Players to Lovers (4 Book Collection)

by Ketley Allison

  “Finish your drink before we go,” I say as I pull it from the fridge.

  Sophie mutters something likely sarcastic, but I’m pleased to see that she climbs off the couch without aid.

  I’m even more satisfied when I notice she heads to her bedroom to pack, dragging a ratty, empty suitcase from the hall closet behind her.

  9

  Sophie

  I can’t believe I’m doing this.

  My beloved suitcase, rubbed raw at the edges and covered with stickers from various points of travel during my backpacking days, when I wanted nothing to do with reality, is stuffed full and in Ash’s trunk. Or is it his trunk?

  This is a super fancy car, some navy blue, low-riding, sports thing that any man with a small dick would love to rev and motor and impress all chicks he comes across at stoplights.

  Ash does not have a small dick. This has been proven. He’s the type to drive cars like this simply because they belong to him. For all I know, he has a garage of cars in Florida that he uses on whims, just like when he asked me to temporarily move in with him, on a whim.

  I fidget in the passenger seat. It makes me wonder if he’ll lose interest as quickly as he gains it, which is why I can’t let my heart do the leading for me.

  “I’m going with you because of Carter.” It’s unclear if I’m saying this to Ash, or if I’m reminding myself of the reasons I’m in this car with him, willingly venturing back to New York.

  Ash makes a sharp left turn, his hand smoothly arcing the wheel. “I know.”

  “Just want to make that clear.” I stare out the passenger side window, watching the trees and sky blur into bright greens and blues. It’s better than focusing on what’s lurching around in my stomach, or on the man beside me, with his storm-crested eyes and sculpted, artistic skin.

  It was hard enough coming to the conclusion of having this baby without a father. Now, I have to maintain that decision while seeing Ash almost every day.

  I scrape a hand into my hair, wondering if my brain really is winning over my heart.

  “We’re here,” Ash says as he pulls into an … airport, I think.

  But it’s not Jacksonville’s busy air space, with giant economy planes cutting through the skies or heaving around crowded runways. This is a small, private strip of land with much smaller planes and very few staff.

  I get out of the car, bending like an old lady with a cane since it’s so low to the ground, while Ash is already striding to the trunk and swinging my suitcase out.

  “Where are we?” I ask.

  “Private airport.”

  “We’re taking a private plane?” I take in my surroundings with a lot more awe.

  “How do you think I got here?”

  “A last-minute red eye, like everyone else.”

  “I can’t remember the last time I took a public aircraft.”

  I study Ash from the other side of the car, but I see no sarcasm or a goading grin. He’s stating what is a bland fact to him and an unfathomable one to me.

  We aren’t from different worlds. We’re from alternate universes.

  I follow him to one of three planes idling in what counts for a parking space for airplanes. It has a foldable staircase leading down, with a man in a white polo and navy blue slacks waiting near the bottom.

  “Mr. Whittaker,” he says as we approach. “I hope you enjoyed your stay here in Florida.”

  “Sure,” Ash says. He steps aside and offers his hand to me while Polo scuttles out of the way.

  Automatically, I take it. I’m still unsteady on my feet and taking a flimsy staircase up into a tin can that will be cutting through the skies—with me in it—calls for some support.

  His grip is as firm as I remember. Warm and calloused. He deftly uses a knife with this hand as well as he played my body that one, sinful night. The one moment I chose decadence and freedom over the chains of the do-good, keep-your-head-down morale that’s followed me since I was sixteen.

  Since I’m the first to enter the plane, I try to look like I know what I’m doing and turn right, into a small interior with plush caramel leather chairs and thick cream carpeting.

  My stomach gives fair warning and I plop into the nearest chair.

  If I yak all over this fancy furniture, I’ll never forgive myself.

  “Drink, miss?”

  Polo has boarded the plane after me, and I hear Ash discussing something with the pilots in the cockpit.

