Priceless (An Amato Brothers/Rixton Falls crossover)

by Winter Renshaw

  Worst. Decision. Ever.

  And I’ve made plenty of bad ones in my day.

  My stomach growls, but I’m too pissed off to eat.

  I check the time. Daphne’s been gone for over two hours now. Deep down, I know she’s right. This whole thing is what it is. We can’t change it. We have to think of it as an adventure. And I, of all people, should have no problem doing that because I came out of the womb with an appetite for adventure.

  It’s just hard to shake that powerless, trapped feeling that washed over me the second I heard them say our flight had been canceled.

  For the first time in years, I just want to go home.

  I need to go home.

  Forcing myself to stand, I head to the bathroom to splash some cold water on my face and take a good look at myself.

  It’s New Year’s fucking Eve.

  I’ll be damned if I sit up here all night alone and feeling sorry for myself.

  Stripping naked, I hit the shower and begrudgingly decide to haul my ass to that party downstairs.

  A pianist in a penguin suit plays an instantly recognizable Frank Sinatra tune on some makeshift stage in the Hixson ballroom. Dozens of small crystal chandeliers hang from the extra-tall ceiling and guests dressed in varying interpretations of formal wear dance and chat, champagne flutes in hand and carefree smiles on their faces.

  “Champagne, sir?” A young male server balances a plate on his flat palm.

  I take a flute and mouth the words, “Thank you.”

  I scan the party crowd a bit more, gaze landing on a dark corner of the room where a man and woman sit with a flickering candle between them. Staring harder, their outlines grow clearer, and I recognize the one on the left as Daphne.

  The man on the right has something on his sleeve. Squinting, I can’t quite make it out from all the way over here, so I move closer, navigating through the thick crowd. As soon as it comes into focus, I realize he’s an airline pilot. A captain no less. And he showed up to this party in full uniform.

  Fucking douche.

  He just wants to get laid.

  I sip my champagne, observing the dog and pony show going on before me. The asshole laughs at everything Daphne says, reaching his hand across the table and finding every excuse to touch her. He sweeps hair from her face. Places his hand over hers. Scoots his chair closer. His attention is laser-focused on her, like she’s the only woman in the room, and she eats it up like this is the first time anyone’s ever used that trick on her before.

  Psh.

  The pilot points to her champagne flute and she nods. He lifts it with ease, so it must be empty. He excuses himself, flashing her a devilish smile, and walks off, and I use this opportunity to steal his spot because I’m an asshole like that.

  “That was qui-” Daphne freezes when she realizes it’s me and not Mr. Sexy Pilot Pants. “Cristiano, what are you doing here?”

  Tossing back a sip of champagne, I cross my legs and lean into the chair, making myself comfortable.

  “Never mind what I’m doing here,” I say. “Can we talk about what’s happening here?”

  She scrunches her nose, balking.

  “Please tell me you’re not seriously considering fucking that douche tonight,” I say.

  Her arms fold across her chest. “I’m not sure how it would be any of your business.”

  “It isn’t.” I shrug. “I’m just saying, he came here to get laid. He set a trap and you walked right into it. I don’t know you, Daphne, but I’m pretty sure you’re smarter than that.”

  She refuses to look at me. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

  “He’s wearing his pilot’s uniform to a New Year’s Eve party for god sakes,” I say.

  “Maybe he’s stranded like us and it’s all he had.”

  “You mean to tell me pilots don’t carry a spare change of regular clothes in those little suitcases they wheel through the terminals?”

  Her gaze flicks to her right. “He’s coming back. Stop talking.”

  “Daphne,” the pilot says when he returns, placing their filled flutes on the table. We make eye contact and I give him a wide smile that more or less says, “I dare you to fuck with me because I’m onto your shit.”

  Daphne’s stunned expression leads the pilot to immediately move closer to her.

  “Everything okay?” he asks. “Do you know this guy? Is he bothering you?”

  Her lips part and her gaze travels between the two of us.

  “He’s staying with me,” she says to him.

