High Risk (Point of No Return Book 1)

by Brenna Aubrey

  “I keep a bag of toiletries and other emergency items in my car all the time. Tonight it comes in handy.” She punctuated her words with a cheerful smile. An almost gloating smile. She was daring me to kick her out.

  I stared at her in wide-eyed disbelief as she picked up a roll of cloth I hadn’t noticed. “And look, I’ve still got my towel with me from yesterday, Official Towel Day! A towel is about the most massively useful thing in the universe.”

  I blinked. This interaction got more bizarre—and strangely, more intriguing—by the moment. My hands on my hips, I watched as she unrolled it and wrapped it around her. “See? I can wrap it around me for warmth or lie on it or wave it for emergencies as a distress signal or…or…” She seemed to be trying to remember the rest.

  I blew out a breath and continued in a dry voice. “Or use it to avoid the gaze of the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast that assumes if you can’t see it, it can’t see you.”

  She brightened. “You’ve read it—The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy! May 25th is Official Towel Day.”

  I gave her a look as if to say, Of course, I’ve fucking read it. “Astronaut. And by the way, you’re not staying here.”

  She spread her hands out. “You have tons of rooms in this house.”

  “Not happening,” I replied.

  She pulled out her phone from her back pocket and held it up. “Okay, I’ll let Tolan know of the change of plans. You’re kicking me out.”

  I held out a hand. “Wait—”

  Her brows went up as her thumbs poised over her touchscreen. “I’m waiting.”

  “I don’t need you here.”

  She held up a hand and began to count off items on her fingers as she listed them. “Aside from all those interesting headlines you’ve taken part in, let’s look at your behavior in the past hour alone. Blowing off an important meeting for compulsive—and impulsive—sex. Hard liquor at a barely acceptable hour.”

  “It was almost five o’clock—”

  “Shitty attitude.”

  Well, okay. She had me there.

  And yeah, having sex while she was waiting for me had been rude. I’d known she was coming, but I’d wanted to avoid the meeting. When Suz had started tearing off my shirt three minutes after coming in the door, I didn’t say no. What man was going to put off sex with his hot trainer because some pain in the ass young shrink had an appointment with him at the same time?

  “The bottom line, since we are being dead honest here?” She raised her brows at me, and I nodded to give her the go-ahead, bracing myself for another onslaught of her special brand of honesty. “You have a body of work lately that shows you don’t have your shit together, and I’m here to help you get it and keep it together until the test flight. That means no partying, no benders, and no womanizing.”

  I scoffed. “Why don’t you just check me in to the local rehab slash monastery?”

  She smiled. “It’s all about public opinion and what they think. And the investors. And Tolan, for that matter. If you want to fly again, then you’ll do this. We have the same goals, Commander. I want you to be able to fly. I want that test flight to happen as much as you do. We are on the same side here. Besides…this house is so big, you’ll hardly notice me. I won’t get underfoot.”

  I scowled. Having a shrink under my nose was going to cramp my style. I didn’t care how huge this house was. There was no way I was going to allow her to pry into my life.

  I glanced at the phone in her hands again. But could I afford for her to rat me out to Tolan, along with the rest of the astronauts on the XPAC?

  They’d all have questions too, and no doubt, they’d berate me for not doing the simplest of things to cooperate. Tolan could remove me from the flight as easily as he’d put me there. Sure, he wouldn’t get the PR benefits…

  And again, I wasn’t so far gone I could forget that this girl was connected. Her father. Tolan. My back was up against a wall.

  Jesus. Fuck. How did I get myself into these situations?

  She held out a hand as if I’d walked into her shrink office and she was pointing out the couch to me. “Please, sit down.”

  “I prefer to stand. Unless you put out your little cup and stool? Psychiatric help, 5 cents?”

  She smirked. “That’s the Snoopy discount. It’s going to cost you a bit more than that.”

  Too bad it wasn’t going to cost me a few kisses, maybe a grope or two of that sweet ass of hers. I put my hands on my hips and refused to sit.

  She blew out a breath. “Fine, we’ll stand.”

