Priceless (An Amato Brothers/Rixton Falls crossover)

by Winter Renshaw

  I scan the room, looking at all his things and taking in my surroundings. His bed is definitely vintage, and so is the quilt that covers it. There’s a single signed baseball on the dresser, packaged in a small glass box, and a stack of books, mostly classics, rests on his nightstand.

  The hiss and pop of the fireworks outside has dissipated to nothing, and I’m not sure how much time has passed, but none of that matters the second I hear his footsteps from the hallway.

  Bracing myself, I watch the doorway, spotting his prelude in the form of a shadow.

  When Ace finally appears, my jaw falls.

  “Will you kiss me now?” He stands, hands hooked on his narrow hips, eyes flashing with palpable lust.

  “Oh, sweet Jesus.” I’m breathless just looking at him.

  His face is completely clean shaven, and I feel like I’m seeing him for the first time all over again, only he looks nothing like that incensed man who chased me down the sidewalk. Ace’s heavy stare is directed at me, his chest rising and falling as we stand here in limbo.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off him if I tried.

  And I don’t want to.

  “Well?” he asks.

  “What the hell are you waiting for?” I spring up, running to him. Slipping my arms around his neck, I practically crawl up his muscled body.

  Ace’s hands cup my ass, and I graze my lips across his, reveling in the soft smoothness. He smells clean, like cologne and shaving cream and aftershave. I drag his scent into my lungs, kissing him harder, slipping my fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck.

  And as he carries me to his bed, our hands greedily tearing at our clothes, it occurs to me that I didn’t notice his scar.

  In fact, I didn’t even see it.

  I was too distracted by his beauty, by the handsome stranger standing before me, to even care.

  Within seconds, I’m naked, lying dead center in the middle of his bed. There’s a warm slickness between my legs and I’m pulsing, physically aching for his touch. By the time he climbs over me, he’s rock hard and sheathed. My thighs tremble as they part for him, and he leans down, slipping a peaked nipple between his lips, sucking and flicking with his tongue.

  His tongue may be my favorite feature of his.

  That and his cock.

  And his arms.

  And his ass.

  I drag my hand along his cheek, loving the soft feel beneath my palms. His face. His face is my favorite.

  Ace looks up at me, his aqua gaze glowing in the dark.

  I love his eyes too. Can’t forget about them.

  He pulls his body over mine, holding himself up with one arm and gripping the base of his cock with his free hand. Teasing my clit with his hardness, I harbor a deep breath and then release it the second he pushes himself inside me.

  It’s a sweet relief, but not nearly as sweet as the one to come.

  Holding his body on top of mine, he glides in and out, slicked and aided by my arousal, and then he kisses me.

  He kisses me a hundred times, our lips craving heat and tongues craving taste.

  “Can we do this all night?” I sigh, my mouth still pressed against his.

  His thrusts grow harder. “You read my mind.”

  Ace opens a window when we’re done. The room is stuffy, and the cabin has no AC units in the bedrooms. When he returns, he yanks the covers off the bed and takes the spot beside me. We lie on top of crisp cotton sheets, the stickiness of our bodies evaporating into the summery night air.

  He leans across me, his body sticking to mine, and flicks on the vintage fan on the nightstand next to my side of the bed. The cool breeze feels good for a while, but my body quickly adapts and fills with shivers.

  “You cold?” he asks, extending his arm.

  “Now I am,” I say, wasting no time curling up in that.

  I press my cheek against his chest, listening to the calming sound his heart makes when it thrums, and exhale softly.

  I’m not sure why, but I start to think about that journal again. And how hard that man loved the girl with the purple eyes. How she ruined him for anyone else. How he swore he’d never love anyone else half as much as he loved her.

  Even lying here, in Ace’s arms, there’s a kind of inexplicable distance between us. Sure, the attraction is there. No denying that. And we have chemistry because apparently opposites really do attract.

  But I want something deeper.

