High Risk (Point of No Return Book 1)

by Brenna Aubrey

  His features froze. “Still. It would have been nice if you’d clued me in when I met you yesterday.”

  I fought rolling my eyes—someone had to take the high road here. “We didn’t meet yesterday, and you were given my full name the day we did meet. It’s not my fault you didn’t deem me important enough to remember.”

  He blinked, clearly irritated again, a fist clenching beside his solid thigh. “Let’s cut the bullshit, and you can tell me why you’re here.”

  He made no effort to sit down. In fact, he looked like he was going to flee the room at any moment.

  Straightening my spine, I was aware that I looked like a nobody. I definitely dressed like one. Silently, I cursed my decision to dress casually so that I could seem like more of a friend. Instead, I should have worn a power suit and designer heels. These macho military types responded to suits better than my own faded jeans and T-shirt.

  I lifted my chin and met his gaze and…ugh. Those eyes of his were so blue, it was impossible not to notice.

  Like, what color even was that, anyway? Indigo? Sapphire? Cornflower? No, cornflower was too light for that shade of deep blue. Like the deepest blue beneath the black of space. The color of the upper stratosphere, maybe, or even the thermosphere—not that I’d ever been that high.

  Damn it, even his eye color was fascinating to me. WTF. They were just stupid blue eyes. Ugh. I tore my gaze away and forced myself to remember the douchebaggery that came along with those heavenly blue eyes. It helped.

  “I’m here to discuss the plan.” And to figure out how much of a hot mess you are.

  His brows shot up. “Oh. I get to have input? I thought Daddy Dearest was running this show.”

  Oh God. Here we go again. He was invoking my dad at every turn. Either he was using his dislike of Conrad Barrett as a shield to deflect me, or the honest but not-so-kind things my dad had said to him yesterday were sticking in his craw.

  Either way, it was time he realized that I was not my dad.

  “I’m here to help you do your job, Commander Tyler. That’s it.” I raised my palms toward him. “Do you think I would agree to go through with this dog and pony show if I could easily talk my father out of his decisions?”

  I hoped it wouldn’t have to go further than daily check-ins. Maybe an imposed curfew if there was a need. I did not want to fight with him every step of the way.

  But I would. I would if I needed to.

  The ball’s in your court, Mr. All-American Astronaut Hero. I braced myself for whatever quip he’d volley back at me.

  He surprised me.

  Chapter 7

  Ryan

  Without another word, I spun and left Ms. Barrett in the living room, her arms crossed, her face flushed. The wet bar was in the next room. She could follow me there if she wanted to continue this conversation, and if she didn’t—so much the better. I walked across the living room to the wet bar, ducked behind it, and pulled out the half-empty bottle of Stolichnaya Elite. I poured myself a shot.

  Ms. Gray Barrett trotted after me. Her face was placid, eyes keenly observant, but no emotion showed as she watched me under the heavy rim of those glasses. She did, however, very noticeably check her watch again. It was close enough to the acceptable hour.

  I grinned at her before knocking back the vodka. This moment was worth it. I poised the bottle to pour myself another shot, but she leaped forward, holding her hand over the top of the shot glass, blocking it.

  Well, well, well. Spunky…and irritatingly nervy.

  I looked up, my brows raised. “Never come between a drinker and his vodka,” I said in Russian.

  Her mouth thinned, but that was the only clue to her emotions. Her voice was steady and self-assured. “Okay, you’ve made your point. I get it. You’re not happy about this.”

  A laugh burst forth from my chest before I even realized what was happening. “You have a talent for understatement, Ms. Barrett.”

  “Gray, please. I—”

  “Fine. Gray,” I barked. “Couldn’t your parents think of a more interesting color to name you after?”

  Her white teeth worked against her bottom lip. “It’s a nickname.”

  “So, you want to be my friend? Is that what this is all about?”

  Her dark brows knit. I bumped her hand with the base of the vodka bottle. She didn’t budge.

