Page 55

"Ash Fraser." My voice drops an octave. My nails dig into my palm, anger making me shaky. "You don't know me at all." I turn on my bare heel, pissed and on my way back to bed.

He grabs my elbow. "I'm sorry, that's not what I—" His eyes catch on mine. Ash looks…sad. Like the world is a sick and horrible place and that truth makes him…sad.

I wait, not helping him explain away the implications he made. Ash sighs, his shoulders rounding, head dropping. He's staring at where his hand holds my arm. His fingers relax, fall away. "I'm sorry," he says again.

I want to push him, knock him back, fight him. Make him react. Force him to respond. Instead, I continue back to bed without my tea.

Sleep doesn't comeuntil we are driving to the airport after another day of press. One where Zade was straight up horrified by my face. "You will be the death of me," they promised several times throughout the day as they touched up my makeup.

Nausea had gripped me from when I dressed until I slid into sleep hours later. It was the kind of tired so deep it no longer felt like exhaustion—it became something new, something sickening.

"We're here." Ash's murmur of a voice is close. Prying open my eyes, I realize my head is on his solid thigh, his suit jacket over me like a blanket. Pushing up to sit, I look around, disoriented.

Outside the tinted windows is tarmac. Another car follows us. It's carrying Zade and Lloyd. My gaze falls on Ash. He watches me like a scientist examining an experiment. What's his hypothesis? Does he think I will break under the strain?

Unfurling my legs, I put my feet on the floor and move back into my seat, crushing Ash's jacket. "Oh, sorry." I pull it out and pass it over to him.

The car rolls to a stop. A private jet looms outside Ash's window. Alesana opens my door and offers me his hand. I take it, needing it. He steadies me as I climb out of the Mercedes. Ash is speaking with Chris, directing him. Alesana escorts me to the aircraft steps.

He follows me up the metal stairs. A woman wearing a pencil skirt, white blouse, and silk scarf tied at her neck gives me a wide smile. "Welcome," she says. "My name is Claire, and I'll be your attendant for the flight to Berlin."

"Hi." I clear my throat. "I'm Angela, nice to meet you."

Her smile widens. "Please, follow me." She leads me into the aircraft. Claire shows me the seats, telling me about the amenities. I'm only half listening when she says: "There is a bedroom in the back."

"I'll take it," I say.

"Of course." She opens a door at the rear of the cabin and steps into the small space. The bed looks like it's a double with white sheets and several pillows. It takes up most of the room except for two chairs by one of the windows—pale leather with seatbelts neatly crossed on the seats. "The bathroom is here, if you'd like a shower once we are underway. The captain asks that you be seated and belted for take-off and landing."

"Of course. I'll just." I gesture toward the bathroom. She nods and backs out of the room, closing the door behind her.

The bathroom is small but well-appointed with a shower stall and a well-lit mirror. Which is how I find out that I am a wreck. My hair, which was up in a chignon when I got into that Mercedes, is sticking out on one side—the side that was on Ash's lap. The man could have said something. Or Alesana.

I clean up and then head back to the main cabin. "Alesana," I say. He's sitting with Chris in facing chairs. He looks up and smiles. "Next time I look like a hot mess you need to say something."

He grins. "You've never looked anything but perfect."

I shake my head. "I'm not kidding, Alesana." But I am smiling. "If I was photographed like that…"

"You'd end up on their ‘just like us’," Zade says from the next seating area over where they and Lloyd share a section.

"Yeah," I drawl. "It's very everyman to look a wreck while boarding your private jet."

"Well, it's not yours," Zade points out with a wink. It's paid for by the studio—Mary negotiated private transportation for my safety. The studio couldn't refuse.

My phone rings before I can respond. I pull it out of my purse and check the caller ID.Omar.My heart takes flight, skittering for a short moment then pounding. Turning back to the bedroom, I answer. "Hi, Omar," I say, putting warmth into my voice.

I don't look back at Zade but can feel judgment hot on my back as I retreat. "How are you?" Omar asks in that voice of his—the one that almost got me blown up.

"I'm okay," I say. "Thank you for the flowers, they were beautiful.” I walk back toward the bedroom, ignoring Zade's dramatic throat clearing.We do not date men who get us blown up.Or that presidential candidates want us to manipulate for reasons to be determined. "How are you?" I ask as I close the door behind me.

"Fine, mild concussion but nothing serious."

"Good," I say. "I'm glad."

"I am so sorry this happened. I was having a lovely time."

A laugh escapes me as I sit in one of the chairs next to the window. "Explosions will really put a damper on a first date."