“Who are you?” I ask, annoyed. Something is wrong here. Something about her is—

“I’m Felicity, Mr. Asher’s lawyer—”

—off.

“I handle all his business arrangements. And he asked me to come here and have you sign the NDA the two of you discussed over the weekend.”

“Lawyer?” Ha! I laugh. “You’re like twelve years old.”

She pushes her glasses up again and crinkles her nose. “I was a child prodigy, Ma’am, it’s not my fault I’m young.”

And that’s when I realize what’s wrong with her. She’s made up. She’s fake. She’s… she’s… acting. She’s dressed like a lawyer might look on TV. Like she just walked out of wardrobe.

And suddenly all that heartache at finding out my dream man is an ass**le disappears and is replaced by rage.

“Look, Felicity, if that’s your real name. I’m not sure what kind of game Mr. Asher”—I seethe the name out—“is playing with me, but it’s over. So you can take that tablet and that NDA and go tell him to shove it up his ass. Maybe that will give him the sexual satisfaction he’s looking for.”

I slam the door. Shaking. My whole body is trembling as I realize how big a joke he thinks I am.

How dare he? How dare he send this girl, who is probably one of his many, many, many sexual conquests, to my door to ask for my signature?

And I’m sure he does want that signature. He did all kinds of questionable things with me this weekend. He wants to make sure I’m silenced before he goes back to his life in LA.

Well, f**k him!

Chapter Twenty

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I HAVE to sit on my bed and breathe deeply to calm myself down. I’m so angry but beyond that, I’m so humiliated. Vaughn Asher is a complete ass**le and I feel so dirty I want to take a shower. I want to get out of this room.

No, this resort. I want to go home. Like right now.

I’m leaving. I walk around the room and pick up all my things, stuffing them into my backpack, then hit the bathroom and grab my incidentals. There’s a pad of paper on the desk and I scribble out a note to Bebe.

Had to go back to Denver, emergency at work, they need me tomorrow. Love you—Grace

I can already hear her when she reads this. A party-planning emergency that requires you to leave a tropical island so you can work on Labor Day? She’ll never buy it, but I don’t care. I take a long steadying breath, hike the backpack strap up over my shoulder, and leave the bungalow. I take the path that takes me to the main hotel, ducking out of sight when I hear voices, just in case they are Vaughn or one of his minions, and make it to the valet area where there are a few cabs lined up waiting for fares. The valet is busy, lots of people checking in after the resort was closed for the wedding, so I walk past the guys unloading luggage and approach the first cab in line. “Airport?” I ask.

“Get in,” he says in his Island accent.

I do get in. And as soon as I settle into the backrest I relax and breathe a sigh of relief.

It takes a while to get to the airport even though this island is small and we’re not that far from the central business district of Charlotte Amalie. It’s all the way across the bay and there are times during the forty-minute ride through the coastal traffic that I think I could’ve gotten there faster if I was swimming. But finally, the cab pulls up into the departures area and I pay him and get out.

A few seconds later, I’m alone at the airport with no ticket home.

Inside it’s a madhouse. It’s Labor Day weekend and people want to get home in time to enjoy the holiday tomorrow before they have to go back to work on Tuesday. I get in the ticketing line and wait patiently as one by one we inch forward and finally, after an hour and a half, I’m next in line.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I take it out and check the message.

Where are you? From an unknown number. Which by now I know is Vaughn.

I consider not answering, but it’s best to just get it over with. So I text back. At the airport, on my way home. Thanks for the fun. Bye, Grace.

And then it’s my turn at the ticket counter, so I stuff the phone into my pocket and ignore the incessant buzzing as I concentrate on what they are telling me.

“First class? No, I can’t afford first class. I just want a coach ticket to Denver.”

“Miss, we have one seat left at a discounted price as it leaves in thirty minutes. You have five minutes to make up your mind and you can make that flight with the complimentary premium security access checkpoint. It’s eight hundred and seventy-two dollars. The next available flight is tomorrow.”

My phone rings in my pants and I grab it and press answer out of habit before I remember that I’m avoiding Asher. “Grace,” he says, his voice urgent. “Stay right where you are, I’ll be there to pick you up in ten minutes. Stay put, do you hear me, Grace?”

I press end and look the ticketing woman in the eye. “Book it. Here’s my card.”

I have exactly one thousand one hundred and two dollars in my bank account—that includes savings—but I do not care. I refuse to let that ass**le find me stranded here at the airport like a child.

Fifteen minutes later I’m through security and I’m walking down the aisle to the only seat left in first class. I drop down into my seat, the window, so the woman next to me is put out, and stuff my backpack under the seat in front of me.

I breathe a huge sigh of relief. I hope I never see that man again. I never want to see his face, like ever. Even on TV. I’m not going to see Invisible Man 2, even though IM1 was my favorite movie last year. I am over it. Totally one hundred percent over it.

In fact, I grab my phone and bring up my Twitter account real fast. I look up for the flight attendant and he’s busy making coffee or something in that tiny galley kitchen, so I open up my account and start deleting tweets. I just want to erase Vaughn from my life. My fingers are flying down my profile page, but there’s no good way to delete them all without deleting my whole account. I consider that, out of desperation, and I’m just about to give in and do it when the flight attendant stands over my row and tsks his tongue.

“Airplane mode, please. And I can see your Twitter page, so I know you’re not in airplane mode.”

He waits there, tapping his foot, until I go into my settings and flick that little tab to airplane mode.