Page 37 of Wicked Heat

“Okay. It looks like we can get you on tomorrow’s eleven-fifteen flight. Will that work for you?”

It’s not ideal, especially when she tells me the arrival time, but since I don’t have a choice, I conjure my best smile and tell her that it’s just fine and dandy. She looks relieved. I have a feeling I may be the easiest customer she’s had all day.

“So, question for you,” I begin, then continue when she flashes that perky smile again. “Is there some place to sleep in the airport?”

“We’ve booked a room for you at one of the nearby hotels. There’ll be a shuttle taking you there, and a shuttle picking you up in the morning. It’s all in this material,” she says, as she bends down, gathers some papers off a printer, and sticks them in a folder. I take it, grateful to have a place to crash. I flip through the pages to make sure everything’s there, then give her one final thank you.

And that’s that. My luggage and I are on our way to a free night at an airport hotel. Let the good times roll!

By the time I’m on the airport shuttle, I regret my snarky sarcasm. It turns out that waiting around with a billion other people for an airport bus is not jolly good fun. By the time I get to the hotel, get checked in, and get to my room, I don’t want to do much more than shower off the LAX grime, then crash on the bed and watch whatever happens to be streaming on the television.

Except, of course, there’s nothing decent streaming. They have on-demand shows, but none of them appeal to me, and while I could watch something on my iPad, I can’t seem to get motivated.

I’m not a big drinker—my afternoon with Ash notwithstanding—but right now I want to be around other people. Since the entire hotel is probably filled with travelers stranded because of the weather, I decide to go downstairs and have a drink in the lounge with other sympathetic humans nearby. Maybe I’ll even grab some nachos. Nachos are messy enough that I rarely eat them, but they sound like the perfect food to pair with the occasion.

Decided, I wrestle a fresh pair of jeans and a faded My Chemical Romance concert tee out of my bag, then head to the door, not even bothering to put on makeup.

Soon enough, I’m sitting at a two-top pretending to check my phone as I scope out the people sitting at the bar. Because writer. It’s character research.

I see two couples who are clearly traveling together. There are six other women and four other men. The men are hitting on the women. I watch, amused, because it’s clear to me that none of those men are going back with any of those women. And when the waitress brings me my glass of wine, I lift it in a silent toast to the men for at least giving it a try.

I take a sip, feeling a little bit sorry for myself. I won’t be going back to the room with anyone either. Then I remind myself why that’s a good thing.

A few minutes later, the harried waitress returns, this time with her tablet so that she can take my order. “Just nachos,” I say.

“Oh. We don’t have nachos.” She nods at the menu that’s on the table. I hadn’t bothered to look at it. What bar doesn’t have nachos?

“Just give me a second and I’ll pick something else.”

“No problem,” the girl says. “I’ll be right back.” But I know she won’t be right back, and I start to ask her to wait because I don’t want another hour to pass before she comes around again.

But before I can get a word out, a familiar voice from behind me says, “She’ll have cheese fries, two orders, and the crispy Brussels sprouts. And a second glass of wine. Plus, a double shot of Macallan 18. One ice cube.”

The waitress actually titters as she flashes the kind of gooey smile that I imagine Ash is very familiar with. Then he walks around the table, and when I see the way he’s smiling at me, I can’t blame her for tittering at all.

“Can I join you?”

“It’s a little late for that, especially since I’m making you pay. You ordered a hell of a lot more than I planned to.”

“I don’t want you going hungry.”

I press a hand over my heart. “He cares.”

“He does,” Ash says, only his voice doesn’t have the same goofy quality as mine.

I run my finger over the rim of my wine glass because otherwise I might look up at him. And I really don’t want to look up at him. “I assumed you got out okay,” I say to my Pinot Noir. “I figured you’d be in the clear heading south-ish.”

He pulls out the chair opposite me and sits. Which means I can see most of him whether I want to or not. I take a sip, put down my wine, and give up the charade.

He grins, but whether it’s because of my wine machinations or something else, I don’t know.

“Apparently the storm is moving like a wall from one side of the country to the other. I was irritated at first. Now I’m kind of happy about it.”

I lean back and study him. “Let me guess. You want to add tornado chasing to your repertoire of dangerous hobbies.”

The corners of his mouth turn down as he slowly nods. “Interesting. I think I will add that to my list of possibles. Thanks for the suggestion. You’ll have to go with me, of course.”

“Why’s that?”