  The pilot steps back, his posture straightening like he’s suddenly reassessing the situation. He still holds two champagne flutes in his hands, and my gaze focuses on his left ring finger, where a lily-white tan line practically shines in the dark where his wedding ring should be.

  “I don’t know him, know him,” she says. “I just met him today.”

  The pilot snorts, offering an insecure smile as his gaze passes between us. “Look, you seem like a nice girl and all, but I’m not into that kind of . . .”

  “No.” She rises, her hand splaying across her chest. “It’s not like that. That’s not what I meant. And he was just leaving anyway.”

  She motions for him to come back but he continues moving away, his face wearing the phoniest apologetic smile I’ve seen in my life. Leaning back in my seat, I’m sure I’m beaming with pride because mission fucking accomplished.

  She’ll thank me later.

  “You happy now?” She hunches forward, giving me the evil eye as soon as the pilot’s out of sight.

  “Exceedingly.”

  Rolling her eyes, she lifts a brow and says, “I hope you didn’t cock block him because you wanted me all to yourself, because I can promise you that’s not going to happen tonight. Or ever.”

  Scoffing, I fight a smile and lean in. “You’d be so lucky.”

  “Are we done here?” She rises, slipping her bag under her arm and scanning the area. I hope to God she’s not looking for that asswipe.

  “No,” I say. “Sit down.”

  She flashes me an incredulous glare and keeps her feet firmly planted, completely disregarding my request for her company.

  “Daphne,” I say. “Sit.”

  “I’m not a dog.”

  “Clearly.”

  “What do you want? You don’t even know me and you’re acting like a crazy, jealous boyfriend. I’m starting to regret taking you in off the streets today.”

  Chuffing, I rise. If she won’t sit with me, then I’ll stand with her. “First of all, I’m not the crazy, jealous type. Second of all, you took me in off the streets because you stole my suite. The suite that I reserved.”

  Her arms fold along her chest and she pulls her shoulders back, nose lifted. “And is there a third?”

  “Yes.” I clear my throat. “You should be thanking me right now.”

  “For what?” Her face is pinched.

  “That pilot you were about to fuck was married,” I say. “Or did you not notice the indentation on his left ring finger?”

  Daphne glances to the side, and I watch her expression change from angry to confused. “I didn’t look at his finger.”

  “Yeah, well, I did.” I shrug, boasting like a proud asshole. “Anyway, maybe you’re into screwing married men. I don’t know.”

  “I’m not,” she says with a sigh. “But I wasn’t going to fuck him. For the record, I wasn’t.”

  “Mm hm.”

  She smacks me across the chest. This girl has balls. “Just stop, okay?”

  “Stop what?”

  “Gloating,” she says, re-crossing her arms. “And stop following me around. And stop trying to intervene with literally everything I’m doing. I can’t get away from you. And you’re kind of a know-it-all, which annoys the hell out of me, but you’re also extremely attractive and those two things put together confuse the hell out of me.”

  Inhaling, I let her words marinate for a bit. I suppose, from the outside, it seems like
I’m following her around. I’m not. I understand her concern, but if she was truly that concerned, I doubt she’d have offered to share her suite with me.

  “I get that you’re pissed about being stranded,” she says, “and you were probably bored up there in that room all alone, but coming here and ruining the perfectly enjoyable evening I was having is beyond shitty.”

  Our gazes meet, but I can’t get a read on her. It’s like she’s sad and angry and confused and maybe even slightly . . . turned on? Her chest rises and falls and her full, bee-stung lips are slightly parted.

  “I didn’t know he was married, Cristiano,” she continues. “On my life, I didn’t. And I wasn’t going to screw him. I just thought it’d be nice not to have to spend New Year’s alone. He was funny. And he had so many incredible stories because he’s traveled all over the world. Do you know how rare it is to meet someone like that? Someone who’s traveled to all the places I want to go? Someone that’s slept under the Eiffel Tower and climbed Mount Kilimanjaro? We were just talking . . . as new friends . . . having a nice time. And then you showed up.”