  I crave more of him – a level of him I’m not sure he’s capable of giving because every part of me suspects that journal belongs to him.

  And every part of me hopes, selfishly, that it doesn’t.

  But it’s the only thing that makes sense.

  “What are you thinking about?” I ask after a bout of silence.

  “Nothing,” he exhales, not hesitating.

  “Everyone’s always thinking about something,” I ask, and then I realize that maybe he’s not thinking about something. He’s thinking about someone.

  We lie there, still in silence, but his fingers graze the back of my arm. It tickles and peppers my flesh with goose bumps, but I like it.

  “Have you ever been in love, Ace?” I ask.

  My cheeks burn.

  Shit.

  I shouldn’t be asking this question.

  We just screwed for the second time in twenty-four hours and already I’m asking a question about love?

  Good god, I’m not thinking this weekend.

  If Wren were here, she’d be laughing hysterically at me. I’m always putting my foot in my mouth.

  “I don’t mean . . .” I say, hoping to clarify but knowing the damage has already been done, “I’m not asking because . . .”

  Ace chuckles. Once.

  “I’m just wondering,” I say. “Because there’s this distance about you. I see it in your eyes. I’m just curious if you’ve ever let anyone in.”

  I trace my finger along his chest, right above his beating heart.

  “Once,” he says. “You?”

  He turns the tables, pointing my own question straight back at me.

  “Never,” I say.

  I feel him stare at me in the dark. “Seriously?”

  “I’ve been told I’m too free-spirited,” I say. “I guess I’ve never wanted to be tied down for too long. I never keep anyone around long enough to fall in love, I guess.”

  He’s quiet.

  I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

  “You feel tied down when someone loves you?” he asks.

  “I did when I was younger. I don’t know how I’d be now. It’s been a couple years since I seriously dated anyone,” I say. “I haven’t had a proper date in over a year because I’ve been working so much. I’d love to meet that special someone, you know? Someone who loves me so hard it hurts. I want that all-consuming, addictive love that everyone always talks about.”

  The kind written about in that journal.

  “What about you?” I ask. “What happened with your one love?”

  There’s a slight groan rumbling in his chest, like just thinking about the answer to that question is painful to him.

  But I have to know.

  I had to ask.

  “We just didn’t work out,” he says.

  I roll to my side, resting my chin on his chest. “What happened?”

  “She was in love with two people,” he says.

  I’ve never had my heart broken before. I wouldn’t know what it feels like or how bad it hurts. But right now, there’s a tight ache in my chest.

  It is him.

  It has to be.

  He’s the heartbroken Romeo.

  He didn’t get the girl.

  And if that’s the case, he’ll never love another the way he loved her.

  Chapter 24

  Aidy

  Ace pulls up outside my apartment Sunday afternoon.

  This is it.

  This is the end of our sexy little unexpected weekend.

  We woke
up early this morning and had a quiet, introspective hike along this amazing trail with scenic views of Rixton Lake, and we stopped on the top of a hill and enjoyed a picnic breakfast as we watched a group of teenagers cliff dive next to the biggest waterfall in the state.

  I enjoyed every moment, willing each minute to drip by slow as honey, because I hadn’t enjoyed myself this much in a long time. Something about being out here, elbows deep in pine sap and mosquitos and lake water, is refreshing in a way you can’t find in the city. No red-doored spa treatment could ever compare to being one with nature, to being cut off from technology and hustle and bustle.

  Ace, as wonderful and intriguing and mysterious as he is, kept me at a distance all weekend. Even when his cock was buried inside me and his mouth was on mine, there was this odd separation.

  I spent the better part of the ride home thinking about it.

  Accepting it.

  Knowing it’ll never change because he’s a man still clearly in love with the woman with the violet eyes, and nobody else will ever compare.

  I exhale, heavy with melancholy, when he shifts into park and climbs out of the truck. I meet him around back, where he’s pulling my bags out and sitting them on the curb.

  “Thanks for everything,” I say. There’s a finality in my tone that I didn’t place there intentionally.