  With a drawn-out sigh, I recapped the bottle and set it aside. “I did a full year of the whole media circus for NASA after the accident. Paraded around like a prize pony for interviews, speeches, appearances, dinners, and press events. Been there, done that, got the fucking T-shirt.” I pointed at the NASA logo on my chest to emphasize my point.

  Her eyes dropped to my chest, and she rolled those pink lips into her mouth. It was only then that I realized how fascinating her mouth was. It was small, at the base of an exquisite pair of cheekbones. Her lips weren’t particularly thick or pouty, but she had this deliciously deep valley where her top lip bowed, from the bottom of her upturned nose to the top of that coral-colored lip. It was prominent and…alluring.

  Kissable. I bet her lips tasted very sweet.

  I blinked and shook my head. Damn. I hadn’t touched the vodka in over a week. That one shot was hitting me harder than I’d imagined it would. Mental note: go easy on the Russian dew.

  I straightened from the wet bar and took a step back even as I fortified myself with a deep breath. She watched me with those leaf-green eyes.

  “What’s it a nickname for?” I blurted before I even realized that I cared to know.

  She blinked and drew back. “Um, what?”

  “Gray. What’s it a nickname for? Why do they call you that?”

  Her thick brows arched over the top rim of her glasses, and she cleared her throat. “It’s short for my actual name. Angharad Grace.”

  “Oh. Yeah, that’s…that’s a mouthful.”

  “Says the guy who bursts out spontaneously in Russian?”

  I laughed but didn’t reply.

  “I was named after both my grandmothers. And ‘they’ don’t call me Gray. I call me Gray.”

  I narrowed my eyes at her. “You seemed surprised that I’m annoyed by this situation.”

  She shrugged. “I’m surprised you aren’t bothering to hide your irritation. I’m surprised by your flat-out rudeness. I’d figured that the logical part of your brain and your years of training would have helped you come to grips with getting done what needs to be done.”

  I shrugged, irritated at being called out. “I see no problem with getting the shit done that needs to get done. XVenture has rockets. They have astronauts. Now, let’s fly them. Let’s do this.”

  She shook her head. “We both know it isn’t that easy.”

  My eyes roamed her face as she talked. She had the most beautiful skin. It glowed, even in the darkened room with half the shades drawn against the late afternoon. As each moment passed, the more she stood up to me and pushed back at me, it dawned on me what an idiot I was to have forgotten meeting her that first time. She was the complete opposite of forgettable.

  A spark of attraction—tiny, surprising—popped in my chest and smoldered a little lower. Lingering.

  “Bottom line is this—are you ready to do your job?” she asked.

  “Why are you here?” I shot back.

  She readjusted her glasses and tilted her head to the side as if studying me. “I’m here for my future. For my dream job. And for Tolan. And for everyone else who dreams of being a part of the first-ever commercial astronaut program. People who want to make history, who no longer feel the government is doing what it should to advance humankind’s goals in space exploration. Why are you here?”

  My brows twitched up. Huh. She gave as good as she got, it seemed.

  I stayed silent, not quite knowing what to make of her candor. Lately, people didn’t show me much of it. They were too busy with the hero worship. No one ever spoke their mind anymore. And even though hers rubbed me the wrong way, it was r
efreshing to hear an honest opinion once in a while.

  From this angle, her dark-blond hair caught the light, and it glowed golden. It only added to that strange aura of know-it-all innocence she seemed to project. She was like…grown-up Hermione about to school Ron Weasley for the hundredth time. Wow.

  “I can’t help but wonder what it is you really want, Commander Tyler.” She gestured to the room around us. “Maybe it’s to sit around all day in a mansion paid for with book deals and speeches to your adoring public. Oh, and enjoying the perks of sleeping with women who think worshiping you is their patriotic duty.”

  Damn. Hermione indeed. “Any woman sleeping with me, I make sure that duty is the furthest word from her mind.”

  A fair bit of color washed over that glowing skin, and I had to admit to being satisfied to see it.

  And I decided right then and there that I wanted to cause more of it.

