by Miles, Amy
“You don’t have to thank me—” She begins, but he cuts her off.
“I want to.” His thumb rubs along her chin, barely an inch below her lower lip. She resists the urge to lean in closer, to embrace his touch instead of fleeing. This is a new feeling for her, one that she’s pretty sure she’s terrified of even thinking about, let alone acting on it.
Slade is experienced in ways that she can hardly compete with… if he even wanted to think of her in that manner. Judging by the way he’s looking at her right now, she thinks he just might be.
He lowers his hand to his side and leans in close. His warm breath sends goose bumps along her skin as he whispers into her ear, “I’ll buy you cake.”
Her eyes widen with surprise. How did he know this was her ultimate weakness? Ashlyn has never had much of a sweet tooth. Growing up, they didn’t have the money for it and now she hardly manages to remember to grab a quick bite, let alone stop and savor anything. But cake… that is something worth stopping for.
“Who told you?”
He smiles and taps the side of his nose. “I notice things.”
Ashlyn tugs on a strand of hair that has fallen haphazardly from her ponytail. Her bangs have grown too long. She really should get a haircut before tomorrow. The last thing she wants is to meet the authors looking like a ragamuffin.
She wishes Slade would step back just a tiny bit. Even one step would give her a bit more breathing room, but he’s not backing down.
His gaze is soft but intense. She doubts even if she found the nerve to say no he would accept that answer. That is one of the things she likes about Slade.
“I really don’t know.” She can feel her resolve wavering. It’s true that she does have a lot of work to do, but the idea of spending a little non-work time with him sounds pretty tempting as well. She looks down at her sweaty tank and clingy pants. “I’m kinda gross right now.”
Slade takes her by the arm and leads her toward the door. She hardly has time to grab her purse on the way. “Go get a shower and find something nice to wear. You can meet me in the lobby in an hour.”
“But—” She glances back over his shoulder at her clipboard.
“No buts.” He opens the door and gently shoves her out. He closes the door so only his head pokes out. “One hour. I’ll take care of everything here.”
“Promise?” She scrunches up her nose, not the least bit happy about being forced out of the room.
What if he doesn’t put the author names on the right tables? Or gets the gift bags mixed up? Or…
“I can see you worrying.” Slade laughs and waves her off. “Just go!”
Twenty-Three
Slade paces back and forth near the sitting area just around the corner from the lobby, his shoes squeaking as he makes a turn to head back again. His polo feels sticky along his lower back and under his arms, but he knows it has nothing to do with the heat. He is nervous. That has never happened before.
Women are something he can usually handle with ease. He is practiced, suave when he wants to be, but with Ashlyn, it’s completely different. He doesn’t want to trick her into liking him. He wants her to like the real him. The Slade most people never see.
Glancing at the clock perched just over the check-in desk, he sees that he’s about twenty minutes early. After racing through the final signing room preparations, he rushed up to his suite and jumped into the shower.
Nervous tension has wound him up tighter than a grandfather clock.
Will she show? Surely Ashlyn won’t stand him up. It’s not in her nature, but then again, her first instinct is to run and hide when she gets uncomfortable. He’s not really sure which emotion will pull the strongest tonight, but he sincerely hopes she will meet him.
In a way, he almost likes that she gets so nervous around him. It’s a nice change.
She intrigues him. Slade is pretty sure that has never happened to him before. He’s been with his fair share of beauties over the years, but most of them had the personality of a rock. Hard, flat, and dull.
Ashlyn is different. She is quiet but fiercely opinionated, reserved but deeply compassionate to anyone she meets. There is something so warm and inviting about her once you can get her to open up. The trouble is he’s sure most people wouldn’t take the time to do that, and they would be missing out on something wonderful.
But as excited as he is to spend time with Ashlyn, a cluster of doubts begins to nag at him. Was it too soon to ask her out for dinner? Even as the words crossed his lips, he knew she would freak out, but he doesn’t regret asking. Not if that means he has a chance to peek over her protective wall again.