  “Seltzer, if you have it,” I say gratefully, and fold my hands in my lap in the polite way I assume all passengers of private aircrafts do.

  No matter that my hair resembles a pelican’s nest and my limbs are quaking like they’ve been deprived of water in a desert. I can still aim for cultured.

  “We certainly do.” Polo departs to the other side of the aircraft, clinking glasses and pouring.

  “Should be a smooth ride.”

  Ash gets my attention as he settles into the seat across from me. The way he sits in the chair, legs spread and his attention immediately going out to the small, circular window beside us, screams that he’s done this so many times, it’s like boarding a bus, or hailing a cab and sliding in.

  I wonder what it’s like, to have all this at your fingertips since being born and breathing fresh air.

  Polo comes back and drops off my seltzer. I grab it and ply it to my lips, sipping delicately but with necessity. Ash’s smoothie helped, but I’m still getting used to this new body of mine and what it proposes to do to me in public.

  Ash is given a small tumbler of whiskey, which he accepts while scrolling through his phone, frowning at whatever he sees.

  “Is everything okay with the restaurant?” I ask as the plane’s engines rumble to a start underneath our feet.

  “Mhmm.” He doesn’t look up from the screen.

  “I read some early reviews on the blogs,” I say. No need to let Ash know I’m a nervous flyer. It seemed secondary to his offering up his penthouse and access to my best friend.

  “Did you?” Ash’s thumb keeps scrolling.

  “Apron is doing some great things.” I set my drink down on the small table, folding my hands again, except my fingers are tangling like they’re hanging on to each other for dear life.

  The plane tilts, and I squeak.

  Ash looks up. “You okay?”

  “Sure, yep. We’re just making a right turn. In a plane. I got it. It’s fine.”

  Ash doesn’t go back to his phone. “Apron did okay it’s opening night. I’ve worked at restaurants that did far better, and we have some improvements to make, but all in all, I’m not complaining.”

  “You’ve been nominated for awards before.” I’m focusing on him and trying not to chew my lip off as we rumble and rattle to a runway.

  “In 2017, yes. But that was a while ago. My goal is to win a James Beard before I’m thirty.”

  “You will.”

  The tight line of Ash’s mouth softens. “You think I’m that good?”

  “You’re driven. I’ve known that about you since the day I met you.”

  He nods. “I’ve had to prove myself the entire way in the culinary industry. Riches and family dynasty mean nothing when you’re in the kitchen with the rest of the line cooks.”

  “You ended up specializing in desserts,” I say. My hands have gone from gripping each other to clutching the arm rests, but Ash’s voice is a calming balm to the roar of the aluminum cylinder I’ve voluntarily given my life to. “How did that come about?”

  “You could say I fall into things randomly.” Ash leans back, crossing a leg at the ankle and looking to all the world like he’s cruising through calm waters on a yacht. “But in truth, I go where my talent takes me. And the precise measurements, the careful quantities of pastries, spoke to me. With more complication comes more skill. I love every second of it.”

  “You like being in control.”

  “So do you.” Ash’s stare narrows with his perceived knowledge of me. “Which is wh
y you’re so nervous right now, with a person you don’t know flying us thousands of feet in the air.”

  “Thanks for the reminder,” I grit out.

  “We’re perfectly safe.”

  The plane picks up speed, and I try some deep, yoga breaths as we barrel forward, faster and faster, until we lift off the tarmac and tilt toward the sky.

  “Why did you open a restaurant instead of focusing on desserts?” I ask, staring blindly ahead.

  “Good question. The easiest way to answer would be that I like a challenge.”

  “But you asked your friends to invest in it.”

  Ash smiles. “I also like family.”

  “Did your parents invest, too?”

  It was the wrong question. I know it the instant I mutter it but can’t seem to stop myself. Ash’s reaction is so minute it’s barely visible. His eyelids lower, his gaze flicks away, and he goes back to his phone.

  “No,” he says. “Try to relax. We’re leveling out soon.”