  I cocked my head to study her. At least my jailer for the next three months was cute—in her own little way.

  She waited patiently, scratching the side of her nose, and for a fleeting instant, I caught the flash of gold on her left hand—on her ring finger. My breath caught. Was she married?

  Then I spotted a sparkly red stone in the middle. I turned my head to get a better look. A year imprinted along the side. And upon closer inspection, it was on her middle finger, not her ring finger. Clearly a class ring. I tried not to contemplate the way my heart had skipped a beat at the possibility she might be unavailable.

  Why the hell did I care?

  She could have a live-in boyfriend for all I knew, or steadily dating someone. She didn’t have to be married to be unavailable, and again, why the fuck did I care so much? Her right hand held nothing except for a plain silver chain around her wrist with a medallion hanging from it.

  “Well, you don’t leave me with much of a choice, do you?”

  She frowned. “I don’t want you to feel like that. I don’t want you to feel cornered. We’re on the same—”

  “Team, yeah. I was listening during your pep talk. But you’ve got rules for me while you’re my jailer and I’m on house arrest. Do I have to wear an ankle bracelet? Report my whereabouts at all times?”

  She shook her head. “I’m here to keep you on the straight and narrow.”

  My jaw clenched and then relaxed. I looked away. “Sounds boring.”

  “Boring is good. Boring is stable. Boring is—”

  “Safe. Just like bringing in Daddy for the investment money. You like playing it safe, don’t you?”

  “I like playing by the rules.” A genuine smile rose on her delectable lips. “Rules are essential, and I’m very good at following them.”

  My eyes fixated on that mouth, that delicious bow in her top lip, that crease below her nose. I wanted to taste it. And God, how much did I want to make her break rules the moment she’d said she liked them?

  So much.

  Just wait, Ms. Gray Barrett.

  Just you wait, that wicked voice in my head warned. Not only would I have her breaking those rules, I’d have her enjoying every moment of it too.

  Chapter 8

  Gray

  For a long moment, we stared each other down. I couldn’t read a thing in those deep blue eyes. The tension in the air between us was real and thick. Like taffy, peanut butter, maybe creamy soup. With bread. Damn, I knew I shouldn’t have skipped lunch. It was after five o’clock, and I was starving.

  My stomach growled. Loudly. I mean…not simply growled. It roared like Smaug awakening and emerging from the Lonely Mountain after sleeping for two centuries, smoke flaring from his nostrils and fire in his eyes. Ready to rain down death and flame on the nearby Lake Town.

  Yeah, my stomach sounded like an angry dragon greedy for treasure—preferably in edible form.

  The look on Ty’s face asked the question he never put voice to—WTF was that? Without responding, I busted up laughing. It was either that or die of embarrassment, and I had too many close encounters with embarrassment on any given day to be self-conscious about the fact that I was such a hard worker that I’d skipped lunch.

  The dragon roared again even louder. And now I was laughing even harder.

  And so was he. It was a sexy sound, a low sort of rumble that rose up from the base of his chest—his big, wide chest. And, thanks to his sh
irtless situation earlier, I knew it to be solid and muscle-bound too.

  “You’re hungry, apparently,” he said as I wiped moisture from the corner of my eyes. “Either that or someone should release the Krakken.”

  “It’s a dragon, actually. Smaug.”

  “Huh. Where’s Bilbo Baggins when you need him?”

  I raised my brows, impressed by his knowledge of fiction. First Hitchhiker’s Guide and now Lord of the Rings. I wasn’t aware astronauts had much time to read for pleasure. Nevertheless, he’d gotten the story details wrong. “Bard,” I corrected. “Bard killed Smaug.”

  “But Bilbo told him how.”

  I nodded. “Fair enough.”

  The dragon roared once more, and his brow went up, face still looking pretty grumpy. “Got the number for a local pizza delivery?” I asked with a hopeful smile.

  He heaved a sigh and had an I’ll regret this look on his face. “I’ll make you a sandwich. I’ve worked up an appetite too.”

  My mouth curved up and, stupidly, I didn’t bite my tongue when I should have. “I’m sure you have.”