Maybe it’s the challenge that keeps drawing him back. To be honest, he’s not really sure. It’s so hard to put his finger on it, so he’s not even going to try.
All he knows is that over the past couple of days, he has enjoyed spending time with Ashlyn. He finds her quiet, hesitating humor to be refreshing. She doesn’t paw at him or even attempt to touch him in any way. When she looks at him, it’s almost as if the physical side of him melts away and she sees the real him.
With a loud sigh, he sinks onto a low bench and clenches his hands into fists as he glances at the clock again.
“Hot date?” asks a man from behind the open pages of a newspaper a few chairs over. Slade sees the headlines are plastered with news on the newest political uprising happening in America.
“No, it’s not like that.”
“Sure it’s not.” The man folds the newspaper in half and places it on the seat beside him. “You’ve got a tell.”
“A what?”
“A tell is a sign that gives something away, and you’re as jumpy as a jack rabbit.”
Slade forces his knees to stop bouncing. The man smiles and removes his reading glasses, tucking them into a soft pouch in his front shirt pocket. “She must be someone pretty special to get you all wound up.”
Slade opens his mouth to respond but closes it slowly. He never really stopped to think about it like that. Has Ashlyn become special to him?
“I’ll take your silence as a yes.” The man pushes up from the leather chair. His stance is hunched at the shoulders, but Slade can’t tell if it’s from old age or weariness. Probably a bit of both. “Good luck to you, sonny. You’re gonna need it.”
Slade starts to respond when he hears a high-pitch laugh come from the bar. He turns around, his neck popping as he cranes to see.
There, just down the hall from the main lobby, Slade finds Tamsin at the center of attention. Considering what she’s wearing, it’s not hard to judge what sort of crowd has gathered.
Perched atop a barstool, Tamsin flaunts a skimpy white halter with off-shoulder sleeves. The tie at the back hardly looks capable of containing her ample chest. Her skirt is a blue-and-white plaid, reminiscent of a boyhood schoolgirl fantasy. It sits high on her thighs and when she shifts to cross her legs, she takes away any need for imagination.
As he shifts in his chair to watch, Slade realizes Tamsin has started drinking early. She’s way too tipsy for only nine in the evening.
A group of five men are circled around her. Their expressions are ripe with sordid desire. Slade can tell those men are just itching to get their hands on her.
“Another round, please,” one of the men shouts to the bartender as he holds a fifty-dollar bill in the air.
Without thinking, Slade rises from his chair in the lobby and rushes to the bar. He barrels straight through the group, knocking two of the men off their chairs.
“Hey! Watch it!”
Slade doesn’t bother to respond as he scoops Tamsin into his arms.
“Slade?” She blinks, her head lolling against his shoulder. “Put me down. You have no right to—”
“Save it, Tamsin. I’m doing you a favor.” He turns and is confronted by three very irate men. Slade tightens his grip on Tamsin’s side and searches for the bartender, but he isn’t within sight. He must have gone out back to fill the man’s drink
order.
“I don’t want any trouble, mates.” He glances around and realizes the bar is practically empty. Two waitresses lounge near the back of the bar, chatting in low tones as they roll silverware in paper napkins. An older man in a business suit sits with his back to the TV, too focused on his iPad to notice anything amiss. Another man sits at the end of the bar, his shoulders slumped and his hands clutching his pint as if it were his only lifeline. Slade doubts he would put up much of a fight.
“We ain’t your mate, pal.” A tall man with a ginger-colored goatee stands in Slade’s path. His shirt is pulled taut over a wide expanse of muscle. He looks like a wrestler who downed a few too many protein shakes laced with steroids. His friends gather at his back, each one only a tiny bit smaller than their leader.