  Ace squares his body with mine, placing his hands on my hips. Our eyes meet, and I get weak in the knees just looking at him again. He’s pretty like this, all clean-shaven. I’d seen photos of him clean-shaven before, when I Googled his name last time, but most of them were team photos or freeze frames from TV screens. They were grainy and far away. Seeing him up close, looking like a million bucks, does something to me that no one else ever has.

  But it’s more than his looks.

  Over this weekend, I grew to love his quiet strength. His intensity. His seriousness. His stillness.

  “I had a great time,” I say. “Thank you for taking me with you. It was definitely one of the best weekends I’ve had in a long time.”

  “You’ll have to come with me again sometime.” He says it so casually, and my jaw hangs slightly because I wasn’t expecting him to say anything like that.

  I figured it was a one-and-done type of thing. He found a girl, took her to his cabin, got laid a good handful of times, and then the second her feet touched the ground again, he dropped her off where he found her.

  “I’d like that,” I say.

  “You want help carrying everything?” he asks.

  I turn around, glancing at my door then back at him. “No, it’s okay.”

  Breathing out, I smile and move toward the curb, but his hand hooks my arm and he pulls me back, closer to him. Without saying a word, Ace kisses me.

  In broad daylight.

  In the streets of Manhattan.

  For all the world to see.

  And he doesn’t just kiss me – he kisses me hard.

  Every part of me hopes it won’t be our last, but I know better than to get my hopes up.

  I lick my lips, letting his taste linger on my tongue, and I watch him drive away. Lugging my bags up to my apartment, I realize I forgot the antique jewelry box in his truck. On our way back this afternoon, we stopped at this charming little town called Walnut Creek and popped into this antique shop on the corner called The Yellow Elephant.

  It was there I found this little oval trinket box. It had a glass top and little gold filigree legs and little jade cameos all around it. Ace thought it was ugly, and I almost bought it just to spite him, but when I saw the price tag on the back, I realized there was no way in hell I could afford it. The cost was more than one month’s rent here, so I put it back and continued browsing.

  When we got back in the car a little while later, Ace produced it from his pocket.

  He’d bought it for me when I wasn’t looking, that scoundrel.

  I sigh, sticking my key in the lock of my door. I’ll have to get it from him another time.

  Chapter 25

  Ace

  ARE YOU HOME?

  I’m woken from my afternoon nap by a text message from Aidy. It’s Wednesday, and it’s been three whole days since I last saw her. Three whole days of replaying our weekend together on a loop in my mind. Three whole days of thinking about the way she kissed my lips, how soft her skin felt beneath my palms, and how sweet her taste was on my tongue.

  I’m officially a pathetic, lust-sick puppy dog.

  I’m not sure what kind of spell she cast on me, but whatever it is, it’s working.

  I haven’t thought about Kerenza all week, and that’s a record.

  I pull the blanket off me and rise, reading her text message again, my eyes bleary. Rising, I head to the bathroom, take a piss, and then grab a bottle of water. Firing back a response within seconds would make me look like some lame loser. And maybe I am one. But she doesn’t need to know.

  I even stop at the laundry room in the hallway and throw in a load of whites.

  When it’s been at least ten minutes, I fire one off and let her know that yes, I am in fact home.

  She replies within seconds: CAN I STOP BY?

  The doorbell rings fifteen minutes later, and Aidy stands on the other side of my door, her makeup case in one hand and her other one gripping the strap of the purse on her shoulder.

  “Hey,” she says, smiling sweetly. “I was in the area for work. Thought I’d stop by and get that jewelry box I left in the rental truck last weekend?”

  Well, fuck me. She wasn’t coming by to hang out or because she wanted to see me.

  “Right,” I say. “Yeah. It’s upstairs. Come on in.”

  We climb the stairs, Aidy yapping away about some client who demanded peacock blue eyeshadow despite Aidy’s professional attempts to sway her in a different direction.