  Her gaze falls to the floor and she turns her face away. I don’t care what Daphne says or how she spins this, that pilot wanted to fuck her. And who wouldn’t? She’s beautiful. Long legs, platinum blonde hair, full lips and baby blues. Everything about her is perfection from the tip of her pointy nose to the subtle sway in her hips when she walks.

  “Guess I’ll just go up to the room,” she says. “Happy fucking New Year, Cristiano.”

  Chapter 4

  Daphne

  Lying on my back in the middle of my hotel bed, the ceiling tiles above me spin ever so slightly when I hear the barely audible beep of the lock on the door.

  He’s back.

  Stifling a monstrous groan, I roll to my side, away from the door, and curl my body around a pillow.

  “Daphne,” he says.

  Squeezing my eyes, I exhale and wait three beats. “What?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  I’m not sure what exactly he’s sorry for or if it even matters at this point. After leaving him in the ballroom like Cinderella at the stroke of midnight, I hurried back to the suite, changed into pajamas, and promptly did a little Googling in hopes that I could prove Cristiano wrong.

  The pilot’s name was Alistair Conrad and he was from Rhode Island. That was about all I gathered about him from our conversation earlier. That, and he worked for North Patriot Airlines. It didn’t take long to find his bio on their website, confirming that he was, in fact, a married man. A cursory Facebook search revealed his and his beautiful wife, Becca’s, profiles, which were chock full of family photos of the two of them with their three adorable little children.

  My stomach churns.

  “You were right,” I say, voice flat and slightly muffled by the pillowcase. “He was married.”

  I wait for Cristiano to say “I told you so,” but he never does.

  Maybe a tiny part of me hoped that Alistair was special. That our meeting on the elevator was kismet. That we were destined to stay up all night talking and sharing stories in between kisses. That the way he looked at me, like I was the most fascinating creature he’d ever stumbled upon in all of his worldly travels, was actually genuine.

  Now I know, he was just another shameless asshole trying to get laid.

  Rolling to face Cristiano, I open my eyes. He’s standing halfway between the door and the bed, his hands shoved in his jeans pockets and looking at me like he feels sorry for me. Maybe he picked up on something earlier. Maybe he heard the desperation in my frustrated rant. Maybe he smelled the loneliness on me.

  “I’ve never climbed Kilimanjaro,” he says, expression steady. “But I have slept under the Eiffel Tower, believe it or not.”

  I sit up.

  “I’ve also been skydiving in Switzerland,” he adds. “Although we didn’t jump from a plane, it was a helicopter. I thought I was going to die for a second because my first chute didn’t open at first. It was crazy. And intense. And I loved every heart-pounding second of it.”

  Looking at him in a new light, I pull my legs up and wrap my arms around them.

  “I’ve sailed in a boat off the coast of Buenos Aires just to watch a pod of orcas swim at sunset,” he continues, “and I’ve pulled an all-nighter just to see the sun rise in Antigua, how it turns the water all pink and orange. I’ve shopped the souks of Marrakesh, which smell incredible, by the way. I’ve danced like an idiot in Ibiza after taking a handful of questionable pills I bought from some shirtless girl who called herself Tinkerbell.”

  “Why are you telling me all of this?”

  He steps closer yet still keeps a safe distance. “I don’t know. Guess I feel bad about ruining your night. But in all fairness, I think your night would’ve been ruined after waking up the next morning, hungover, and seeing that dent on his ring finger as you crawl out of his bed. Don’t you think?”

  I don’t answer because I know he’s right.

  I didn’t plan on sleeping with Alistair, but even the best laid plans often go awry.

  “I’ve been around the world, Daphne,” he says. “I know I come across as an obnoxious know-it-all, but I’ve done a lot of things. I’ve seen a lot of things. I’m good at reading people. I know when to call bullshit. And I refuse to sit back quietly when everything in my gut tells me someone’s about to be taken for a ride. But anyway, if you want stories, I’ve got stories. We can stay up all night if you want, and I’ll tell you some crazy shit. I won’t even try to sleep with you, how’s that?”