Slade eyes each man in turn, sure he’s going to regret this in the morning. The only thought that goes through his head as he gently sets Tamsin down on the barstool is that she is going to be furious if he shows up tomorrow with a black eye… or worse.
He glances toward the bar and notes that the bartender has yet to return. Great!
Is this really going to happen in a swanky hotel?
He’s had to break up plenty of pub fights in his time at the White Horse, but it’s been a while since he was the intended target.
“We really don’t want any trouble,” he says, raising his hands in surrender. “I just want to escort the lady back to her room so she can sleep this off.”
“Who made you her bodyguard?” A man to his right growls. His arms are sleeves of tattoos, disappearing and then winding up from beneath his shirt collar. The metal gage in his ear looks wide enough for Slade to put two fingers through.
Where the heck did Tamsin run across these blokes?
“I’m just a friend. That’s all.”
“A friend?” The man who appears to be the leader of the pack strokes his goatee. “Well, it seems to me you want in on a piece of the action. Isn’t that right, boys?”
Slade’s fists clench at his sides.
“Or maybe he’s already had himself a taste.”
“Not nice to hold out on us.” The man to Slade’s left looks like he’s had a bit of his ear gnawed off. A fleshy scar runs around the back of his ear toward his jaw.
Slade suppresses a shudder. This is not going to end well for him.
“Look, there’s no need to be a git about this.” He reaches into his wallet and pulls out a few American bills. “Here’s thirty dollars. Enjoy a few drinks on me. What do you say?”
A hand snatches out to seize his money before Slade even realizes there was a man standing beside him. The scent of cheap alcohol and cigarettes oozes off the man. “I say we take his money and his girl.”
Tamsin sniffs indignantly. Slade glares over his shoulder at her. “Did you really have to pick these guys to fool around with?”
She shrugs and rests her forehead on the bar. Perfect. A lot of help she is!
Slade sinks down a bit, widening his stance as he waits. He can feel the tension building as the five men converge on him. It’s hard to watch all of them at the same time.
He locks his gaze on the leader and tries to notice any quick movements in his peripheral. He dodges the first punch easily enough, but the second catches him in his side when he’s distracted by Tamsin’s outcry. Slade gasps, feeling a jab of pain ricochet through his ribs.
His pulse pounds in his ears, his vision blurred by pain. Bloody hell, that hurt!
Lifting his hands to defend himself, Slade sidesteps a wild punch. He shifts again, light on his feet as he lashes out, landing a punch on the leader’s cheek. He can feel the impact ripple up through his arm, and he winces as his knuckles pop.
He shakes off the pain and rises onto his toes as the leader’s friends cheer him on. They circle in around Slade, forcing his back against the bar. An uppercut to his side leaves Slade breathless and in agony.
As Slade braces for the next punch, he underestimates the man’s swift kick to his side and crumples to the ground. He cries out as a boot stomps down on his hand, grinding the rubber soul into his flesh.
“Hey!”
The boot lifts and the pain eases. Slade rolls to his back, closing his eyes as relief washes over him. He clutches his hand to his chest as the bartender emerges from the back room. The two waitresses stand just behind him, watching from the safety of the doorway. “You five need to move on or I’m calling the cops.”
The ginger-haired leader’s scowl makes Slade wonder if he might just choose option three and turn on the bartender instead. He pulls back his leg and gives Slade a swift kick in the ribs. Slade grunts, curling in on himself.
“Come on, Rhett. He’s not worth it.”
“It’s not about him,” the leader growls, pausing to glance over at Tamsin. She cowers back from his openly hostile stare. He resists his friends’ urging until the bartender picks up the phone and begins to dial.
“We’re outta here.” He spits at Slade and stomps out of the bar. His goons follow close behind.
Slade rolls to his side to watch as the group heads for the revolving front doors and out into the night. He groans and tries to rise but finds his side far too tender to manage easily.
“Oh God,” Tamsin cries as she drops by his side. Her makeup is smeared, her top slightly askew. “Did they hurt you?”