  “I’m trying. This is helping. I’m sorry if I asked something too personal—”

  “I saw all the destinations on your suitcase. You’ve traveled a lot.”

  “If you’re asking why the hell I’m such a wimp right now, when I’ve flown across the world, the answer would be what other choice do I have? I can either stay scared and go nowhere, or I can face my fear of flying and discover everywhere.”

  “You made the right choice. There. Worst is over.”

  Ash’s tone precedes the plane as it smooths out into a horizontal position. If I close my eyes, I can pretend we’re on the ground, in my apartment, and Ash is standing at the front door, asking if I’m all right.

  “Sleep,” Ash says through the black of my eyelids. “We have a few hours to go.”

  I mumble something, the soothing white noise of the plane and Ash’s laid-back presence lulling me into restful slumber, something that’s evaded me for much too long.

  “I can think of one perk to your fear of flying,” Ash says.

  “Mm?” I don’t bother to open my eyes.

  “It’s taken all the attention off your stomach. You haven’t made a break for the bathroom once.”

  Damn it.

  He’s right.

  Ash’s light chuckle is the last thing I hear before sleep finally takes over.

  “Soph. Hey.”

  My arm is lightly jostled, and I groan, peering through the thickness of sleep and into daylight.

  “We’ve landed.”

  Ash stands above me, his form haloed by the warm interior of the plane, showcasing his sharp cheekbones, his colorful skin, his dark eyes.

  “How long was I out for?” The last part of my statement is muffled by my hand. As soon as I felt the drool at the corner of my lips, I swiped at it as quickly as I could.

  “The whole trip.” Ash holds out his hand to help me up. When I take it and stand, I sway into him, though it’s not because of nausea.

  “Did you drug me?” I ask.

  Ash steadies me with a hand at my waist. “Yes. My evil plan to have you sleep through your fear of flying worked.”

  “I don’t … I’ve never…” I shake out the rest of the cobwebs. “It’s been so long since I’ve slept like that.”

  Because I’d felt safe. Untroubled.

  I push away from Ash’s hold at the thought.

  “You looked peaceful,” Ash says, and directs me to the front of the plane, where Polo waits with some hot towels. I grab one and plaster it to my face, groaning with pleasure.

  “It would’ve been cruel of me to wake you,” Ash continues.

  “Leave it to me to sleep through what will probably be my only private plane experience,” I say through the towel, then pry it off and put it back on Polo’s platter.

  “I doubt you would’ve enjoyed it as thoroughly,” Ash says as we depart. “Seeming how you nearly tore strips of leather off your seat when we took off.”

  Ash says goodbye and thank you to the pilots, and I turn and do the same.

  Thank you for not killing me, my smile might say, but we made it to New York in one piece, and for that I’m thankful. While Ash continues chatting with them, I head to the safety of solid ground.

  Another car awaits us in the chilly afternoon sunshine, this time with a driver I recognize, Charlie. As I approach, he pulls open the back door.

  “Hey there, Charlie,” I say, and he startles.

  “You remembered my name.”

  “Sure I did.”

  “Welcome back. Sparkling water in the center console, miss, at Mr. Whittaker’s instruction.”

  Only ten weeks into my pregnancy and I’m at risk of becoming a single, carbonated bubble, but I’m grateful for Ash’s thoughtfulness. Since we’re approaching late afternoon, my gut is doing its usual deep-dive from the swell of nausea to the bottomless bit of hunger, but I can’t ask Ash if he has snacks in here. He’s already done so much.

  Too much.

  I make myself comfortable in the back of the car, weirdly rested and alert, when Ash comes in on the other side, bringing with him the scent of sharp whiskey and cologne. This time, he has with him a thick file folder and a tablet, as well as his phone.

  “You all good?” he asks me as he buckles in.

  “Uh-huh,” I say. “Thanks for the water.”

  He nods. “If you don’t mind, I have to finish up a few things, make a few phone calls.”

