CHAPTER THIRTEEN

HOPE

The morning sun crept lazily into my room as I zipped the last corner of my suitcase shut. The navy-blue dress Bee helped me pick was packed away neatly, waiting for its debut. For now, I wore something... safer—but definitely suggestive.

A black crop sweater that showed just a hint of toned stomach. High-waisted jeans that hugged my curves too well. Comfortable white sneakers. Hair up in a claw clip, just messy enough to say “I didn’t try hard” when I very much did. A spritz of light floral perfume and I was ready.

Not to impress Ace, of course.

Just... representing the enterprise. Professionally.

Okay, maybe a little to impress Ace.

A few minutes later, one of his men knocked and escorted me down to the waiting black SUV that drove us straight to the Mason's private airport. The moment I stepped out and saw the sleek jet glinting in the early light, reality settled in.

This was my life now. Mafia-linked charity gala in another city. Designer gowns. Secret agendas. And Ace freaking Mason.

I climbed up the narrow steps into the plane with a strange mix of nerves and confidence. My eyes scanned the cabin and found him immediately—seated by the window, legs stretched out, a glass of champagne in one hand, and—

My jaw twitched.

Was he seriously reading An Enemy Called Average?

I blinked again to be sure. Yep. Same white -and-gold cover. John Mason, motivational guru and self-discipline king.

“What’s next?” I asked, walking past him to my seat. “Chicken Soup for the Crime Lord’s Soul?”

He didn’t look up right away, but the corner of his mouth twitched, and I caught it. Score one for me.

“It’s good,” he said simply, flipping the page.

“I’m sure it is,” I said, sliding into the seat across from him. “Is that where you get your signature stoic glare from?”

This time he looked up, eyes flicking over me—and lingering.

Just for a moment.

I knew the outfit was a little bold for travel. But his silence said everything.

I smirked and reached for the safety belt as the pilot’s voice came over the intercom:

“Preparing for takeoff, please fasten your seatbelts.”

I pulled at the straps but the stupid thing refused to cooperate. I yanked again, awkwardly twisting and trying not to look as incompetent as I felt.

“Having trouble?” Ace asked, already setting his book down.

“No, it’s fine, I got it—”

“Clearly.” He was already on his feet and in front of me.

His fingers brushed mine as he reached for the buckle and I stilled.

He crouched slightly, leaned in, and expertly clipped the belt across my waist. But his closeness… God.

His cologne—musk, leather, a hint of something spicy—hit me like a wave. His fingers skimmed over my stomach longer than necessary. My skin ignited under his touch.

His eyes lifted to meet mine and in them, I saw it.

The memory of that night.

The kiss.

His hands on my skin.

And the fact that I wanted more. So much more.

My face betrayed me—I could feel the heat blooming across my cheeks like wildfire.

He tilted his head, slightly amused. “You okay?”

“Peachy,” I croaked, looking away.

I prayed he didn’t notice how flushed I was. But judging by the slow smirk tugging at his lips as he returned to his seat, he noticed. He definitely noticed.

I glanced at him from under my lashes as he lifted his champagne glass and took a lazy sip, his eyes now hidden behind dark sunglasses.

We were playing the game again. Pretending like nothing happened.

But I wasn’t the only one losing my grip. He could hide behind motivational books and passive glances all he wanted, but I saw it.

He looked at me like a man who wanted to devour something he couldn’t touch.

And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t waiting for him to break that rule again.

ACE

The whir of the jet’s systems was the only sound I paid attention to—well, that and the quiet fizz of champagne in my glass. I turned a page in An Enemy Called Average and let the words blur as my mind wandered, waiting for her.

Hope.

The name itself had started to taste like trouble.

I heard her before I saw her—steps matching against the metal stairway, followed by a moment of hesitation before she stepped into view.

And when she did…

Hell.

A black crop sweater that teased more than it covered. Jeans that clung to her legs like second skin. She looked effortless—intentional in the way a storm doesn’t try to be destructive. It just is.

She saw me. Her lips curled into a smirk like she caught me doing something shameful.

And technically, I was.

Reading self-development books wasn’t exactly mafia boss material, but it helped keep the demons quiet. Even killers needed discipline.

“What’s next?” she quipped. “Chicken Soup for the Crime Lord’s Soul?”

I didn’t look up immediately. I couldn’t. She was already too much and it was barely 8 a.m.

“It’s good,” I muttered, turning the page even though I hadn’t read a word.

“I’m sure it is,” she said, sliding into the seat directly across from mine. I felt the shift in air pressure, the heat of her presence, the challenge in her voice. “Is that where you get your signature stoic glare from?”

I finally looked up—and instantly regretted it.

Or maybe not.

She was watching me like she had a deck of cards and all the aces were hers.

I dragged my gaze down her body, slow enough for her to notice, fast enough to pretend it wasn’t intentional. But who was I kidding? Everything about her was intentional. The outfit. The teasing. The fire in her that kept daring me to burn with her.

The pilot’s voice crackled overhead, announcing takeoff prep. Hope reached for the seatbelt, clearly struggling with the buckle like it was a bomb wire.

She yanked it again and I sighed, setting my book down.

“Having trouble?”

“No, it’s fine, I got it—”

“Clearly.” I stood, already moving toward her before she could argue again.

When I crouched in front of her to help, I felt it.

Electric.

She held her breath. I did too.

My fingers brushed against her stomach as I clipped the belt, and the pulse that jumped under her skin told me everything I needed to know. She remembered that night—just like I did. The kiss. The way her body trembled in my arms. The way she looked at me like I was the only danger she was willing to touch.

I could smell her perfume—soft, feminine, dangerous in its own way. I could feel her eyes burning holes into my skin, and her cheeks flushed red with want.

God help me, I wanted her again.

But want was weakness.

And she could never be that. Not in this world.

I looked up, let our eyes meet for just a moment, long enough for her to see what I wasn’t saying. And then I pulled away.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Peachy,” she replied, eyes darting anywhere but at me.

I smirked as I returned to my seat and grabbed my champagne, slipping on my sunglasses to hide the war behind my eyes.

She thought she was the only one affected.

She had no damn idea.