Page 100 of Captivated By You

Johannes: [winking emoji]

Johannes: Call Ash. For some crazy-ass reason, he’s miserable without you. That’s your fault.

And the real Johannes is back in the room.

Me: [middle finger emoji]

This time, a reply didn’t come. I wasn’t surprised.

* * *

My plane landed at Sea-Tac Airport on a fairly mild February day, the winds light and from the south. Five days had passed since I’d left, yet so much had happened that it felt more like five weeks.

A fluttering set off in my chest as I hauled my suitcase off the carousel. It wouldn’t be long now until I’d see Ash. A mixture of blind panic and sheer excitement manifested itself in sweaty palms and that awful sensitive skin that felt like bugs skipping over the surface.

I headed outside the terminal building and joined the line for taxis. It moved fast, and before I knew it, I was sitting in the back of a cab on the way to Ash’s place, not at all convinced I was doing the right thing in heading straight there rather than going home first. But putting off seeing him was only going to make it harder to take the first step. I’d been the one to push him away. It was on me—as Johannes had so indelicately pointed out—to grovel.

Hoping that when Ash saw I had my suitcase in tow, it would send him a message that he was important enough to me to come straight from the airport. I bumped the wheels up the steps to his building and ducked inside.

Only then did I remember that Ash’s home wasn’t like normal people’s. It wasn’t possible to wander on up to the penthouse and simply knock on the door. You needed an invitation and a card for the elevator.

Dragging my “getting heavier by the minute” suitcase over the Italian marble floor, I approached the reception desk.

“I’m here to see Asher Kingcaid.”

“Name?”

“Kiana Doh—”

“Kiana?”

At the sound of my name falling from the lips of a man I’d missed more than I dared to admit to myself, I whirled around.

Everything inside me melted at the sight of him, from the cut of his suit to the way his hair had ruffled from the wind to the topaz eyes that held a tinge of hurt.

I held up a hand in greeting. “Hi.”

His gaze fell to my suitcase. “You’re back?”

“Yes.”

“For good?”

The lift to his tone, laced with a glimmer of hope in his expression that he valiantly tried to subdue, slammed into my chest. If I’d had any doubts that I’d hurt him by running back home and cutting him off, they shattered in that moment.

I nodded. “I’m going nowhere… if that’s what you want?”

His brow furrowed. “If that’s what I—”

He cut off abruptly, his gaze going to the receptionist, who’d decided our conversation was worthy of breaking out the popcorn and putting her feet up on the desk… metaphorically speaking.

In two strides, he reached me. “Let’s go upstairs.”

“Ash—”

He pressed his fingertip to my lips. “Not here.”

Taking my suitcase and holding my hand, he led me over to the elevator. We rode up to his penthouse in silence. He left my suitcase in the foyer—I wasn’t sure what to make of that—and strode through the living room, directly into the kitchen.

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