  “Obviously, you’re bothered by our plan to rehabilitate your image. Do you want to talk about that?”

  My mouth pursed like I’d sucked a lemon, overtaken by the feeling I should be lying on a couch. “Don’t play act the shrink with me.”

  A faint smile appeared on that pretty little mouth. “I’m not playacting.”

  I looked her up and down—a slender slip of a girl. She didn’t look older than twenty or twenty-one at the oldest, though I knew she had to be older than that to have finished enough schooling to hold a PhD.

  “Well, I don’t need a shrink—or a babysitter. I’m thirty-five years old.”

  She shrugged. “Don’t think of me as a babysitter, then. Think of me as your personal aide.”

  I scowled. “I already have an assistant.”

  “A chaperone? Overseer? Governess? Take your pick.” She held her hands up, palms open.

  “Escort?”

  Her hands dropped, mouth thinning. “Not that one.”

  “I don’t need—”

  “It doesn’t matter what you think you need.” She gestured to herself. “Or even what I think you need. The facts are that the investors aren’t going to toss in their money until they’re convinced your life isn’t a shitshow. We’re here to change the narrative, remember?”

  I stiffened. “A shitshow? Is that what you think my life is?”

  She pressed those little pink lips together. “Uh-uh. We aren’t going to do that. It doesn’t matter—”

  “It matters to me. What do you think?” You have issues, she’d said. Exactly what issues was what I wanted to know. And since she hadn’t held back before…

  She blinked, cleared her throat, and then adjusted the frames of her glasses on her nose. I stood, waiting, and finally, she folded her arms over her chest. Most women I’d been around did something like that to draw attention to their assets, but not this one. She was openly studying me. And besides—she didn’t have many assets. Not on her chest, at least.

  But I found her fascinating nonetheless. The way her collarbones peeked up from the scooped neck of her T-shirt like a stylized pair of wings. Parallel, slightly curved, graceful, ready to take flight. With my eyes, I traced the length of them. Then I raised my gaze and met hers.

  That spark popped again and seared hotter than before. I had the urge to taste that slender neck, those graceful collarbones—run my tongue along the length of them and feel her shiver in reaction…

  Frowning, I fought hard to hide those thoughts, though I was satisfied to note there was a similar struggle mirrored on her delicate features. Her brows drawn together. That intense stare of hers. Her mouth slightly open.

  She looked downright shocked.

  For something to do—to dispel the power of that moment—I repeated my question. I wasn’t about to let her off the hook. “Well? What do you think?”

  Her voice was shaky when she spoke. “I’m…reserving judgment.” She squared her shoulders in an almost adorable gesture. “But it goes without saying, especially in my field of study, that post-traumatic stress disorder is real and—”

  “I do not suffer from PTSD,” I bit out, closing a fist on the bar between us. Her eyes zoomed to that gesture, and I yanked my hand back, stiffening. Damn it. How had I let her rile me like this?

  It was shocking, really. She was so not my type. And lately, I had not been hurting for plenty of my type.

  Maybe it was that old conqueror’s instinct. It coursed through my blood like nourishment from mother’s milk. If I saw an insurmountable obstacle, I set my cap for it. It was as automatic to me as breathing. And right now, Ms. Gray Barrett seemed like a challenging and formidable obstacle indeed.

  A tasty little obstacle. My eyes drifted over her slender body again—only to take in her thin T-shirt embroidered with rockets and stars, her snug jeans.

  A space groupie, as we liked to call them. Funny, she didn’t seem as starstruck by a real-live astronaut as most of the Cape Cookies were. Maybe she preferred women. The next thought was that it would be a damn shame if she did.

  I drew back, startled, and forced myself to think about something else. Flight trajectories. Launch sequence—no, no, definitely not launch sequence. What the hell?

  I rounded the bar and quickly strode out of the room.

  Maddeningly, she trailed after me as I walked down the hall to the front coat closet, opening the door to grab my cross-trainers.