“Are you mental?” he asks, incredulous. “Of course I’m hurt. That’s normally what happens in a fight.”
The glitter caked on her eyelids becomes more pronounced when she narrows her eyes into a glare. “Only if you suck at fighting.”
“I do not suck at it.” He winces as he pushes up to a sitting position. “I was outnumbered.”
“Only one guy hit you.”
Slade grits his teeth, refusing to be baited. The stabbing pain in his side steals away his breath as he tries to push up to his feet. “Most people would just say thank you.”
“I didn’t ask you to do that.” She protests. Gripping the barstool, she fights to rise. Her legs are wobbly and her depth perception is definitely lacking. She sways beside him, her glossy gaze fighting to remain focused on him.
“Of course you didn’t ask me. You’re too pissed to even walk straight.” Slade slowly uncurls his back, grimacing as the muscles in his side stretch. Bad idea!
“You okay?” The bartender holds out a bag of ice to him as he rounds the end of the bar. “Crystal came running as soon as she realized what was happening, but I’m afraid this old leg doesn’t let me get around as good as I used to.”
Slade raises his gaze to see a strap going around the man’s thigh. He realizes the back of his leg is encased with a black brace. Silver hinges at the sides of his knees are the only real giveaway against his black plants.
“Couldn’t have done much to help you in a fight, but I’m a whiz with a phone.”
His pain amplifies as Slade chuckles. “Glad you showed up when you did. I was about to have my arse handed to me.”
The bartender helps him up onto the barstool. The man’s grip is strong against his arm. “Thanks for the help. Not sure how much more of a beating I was in for, but I’m betting those other blokes were itching to take a turn on me.”
“I’ve done my fair share of fighting over a girl in my day. I prefer to let the cops fight my battles now.”
Slade nods, clutching his side. “Sounds like a better plan than mine.”
He turns to find Tamsin struggling to remain upright. “I should probably get her back to her room. Do me a favor? Next time you see her down here, just cut her off early. When she gets pissed at you, just tell her Slade’s looking out for her.”
The bartender nods and helps him get Tamsin on her feet. Her feet buckle as she takes a step and Slade grunts as he takes on her weight to keep them both upright. He grits his teeth against the pain but manages to get them out of the bar and into the lobby.
“This would be easier if you would actually help me walk.” He grunts.
The women working at the front desk watch him as he passes by slowly. He can only imagine what they must be thinking to see a young guy carrying a scantily clad and very drunk woman toward the elevator.
“It’s okay. She’s just had a bit too much to drink. I’m taking her up to bed now,” he calls out. As he turns to press the up button, he winces, realizing what he just said probably didn’t make this awkward situation seem any less messed up.
Twenty-Four
Ashlyn lifts the strap of her black dress onto her shoulder, annoyed that it keeps slipping off. Her knees bounce as she searches the lobby again for any sign of Slade. The large golden clock perched on the wall above the check-in desk says that he’s nearly twenty minutes late. She can’t really fault him for the entire twenty minutes, though. She was running behind by at least ten of them.
“Where are you?” she whispers to the empty lobby.
Fidgeting with the hem of her dress, Ashlyn agonizes over whether or not she dressed properly for the occasion. Slade had told her to dress nice, but to what level was she supposed to rise? When you stop and think about it, anything is nicer than sweaty exercise clothes.
Her high-heel shoes have already begun to make her ankles ache. A blister began to form before she even reached the lobby. Of course that might be because she spent ten minutes pacing frantically in her room, trying to talk herself into actually going through with this.
What was she thinking to agree to dinner with him? Doesn’t that technically mean this is a date? Is that what he intended, or is she overthinking this entire situation?
Ashlyn sighs and leans back against the soft back of her armchair. She watches couples come and go, some dressed in fancy suits and dresses for a night out and others wearing simpler clothes for sightseeing. She envies the latter.