  Pulling my shoulders back, I lift my eyes to his. “Why do you care so much about what I’m doing, anyway? You don’t know me.”

  He exhales, running his hand through his messy hair. “I don’t know.” His lips pull into a careful smirk that lights his face. “How’s that for ironic? The know-it-all has no fucking clue.”

  I fling myself up from the bed and pad across the carpet, heading toward the bathroom.

  “What are you doing?” he calls as I pass him. We nearly brush shoulders.

  “I’m going to soak in that tub for the next hour,” I say, “and when this year is finally over, I’ll emerge, smelling like roses, literally, and I’ll sleep like a baby.”

  “So that’s it?” He turns to face me as I linger in the bathroom doorway. “You’re just going to call it a night? Ring in the new year alone?”

  Shrugging, I nod. “Yep.”

  “Surely we can salvage this.”

  Lifting a brow and pursing my lips, I shake my head. “Doubtful. I pretty much just want to forget tonight ever happened.”

  Stepping inside the bathroom, I grip the edge of the door and prepare to close it, which feels strongly like a metaphor for this moment.

  For this past year, really.

  “Wait,” he calls before I get the chance.

  But I don’t.

  My mood is ruined.

  This night is ruined.

  I just want to drown myself in a million bubbles and a soapy broth of self-pity. Maybe do some reflecting on this last year or so and all the wrong turns I’ve taken. When I’m through with my introspections, I’ll watch them circle the drain and emerge a brand new woman.

  Hopefully.

  Locking the door behind me, I bid so long to this past year and run myself the hottest bath I can stand.

  Wrapped in a fluffy robe, my skin red and steamed, I run my palm along the fogged up bathroom mirror and give myself a good, hard look.

  I’m not sure what time it is or if the people several floors below have already finished their midnight countdown, but I figure it might not be too late to make a new year’s resolution.

  I don’t want to be lonely anymore. I’m sick of getting my hopes up. I’m tired of having my heart broken.

  But I can’t think of a single resolution that would prevent any of those things from happening.

  Drawing in a long, slow breath, I try and focus on the positives . . . the things I
can control . . . the things I want out of life.

  And then it hits me.

  Completely out of nowhere.

  The thought feels wildly surprising yet completely organic.

  I know what my resolution is going to be . . .

  This year, I want to experience more priceless moments. The kind money can’t buy. The kind I can’t assign a dollar amount to or order on the Internet with the click of a button.

  This year, I want to revel in those immeasurably valuable moments that could never be worthy of a price tag.

  I want adventure.

  I want to make memories.

  I want experiences.

  I want to be so busy living that I forget about everything else.

  Feeling resolute, I scrape my spirit off the floor and pull in a cleansing breath. I force myself to smile in the mirror, which feels awkward but somehow lifts my mood just enough that I think I can emerge from the bathroom and not bite Cristiano’s head off when he opens that smart mouth of his.

  Cinching my robe belt, I reach for the doorknob and yank the door open, finding myself face to face with my temporary roommate.

  My heart leaps, startled, climbing in my chest and pounding like it wants out. The way he looks at me sucks all the air from my lungs, and before I have a chance to fully comprehend what’s happening, his hands are circling my waist and his mouth is moving to mine. Each step he takes moves us, in tandem, until my back is pressed against the bathroom door and there’s nowhere else to go.

  “Ten . . . nine . . . eight,” he says, his voice like a whisper only meant for me.

  “Cristiano.”

  His right hand cups the underside of my jaw, angling my mouth upward.

  “Seven . . . six . . .” he continues.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Five . . . four . . . three,” he sighs, his mouth coming closer. His lips brush against mine, and I inhale a hint of mint and Scotch on his breath. “Two . . . one.”

  His mouth comes down on mine, his fingers lacing through the damp hair at the nape of my neck. He doesn’t slip me the tongue. He doesn’t make this dirty or raw or animal. He doesn’t kiss me in a way that makes me feel threatened or unsafe. For all intents and purposes, considering what this is, he’s a perfect gentleman.