  “Sure, don’t let me keep you.”

  “We’re going directly to the restaurant, but Charlie’ll drop you off at my place after. You can get comfortable.”

  “Sounds good.”

  I turn to the window before he can spot my realization that the last time I was at his place, I was naked.

  “Kitchen’s fully stocked,” Ash says, then opens his folder.

  I wonder what kind of stock a chef has in his kitchen, and I’m eager to find out. “Anything I should stay away from? I mean, I’m a guest, and I don’t want to impose…”

  Ash laughs. “I invited you, Sophie. And I don’t have any secrets to hide. Explore to your heart’s content. I won’t be back tonight, anyway.”

  “You won’t?”

  Good God, was that high-pitched disappointment in my tone? I hide it with a good throat-clearing and a disinterested glance out the window as Charlie starts the engine and turns out of the airport.

  “I’ll stay at the restaurant.” Ash pauses in sifting through spreadsheets and takes the time to look over. “I meant it when I said I wanted you to be comfortable here.”

  “Well…” I risk a glance at him through my lashes. He’s staring at me with such beautiful directness that I can barely garble out, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  For the rest of the ride, we don’t say anything else. Ash goes back to his notes and is on the phone before I can figure out what to do with him, what I’m doing here, and how we both think we can get out of this mess.

  10

  Ash

  When we pull up to Apron’s entrance, I say a quick goodbye to Sophie and get out before any additional awkwardness ensues.

  I buried myself in my work the minute I realized what I’d asked Sophie to do. Leave Gainesville, fly with me to New York, and hang here as long as she needed, with no thought to logistics.

  It’s difficult, when looking into those bottomless brown eyes of hers, to think logistically. Especially when I still remember how she tastes, sweet with a bite of salt, hitting my taste buds with the expertise of baked Kouign-amann—croissant dough liberally dusted with both sugar and salt.

  Sophie is a hot, caramelized, wrong decision, but I can’t seem to help myself. And I certainly can’t leave her, not while she’s carrying my—

  “Take your time on your second day of work, buddy.”

  Locke’s voice brings me back to the present, and where he’s standing.

  “What are you doing in my kitchen?”

  “More than you are, apparently.” Lock
e crosses his arms, heedless of the chefs skirting around him and the shouts being called over his head.

  I’d trekked through the entrance of Apron, past the hostess and patrons and wait staff, without even cataloguing the trip. Nobody approached me, so I must’ve looked like a hellbent bear wanting access to the back, where all the food was.

  Damn Sophie and her vulnerable, pale skin that’s begging for me to add some color to it.

  “I was held up on something personal,” I say.

  “Well, as an investor, I’d like to say I’m concerned, but I know exactly where you were.”

  I give Locke the side-eye. “If you’re not going to move your ass from this property, at least get out of the way and come to my office.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  Locke follows me through the kitchen and to a side door, with stairs leading up to a small hallway of rooms, mostly for storage and other knick-knacks, but there is one spot I call my own. I unlock and open the door, walking in first and turning on the light.

  The office is how I left it, an organized mess of papers with a computer buried somewhere on a mahogany desk. I take a seat in the imposing, black leather chair I bought specifically to intimidate, and motion for Locke to take a seat on one of my uncomfortable wooden guest chairs on the other side.

  He doesn’t sit.

  “How’s Lily and Carter?” I ask, knowing how much Locke hates small talk.

  “Good. How’s Sophie?”

  I frown.

  “They talk, bud,” Locke says. “Carter and Soph.”

  “Okay, yeah, she’s here. So what?”

  “You specifically flew her here.”

  “It was either that, or leave her alone and sick, with nobody’s help, where she was.”

  Locke smiles. “I knew there was a heart somewhere underneath all those tats.”

  “Shut up. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Look.” Locke sighs. “I’m not here to lecture or interrogate on whether you know what you’re doing. I’ll leave that to my sister.”