  He shot me a look and turned around, leaving me where I stood. Oh, jeez. Sometimes I couldn’t keep my mouth shut, and we were not in a place where I could tease him for his offenses—no matter how tease-worthy his offenses were.

  I trotted after him toward the big, shiny kitchen with gleaming, brushed-copper appliances and fancy, cream-and-black granite countertops.

  He turned and pointed to one of the stools at the counter across from the refrigerator, and I obediently sank down onto it. Meanwhile, he pulled things from a gigantic fridge—whole grain wheat bread, mayo, greens, tomatoes, fresh deli-sliced meats wrapped in brown wax paper.

  “Are you a vegan or gluten-free? Because I can’t help you out if you’re any of that. Well, if you’re vegan, I suppose I can toss a spinach leaf at you.”

  I frowned, confused by his sudden switch to problem-solving mode. I watched him for a moment, noting his quick, jerky movements that seemed to express lingering irritation. He was most likely going to try to smooth this situation over—try to negotiate his way out of it—and get me out of his house for the duration. I narrowed my eyes and prepared for his next angle.

  These alpha-warrior types all used the same playbook. Commands. Grandstanding. Other theatrics. And, depending on their personalities, sprinkled in sweet talk and charm. I’d steel myself and not think one bit about how he was impossibly gorgeous even while making a sandwich—those dreamy forearms, those strong, capable hands. I tore my eyes away and tried to focus on what he had asked me.

  “I can’t eat spinach or kale.” I pointed to the bag of fresh baby spinach leaves. He frowned but shoved it back in the fridge. “But other than that, I’m okay.”

  My stomach growled again as if participating directly in the conversation and lodging its own—very loud—protest.

  “I’m working as fast as I can,” he said when his back was turned, but the laughter was easily detectable in his voice and in the way his shoulders shook as he assembled the sandwiches.

  “It’s super nice of you to make me food. But I want you to know that you won’t have to feed me for every meal. I’ll hit the supermarket on the way back tomorrow. I’m not a very good cook, but I do make killer breakfasts.”

  He threw a sly look my way but seemed to be biting his tongue. Most likely another sexual innuendo—this time suppressed, thank God. He grunted noncommittally as he sliced a tomato and placed the slices on two pieces of bread.

  “How about we compromise,” he began in that same mild tone of voice. “I don’t think you want to stay here any more than I want you here. We could meet every day. I’d report to you—”

  I sat up straight and put a huge grin on my face like an excited puppy dog. “You mean I could give you therapy?”

  His face darkened. So predictable.

  He unwrapped the meats from their deli papers and listed out the choices—thinly sliced roast beef, honey ham, spicy chicken. I chose the chicken, which he laid out on the bread for me, choosing the roast beef for himself.

  “What makes you think I need therapy?”

  I arched a brow at him as he bent over his creations, then wiped his hands and got two plain white plates from a cupboard. Poor wounded soul doesn’t think anyone else can see it.

  I swallowed but, wisely, held my tongue this time.

  He glanced up at me as if expecting an answer, and I blinked. “So you refuse to call it therapy, but you’d promise to attend regular daily sessions with me in which we—what?—play chess?”

  His cheek bulged where he clenched his jaw. We held that long, weighted stare until long after it started feeling uncomfortable. It felt like an accusation—no, like a challenge. But I wasn’t sure who was the challenger and who the challenged.

  Finally, I conceded, dropping my gaze. A split second later, he moved back to the sandwiches, pressing the slices together and finishing them off with one clean cut through the middle of each.

  He placed my spicy chicken sandwich in front of me. “What do you like to drink?”

  “Ice water is fine.”

  He pulled out a cold bottle of water for me. And some sort of green liquid for him—something probably handmade from his trainer-with-benefits. Juiced kale, he clarified with a rueful smile and poured it into his own bright orange Anaheim Ducks souvenir glass.

  It looked awful. I suppressed a shudder and looked away. Amused, he brought his sandwich and drink to the counter and sat on a stool opposite me. He seemed to wait until I looked up before gripping his glass and downing half of the smoothie. This time, I did shudder.

