Unexpected Storm
Автор
R. S. Aria
Прочтений
3,8M
Глав
46
Chapter 1
STORM
I lean against my SUV outside the airport, checking my phone for the third time in five minutes. Twenty-three minutes late. Of course she is. I should be at the gym right now. Or sleeping off last night’s shoot. Hell, I should be doing literally anything other than playing chauffeur for Andrea’s best friend.
The same best friend who used to follow me around like a lost puppy, asking a million questions and getting underfoot every chance she got. Mia. Andrea’s ride-or-die since they were kids. The girl who cried when she lost at Mario Kart and snorted when she laughed too hard. The one who moved away four years ago and left my sister a hollow shell for months afterward.
A pretty brunette flight attendant with deep red lipstick walks past, dragging her carry-on. She glances up, scanning me like a barcode, and I give her my signature slow smile.
“Rough flight?” I ask as she slows near the curb.
She laughs, her cheeks turning pink.
“You offering a better experience?”
“Only the best. Five-star charm. One-star morals.”
She giggles.
“Waiting on someone?”
“Apparently,” I reply with a shrug. “But I wouldn’t mind changing plans,” I say, glancing at the flight attendant as she leans over, her crisp white blouse unbuttoned one more than standard, revealing the lacy edge of her bra and a hint of cleavage that probably makes the flight a little more pleasant for some passengers.
She’s perfectly put together—blonde hair pulled back in a sleek bun, red lipstick that somehow hasn’t budged despite the long flight, and a fake-ass smile.
“How long is your layover?” I ask, my voice softer than intended.
“Long enough,” she says, reaching out to grip my arm.
Mia can get a cab, right?
MIA
I grab my suitcase from the carousel and take a deep breath. Okay, Mia. Head high, shoulders back. Walk like you don’t remember every detail about Storm Davis.
Outside, I spot him immediately. Leaning against his black SUV like he’s posing for a magazine cover—which, knowing him, he probably is in his head. Sunglasses, slightly unbuttoned shirt, tattoos peeking out. Still the same devastating combination that made fourteen-year-old me forget how to form complete sentences.
And of course, he’s got some flight attendant practically draping herself over him, batting her eyelashes while he flashes that trademark smirk. Some things never change.
I hover for a second, watching him work his charm, and something tightens in my chest. It’s not jealousy. Okay, maybe it is a little. But it’s also a reminder—he wants women like her. Experienced. Forward. Not his sister’s awkward best friend who used to trip over her own feet around him.
Good. That makes this easier.
I march right up to them.
“Oh, I see you’re still the same playboy you were last time I saw you.”
He blinks, looking confused. The flight attendant eyes me with obvious irritation.
“What’s the protocol—do you offer both of us a ride, or is it more of a one-at-a-time situation?”
STORM
What the hell? This gorgeous woman is talking like she knows me, but there’s no way I’d forget someone who looks like this. She’s wearing fitted jeans and a top that clings in all the right places. Wavy dark blonde hair pulled half-up, half-messy. Tanned skin that practically glows in the afternoon sun.
Her voice is familiar though, teasing and sharp in a way that makes my brain itch like I’m missing something obvious.
“I—wait. What? Who are you?”
She folds her arms and tilts her head, those bright turquoise eyes sparkling with amusement. One of them has a tiny black freckle that sends recognition crashing through me like a freight train. No fucking way.
“C’mon, Pretty Boy. You’re not that old. Or blind.”
“Mia?” The name falls out of my mouth like a question, my voice dropping an octave.
“There he is,” she says with a smirk that does dangerous things to my blood pressure.
I stare. For way too long. The kid I remember—all elbows and braces and hero worship—has been replaced by this confident, curved goddess who’s looking at me like she knows exactly what kind of chaos she’s about to unleash.
Before I can think of something appropriately non-awkward to say, she steps closer and hugs me. Her arms wrap around my neck, pulling me down, and suddenly I’m drowning in vanilla and trouble. My hands automatically circle her waist, and Jesus Christ, she fits against me perfectly.
“You look... different,” I manage.
“You look predictable,” she shoots back, pulling away to study my face. “Still living on abs and bad decisions?”
The flight attendant huffs and walks away, but I barely notice. All I can focus on is the way Mia’s looking at me—like she sees right through every carefully constructed wall I’ve built.
“Nice to see some things haven’t changed.”
She turns and walks backward toward my car, casual as anything, while I stand there trying to remember how to function like a normal human being.
“You, uh... want help with your bag?”
She raises one perfectly arched eyebrow.
“Sure.”
I grab her suitcase, toss it in the back, and watch as she slides into the passenger seat without another word.
When I get behind the wheel, she’s already buckled in, looking completely at ease while I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.
“Long time no see, huh?” she says, and when she smiles—full lips curving like she knows exactly the effect she’s having on me—my body responds in ways that would get me murdered by my sister.
I grip the steering wheel and force myself to start the car instead of doing something monumentally stupid.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Long time.”
“Gonna keep staring, or are we heading home?”
I shake my head, trying to clear it, but one thought keeps echoing: Andrea’s going to kill me. Because the promise I made her about keeping my hands to myself? Looking at Mia now—confident and beautiful and dangerous in all the ways that matter—I’m not sure it’s a promise I can keep.
