Page 45 of Wicked Heat

Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel better.

Fourteen

As soon as I pull into the lot at Upper Crust, I see the red Mercedes. The same one in which he’d driven me to the airport four months earlier.

Ash.

I close my eyes and breathe, trying to extinguish that spark of fear that has risen inside me.

It could be him. Ashton Stone really could be my blackmailer.

I don’t want to believe it, but I have to at least consider it. I can’t trust my own judgment. I know that. Wasn’t Rory proof enough that I’m a fool where men are concerned? And Ash sent a text this morning saying he wants to talk to me after the interview. Why? To harangue me for bailing on him back at the airport? To suss out whether I’ve figured out that he’s my tormentor? To apologize for freaking me out at the coffee shop? For some other reason I can’t even imagine yet?

I don’t know. All I know is that I’m dreading being alone with him. Dreading asking him for money. And at the same time, I’m secretly, ridiculously happy that he’s going to be beside me when Maggie Bridge starts in on my life.

Am I a mess or what?

“I know you don’t like Maggie,” Kari says when I pause at the walk-up counter to order a latte and a cinnamon roll. “But I can’t wait for her article to come out. Your book sales are going to skyrocket.”

I grimace. “You really think so?” Skyrocketing sales sounds great. A debt owed to Maggie does not.

“Hell, yes. Her column is syndicated. It’s going to be printed all over the country. Maybe in Europe, too.”

Her enthusiasm is infectious, and I decide to treat Maggie like the Bad Thing you take with the Good Stuff. You may have a broken ankle, but that means you can justify sluffing off and bingeing Real Housewives of Outer Space. Or whatever.

“Anyway, thanks for being excited for me.”

Kari scoffs. “Are you kidding. Actors come to Upper Crust every freaking day. You’re my first author. And, bonus,” she adds with a perky air punch, “you’re already my friend.”

“I can’t possibly be the first author to grab a muffin and a latte here.”

She shrugs. “First I know of.”

I nod sagely. “That makes sense. We authors hide under a cloak of anonymity.”

“Huh?”

“No one recognizes us because we’re not slathered all over screens and billboards,” I say. “It’s not like people pay attention to the tiny headshot on the book flap.

“You’re right. I wonder why?”

I roll my eyes. Sometimes Kari can be a little clueless. “Wish me luck,” I say, but before I can walk away from the counter, she grabs my hand.

When I turn back to look at her, she meets my eyes, her expression serious as she intones, “May the waters be calm and the skies always clear.”

I press my free hand over my heart, genuinely moved. That’s the motto of Bethany’s family, and the last words she said before Ace headed off into battle and the book ended in a cliffhanger.

Even though my goal is Maggie Bridge, I’m smiling as I head toward the back of the cafe. Kari and I became friends simply because I’d spent so much time at the cafe. But when I gave her an early draft of the book to read, our friendship kicked up a notch on both sides. The bonus is that not only does she love my work, but she also gives great story feedback, and the fact that she memorized the quote makes my morning. I love those words, and my publisher even printed them on the back of the book, right under my author photo.

And how weird is that? Having my picture on a book is⁠—

I stumble as the prattle in my brain slams up against the reality I’m trying to forget. My image. My picture. My secrets.

Caught on tape in the most horrible way.

Oh god oh god oh god.

Suddenly my heart pounds in my chest. Sweat trickles from under my arms down my sides. I stand frozen in place, trying to remember how to Just. Breathe. Normally.