  Laughing, he used a paper napkin to wipe his mouth. “It tastes like ass, in case you were wondering. Suz made it for me.”

  I grinned. “Then I’m sure it’s packed with high-potency vitamins and minerals for extra long-lasting virility.”

  This time, he actually fought rolling his eyes. “Are you ever going to let it go?”

  I pursed my lips. “Probably not. It was pretty epically rude of you.”

  “It won’t happen again—”

  “Good!”

  “—if you’re not staying here.”

  I narrowed my eyes and bit into my sandwich. He watched me for a long moment—probably expecting me to capitulate—which I wouldn’t. Then he bit into his own sandwich. Soon we were both wordlessly demolishing them.

  “If you’re trying to assure me that things like this aren’t going to happen again, you aren’t doing a very good job,” I finally said after I’d swallowed my last bite. I could get painfully honest now that there was no chance he’d spit in my sandwich.

  “So, what? I’m supposed to convince you that I’m toeing the line before you’ll let me off the hook?”

  “If letting you off the hook is your euphemism for no longer living at your house, then, no. I won’t be doing that until the test flight.”

  He blinked. “Three months? Are you out of your mind?”

  I grinned again, reaching my hand out for his empty plate and glass. “Some people have that theory about psych majors.”

  He frowned and handed over his plate and glass. I promptly took them to the sink where I—unwisely—sniffed at the brownish green residue in his souvenir glass. Shaking my head, I filled the basin partway with warm, soapy water.

  “Jeez, this stuff smells vile. Hopefully, she’s better at training than she is at making smoothies.”

  He laughed. “Oh, she’s very good.”

  He’d lobbed that one to me on purpose. I narrowed my eyes at him, and he stared as if daring me to say anything. Instead, I very visibly bit my tongue, then said, “That one is going to leave teeth marks.”

  When I set the dishes in the soapy water, he said. “I have a dishwasher, you know.”

  I shook my head. “It’s two plates and a glass. Easy peasy.”

  Except it wasn’t. I saved his green goo glass for last, and taking it up, pushed my hand in to get the sponge to hi
t the bottom of the glass. Inexplicably, the thing shattered in my hand after having put the slightest pressure on it.

  Pain stabbed me in the fleshy part of my palm, right at the base of my thumb. I dropped the glass, and it shattered further against the ceramic sink.

  “Shit!” Ty exclaimed as he moved up quickly beside me. I put my hand down to fish out the broken pieces.

  “I’m sorry—”

  “No! Don’t do that.” He grabbed my wrist and yanked it out of the water, holding it up. Blood streamed down my forearm from where the cut was oozing above my wrist.

  “I’m making a mess,” I said as drops of blood stained the rug where we stood. Red streaks quickly formed, dripping down my arm past my elbow. Ty cursed.

  Oh crap. Not a good time…not a good time at all for this to happen. A pang of icy fear slid through me, but I willed myself to stay calm.

  “Don’t worry about that. Keep this up above the level of your heart, and especially keep it out of that dirty dishwater.”

  He grabbed some paper towels and doubled them, pressing the wad firmly against my cut. “Cheap-ass souvenir cup. I dropped another one like it last week, and it shattered everywhere. I knew I should have thrown this one out. It’s a hazard.”

  “It’s…”

  He was standing near, and I could smell his hair as he bent over me, pulling off the paper towel to inspect the wound. For some strange reason, I found his nearness, his warmth comforting. Like I wasn’t in this alone. Now, if I could only gather my wits about me enough to tell him what he needed to do to help me.

  “Christ, it’s deep, and you’re still gushing blood. Must have cut the radial artery. You’ll need stitches.” He pulled off the soaked paper towel and pressed another one to it. Pins and needles prickled the flesh of my arm from holding it above my head.

  He frowned, looking into my eyes. “You okay? You look pale, like you’re going to pass out.”

  I inhaled sharply. “I’m fine, but I need you to go grab my toiletry bag in my car. It’s in the glove box.”

  He looked at me like I was an idiot. “You’re cut and bleeding profusely, and you want me to run an errand?”