Page 22 of Passenger Princess

“Want some?” I ask.

She looks at the chocolate ice cream dripping off my spoon with that same longing before shaking her head. “No, thank you.”

“It won’t kill you, you know. A few calories.”

Her head cocks back in confusion. “What?”

“Ice cream. Or any dessert, for that matter. It won’t make you gain a million pounds or whatever it is you’ve convinced yourself of. I know you’re probably used to pageant diets, but—” I don’t finish because her laugh fills the area, making heads turn our way, as tends to be her way. Ava’s humor and joy are like a flame, and the world is full of moths.

Lately, it seems like I’m the one most willing to get burned.

Her head is tipped back, hair trailing down her back in soft waves as she laughs, the sun bouncing off her skin like that’s it’s entire job, and I’m enthralled by her.

Finally, she stops laughing and looks at me. “I have a dairy allergy, Jaime.”

I sit there, blinking at her, and she shakes her head, still smiling.

“It’s relatively new, I found out in the past year or so. It makes mebreak out in hives. Unfortunately for me, I love ice cream and desserts, but most have some kind of milk, obviously.” Her hand lifts, patting my cheek like she finds me entertaining—a sweet little boy who has no clue.

To be fair, it’s absolutely how I feel around her.

“I know we keep joking about it, but I’m reallynotsome self-centered pageant queen.”

Suddenly, I feel like an ass.

She’s not wrong: I’ve been judging her since the very beginning, assuming she was some diva who only cared about herself and her appearance, but never once has she actually reinforced that belief, other than the amount of time she spends getting ready. But even that, she explains, is just something she does becauseshelikes it. Not for anyone else.

I think I keep trying to cling to that, to believe it, because if I decide she’s not that, I have no fucking shot of keeping this professional.

“I’ve been trying to tell you I’m not what I appear, Jaime. You just refuse to open your eyes.”

A moment passes with her soft hand on my cheek, looking into my eyes, a small smile playing on her lips before I open my mouth to say…I don’t know, but I don’t have to stress about it because, in that moment, she’s called off by someone. She stands, winks at me, and literally skips off to the reporter who called her name.

The woman is a puzzle.

And I am a giant asshole.

TWELVE

AVA

A knock comes on the door of my hotel room, and knowing it's probably Jaime giving me the plan for the next day, I shout, "Come in!" The door clicks with the sound of the digital lock undoing, and I set my book to the side as I sit cozied on the couch, looking up as he enters with three giant bags from different grocery stores.

He walks in silently, looking at me and tipping his chin at me in that cool guy way before moving to the small kitchenette and putting the bags on the counter.

“What are you doing?” I ask as he starts shuffling through the bags I can’t see into from the couch. Finally, his head comes up, and he looks at me, a shy smile on his lips as he starts to remove things.

“The chocolate and vanilla from this brand are supposed to be solid,” he says, placing two pint containers down, and my brow furrows. “And I got a few from this brand since they make normal ice cream, too, but I think it’s going to be kind of hit or miss.” He stacks up three more pints from a familiar brand I used to eat before we pinpointed my allergy. Cookie dough, peanut butter chocolate, and a cherry vanilla flavor.

“This brand is really fancy,” he says, grabbing it from the bag of aspecialty store. “And the flavors are kind of weird, but the reviews are great.” He pulls out a few pastel-looking pints. I stand, walking his way and watching as he keeps going.

“And these are sorbets, which are fruit or whatever, so not really ice cream, but I figured it was worth a shot.” He puts those next to the others and reaches into the bags one last time.

“These are ice cream bars. I like this brand, not sure if the bars are any good, but they sounded decent. Whichever you like, we can get more of at the next stop. Or we can try more. Figure out what’s the best replacement.”

He stands there for a long moment, looking at me before he starts shuffling things around, shoving the bags into each other, and stepping away. Looking at him, though, I see it.

A light blush crosses his cheeks, a bit of discomfort but also eagerness, like he hopes I like this simple gesture he just gave me.

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