he achieved it?

They were right. He got what he wanted. Always.