  “Come on, Commander. You were a Navy SEAL. If you can do three tours in the Middle East, you can—”

  “That’s a cheerful thought.” Been reading my background info, had she? Sounded like she had it committed to memory. Probably complete with psych notes on a notepad.

  “I’m just—where are you going?”

  “I’m going for a run,” I said, having slipped on my shoes. I threw a meaningful glance at her feet. “I’d say feel free to join me but those sneakers are never going to make it in the canyon.”

  “But we’re—”

  “See you when I get back, if you want to wait around that long. I’m sure I can be trusted not to throw myself off a cliff.”

  With a scowl, she followed me to the side door that led out to the backyard where I could enter the canyon via a trail and hit my usual running loop.

  She threw her slight body against the door before I could get it open. “You are not walking out on me after keeping me waiting for an hour while you screwed your trainer.”

  I pulled back, staring at her.

  “I want to go for a run. I need exercise.”

  “You just got plenty of horizontal exercise!” she shot back.

  I blinked, confused. She’d certainly waited a while to show her inner firecracker. Who the hell was this girl? Blocking me from pouring another drink, throwing herself across my door to keep me in the room, getting me tangled up in this horseshit scheme in the first place.

  My blood boiled. Yeah, I could have easily pulled her off the door. I could throw her over my shoulder and physically remove her from my house too. But she was Conrad Barrett’s daughter, for God’s sake. And yeah, he was a motherfucker, but his wallet was going to get me back to space. Hopefully.

  So, was I really stuck with this little pain in the ass of a waif?

  My jaw clenched, and I bent down to get in her face. “Get off the door,” I growled.

  She didn’t flinch, not even a blink. Instead, she took a deep breath and didn’t move. “I never said you had PTSD. I said I was reserving judgment.”

  I straightened. She was right. “But your implication—”

  “Listen, everyone knows you’ve been through a lot in the past year.”

  Christ. I liked it better when she was calling me on my shit. “Don’t patronize me.”

  “I’m not. But it is virtually impossible not to have trauma after what you’ve gone through. It doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.”

  I leaned in and met her, nose-to-nose, much as I had yesterday in the hallway at XVenture. “I do not have PTSD, got it?”

  Those green eyes held my gaze unflinchingly. “
I don’t care.”

  I tilted my head, certain I’d heard her wrong. “What?”

  She straightened, lifting her chin. “I said, I don’t care.”

  I let out a breath I didn’t even know I was holding. This girl was surprising me more with every new thing that came out of her mouth. “Really? So why bring it up?”

  “You asked me what I think. I gave you my honest answer.”

  “Well, you’re wrong.” My skin burned.

  “So you’ve said. I’m not afraid of being wrong. But you haven’t done or said anything to convince me otherwise.” Her eyes shot through me like darts. “Don’t ask me again, and I won’t have to tell you my opinion.”

  I shook my head. Damn. Why was the fact that she refused to relent on a wrong opinion bothering me so much? Maybe she didn’t care, but why the hell did I care so much?

  She nodded grimly. “Go ahead and go on your run. I’ll definitely still be here when you get back. In fact, while you’re gone, I’ll be picking out one of your spare rooms to stay in—obviously not the room you banged Suz in. I’m assuming you didn’t bang her in your own room.”

  I blinked. How did she know that? And—wait…what?

  She stepped away from the door and waved at it as if to dare me to step through it now. With an obvious shrug, she turned, glancing one last time at me over her shoulder before heading back into the living room.

  I glared after her and then, of course, followed her, aware that this was probably some reverse-psychology trick.

  “You are not staying here.”

  In the living room, I glanced at my coffee table, noticing her line of pens, some file folders, and a notebook all neatly arranged there. But there was no overnight bag of any kind, only a flat laptop case.

  “You don’t even have your things with you.”

  She turned to me. “I’ll survive until tomorrow. Then after our meeting with Victoria and Keely Dawson in the morning, I’ll slip out to get some clothes and come back. From then on, I plan on sticking to you like velcro.”

  “You aren’t staying here,” I repeated.