MEETING THE WRONG WALKER 

GWENDOLY POV

I had been standing at the taxi stand at Los Angeles International Airport for forty minutes, looking like a worn-out wannabe.

It was typical of Bryn not to show up at the expected time.

I should’ve never let him fly ahead of me.

Now, I was standing here with my luggage, dialing his number for the hundredth time as it kept going to voicemail.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed and completely blacked out.

“Perfect,” I muttered.

The battery was dead.

Now, how the hell was I supposed to reach him?

I felt like punching someone—or something.

“Hello, miss. Need some help?”

A tall, shaggy-looking guy with messy blond hair was smiling at me. Another guy hovered a little too close behind me. 

I instinctively held onto my bag tightly.

“What do you want?”

I scowled at him.

“Easy. You’ve been standing here a while. Figured you might need a hand with something.”

He said it softly, and I relaxed a little.

He didn't look like one of those typical pickpockets.

“Yeah. I'm actually waiting for someone, but my phone’s dead. Can I make a quick call?”

“Sure, miss. No worries.”

He reached for his pocket—then everything happened fast.

Someone grabbed the guy behind me and twisted his arm hard. The blond one bolted.

I spun around.

The other guy's hand was being twisted painfully as he grunted, but my eyes were fixed on the attacker.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, with long, dark hair tied into a bun and sharp, perfectly formed facial features that looked carved rather than built.

He was dressed in a complete dark suit and pants, like some Mafia lord in a movie.

He looked dangerous yet beautiful in a sinful way.

“You don't get to steal from a lady.”

His deep, raspy, husky voice broke through my thoughts, and I noticed what looked like my purse in his hand.

That was my purse.

But how did he—What the hell.

“Gwendoly Thompson?”

The stranger asked.

I narrowed my eyes. “And you're...?”

He almost smiled, revealing a dimple.“You should probably call me the wrong Walker.”

“The what?”

“Pardon my manners. I'm Frost Walker. Bryn asked me to pick you up.”

Yeah. He looked completely FROST to me.

He reached for my luggage. I didn’t let go.

“How do I know you’re not with those two?”

I asked. He paused.

“What guys?”

“The good Samaritan. Maybe you're working with them, pretending to be the good guy just so you can kidnap me.”

“Kidnap you?”

He gave a lazy laugh. “Little lady, I just saved your ass from being robbed, and now I'm the wanted criminal here?”

“You sure look like one, dressing like that.”

He raised an eyebrow.“How?”

“Like a Mafia lord or something worse than that. I'm not going with you unless you prove otherwise.”

He blinked at me.“What proof do you want?”

“Anything legal.”

He pulled out his phone, swiped across the screen, and held it closer to my face.

It was a picture of Bryn and me on the beach three years ago.

“That doesn't prove anything. Anyone can pull my pictures off the internet.”

“Get in the car, little lady. I've got places to be.”

He said it like he was running out of the little patience he had left.

“I'm not moving an inch. And stop calling me that!”

I snapped at him.

He sighed, then pulled out his phone again and dialed a number, and put it on speaker.

The asshole's phone was actually connecting?

Bryn’s voice came through. “Yeah?”

 I snatched the phone. “Bryn, you piece—”

Frost ended the call.

“Satisfied?” he said. “Now get in the car.”

He walked toward a dark green G-Wagon and opened the passenger door.

I still didn’t move.

“Get in.”

“You want me to get into this ‘Die Hard’ muscle truck and risk being pulled over by the police?”

“Just get in the damn car already.”

He said it in a low, calm tone that somehow made my legs move on their own.

I climbed in, and he did the same but he didn’t start the car.

“What now?” I asked.

“Not with your luggage in here.”

He said, then popped the trunk open.

I got back out, threw my luggage in the trunk, and dropped into the seat again.

Still, he remained still.

“What's the problem now?”

“Seatbelt,” he said.

“Oh, come on! Just fucking move the damn truck already!”

I yelled. And he smiled.

Great. The psychopath was smiling again.

I clicked the seat belt into place, then turned toward the window as the engine roared to life and he finally pulled out of the taxi stand.

Then he started driving like he had a death wish—cutting off cars, speeding through gaps.

“Wow… Jesus, slow down.” 

“That’s what the seatbelt’s for.”

He replied, his eyes fixed on the road.

Then he overtook another car.

“Unless you want me to jump out of your crazy truck through the window, you'd better slow down.”

“Relax. I don't want to be haunted by your angry ghost.”

He smirked and slowed down a little as a call came through a earbud I hadn't noticed.

His whole face changed—eyes gone cold.

Without warning he swung off the main road into a quiet alley.

My pulse jumped. “Hey, hey! Look, I might not know the way to Bryn's house, but this doesn't look like it. So where the fuck are you taking me?”

I panicked as I looked at the quiet alley and surrounding houses.

He glanced at me, still calm.

“To handle a problem.”

He replied, grinning.

“And whose problem is that?”

I asked, swallowing hard.

“Mine”