  “What have you been up to all week?” she asks, leaning on my kitchen island.

  She looks pretty today, though she always does. But today her hair’s a little brighter, like she maybe just had it done. And her makeup is different. Then again, it’s always different. Every time I see her, she looks a little bit like somebody else. She’s like those fireworks over the lake last weekend, the ones that were every color all at once. You can’t pin Aidy Kincaid down. You can’t pigeonhole her into one particular type of anything.

  “Had an interview with the New York Times,” I say.

  “No shit?”

  “Yeah. Apparently since I co-hosted Smack Talk, they think I’m preparing for my big return.”

  “What’d you tell them?”

  “I told them what they wanted to hear. That I’ll always be a ballplayer at heart, but pitching’s out of the question for me,” I say. “Then they wanted to know what’s next for me.”

  “What was your answer?”

  “Honestly? I have no fucking clue what’s next for me. But I may have shot myself in the foot with that one.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I told them they’d have to wait and see.”

  “Oooh.” Aidy’s mouth inches up in the corners. “You baited them. You left them with a cliffhanger. Now you have to do something really exciting.”

  I drag my hand down my face, tugging at the smooth, unfamiliar skin beneath it. I’m still not used to being clean-shaven, and most of the time I feel completely naked, but decided last weekend that I had to kiss Aidy again. I had to have her again.

  And besides, it’s only hair. It’ll grow back.

  Aidy’s eyes fall to the jagged scar across my left cheek. It’s shaped like a crooked lightning bolt and it’s still pink. Maybe a quarter of an inch thick and slightly raised. Hair doesn’t grow there anymore, of course, but the beard always did a fine job hiding it.

  Now it’s out in the open bright as day, its ruddiness like an invitation for the rest of the world to stare.

  “I like your scar,” Aidy says. It’s the first time she’s mentioned it since I shaved.

  “What?” I squint, holding my p
alm over it.

  “It gives you this edge. Makes you look badass,” she says. “Because without it, you’re kind of a pretty boy. No offense. But you’re really, really good looking, and, like, you’re still hot with the scar, don’t get me wrong, but it just gives you a little something extra.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Look, I deal with people every single day who have physical insecurities,” she says. “There’s not one person in this world who loves every single feature on their face, and if they do, it’s probably because they’re some genetically modified Frankenbeauty from the plastic surgery capital of the world.”

  Chuffing, I pull up a bar stool and take a seat.

  “People find all kinds of things to hate about themselves. Big noses. Eyes that are too close together. Eyes that are too far apart. Flat chins. Big foreheads. No cheekbones. Too much cheekbone. Too short. Too tall. Straight hair. Wavy hair. Curly hair. The list goes on.” Aidy rolls her eyes, sighing. “People don’t realize, if you love yourself and accept yourself for who you are, all those insecurities eventually fade away.”

  “Says the makeup artist who can make them go away.”

  “Makeup isn’t supposed to hide,” I say. “It’s supposed to accentuate. Anyway, you made me go off on a tangent. Thanks a lot. Back to your scar.”

  I blow a hard breath past my lips. “All right. What about it?”

  “You’re hot, but the scar makes you even hotter,” she says. “Walk around and own that scar. Screw the past. Screw the accident that stole your career. Screw whatever the hell that scar reminds you of.”

  Her head tilts, and her lips take on a curious smile.

  “And then what?” I scoff. “Screw you instead?”

  There’s an endless second that lingers between us, one where I can feel the steady thrum of my pulse and the slow crawl of heat along the back of my neck. Our eyes lock.

  “Yeah,” she says.

  I kick the bar stool out from under me and go to her, not wasting a single second. Hoisting her on the counter, my hands circle her waist and my mouth claims hers.

  God, I’ve missed this.

  I’ve missed her.

  Her fingers run through my hair and her tongue grazes mine. In seconds, I’m hard as a rock, desperately counting the minutes until I can bury myself in her and leave my past behind me. When I’m with her, I don’t think about anything but her.