Ava

My phone pings, and I fish it out. A Google alert notification pops up over my smiling baby wallpaper. I take a moment to gaze at the baby’s face—Mia’s face—then bring up the message. The subject is Faye Belbin. Some pictures of her in Spain.

I check them out, my fingers shaky. A skintight black dress is wrapped around her, almost startling against her milky skin. Despite her paleness, she’s a vibrant, arresting woman. Her glossy jet-black hair, wide amber eyes and full, rosy lips make me think of Snow White—the stunning fairy-tale princess with skin the color of fresh snow and hair like onyx.

My mouth dries as I look for a boyfriend in the pictures. Thankfully she isn’t draped all over Lucas, unlike the alert I got two weeks ago.

Why do I torture myself like this? It’s been two years. It’s obvious to everyone, especially me, that she is exactly what a man like Lucas wants on his arm. I was just a girl he fucked in secret because I was willing and he was horny and slumming.

I should unsubscribe from the alerts. I really should. But somehow my finger always hovers over the unsubscribe link without actually tapping it.

Damn it.

My lips tight, I shove the phone into my purse. Tomorrow. I swear I’ll do it.

It’s the exact same thing I’ve told myself for the last two years.

I exit the hotel lobby and cross the fantastically crowded street toward the Night Bazaar. No matter how preoccupied you are, it’s impossible not to absorb the atmosphere. Tuk-tuks blare their horns at straggling pedestrians still on the road after the lights turn red. All of them have bright advertisements for malls and Tiger Kingdom and elephant trekking tours. I haven’t had time to do any of that, and now that I’m about to return to Japan, I regret it. Should’ve figured out a way to do some sightseeing.

Still, I file everything away in my head, so that when I get a chance to sit down and finally write my Great American Novel I’ll have something to draw on. I don’t know if I’ll ever set one in Asia, but it’s got to be good for my writing to be exposed to different cultures and localities.

I wend my way along the sidewalks. The already narrow strips of concrete are now barely wide enough for a person to pass, with street vendors setting up shop and hawking cheap clothes and merchandise. Naked bulbs light the souvenirs—softball-sized elephants carved out of some kind of black composite, T-shirts with filthy slogans, varicolored dresses. A few women stand in front of massage parlors and call out, “Madam, foot massage?”

It’s tempting. My feet are killing me after a day spent in pumps, and the prices are ridiculously low. Only about ten bucks for an hour of massage.

“Maybe after dinner,” I say with a smile as I pass by.

Carts selling fresh fruit smoothies are already out. Each clear plastic cup contains overripe mangoes, watermelon chunks, bananas and other tropical fruit I don’t recognize. The ladies call out prices, again incredibly inexpensive for something so fresh and scrumptious. Maybe I’ll get one of those after dinner, too…if I can still eat. The scent of grilled seafood and meat and curry permeates the air, and my stomach growls.

“Madam, hamburger?” a man says in front of a western-style bar and grill.

“No thanks.” This is my last night in Chiang Mai, and I want to try something more interesting and authentic. I can get a burger in Osaka anytime.

Around a corner is a modest-sized restaurant specializing in curry. It doesn’t look Indian, though, so I stop to check out the menu.

“Would you like to go in, madam?”

I lift my head at the lilting suggestion. A soft-faced man is watching me with a smile.

“Is this place Indian?”

“No, madam. Moroccan.”

Moroccan. That sounds both delicious and exotically intriguing. I smile, about to say yes then stop as my gaze drifts away from the man to something else beyond the smoothie carts I just passed by.

It’s a western man. Not unusual; Chiang Mai is one of the major cities in Thailand and there are lots of foreigners. But…

The bold dark slant of eyebrows, the unusually sharp eyes. The masterfully carved bones on his arresting face…and his expensive semi-formal clothing that establishes his station in life and subtly warns people to stay away…

All the air leaves my lungs; the world seems to spin and grow dim at the same time. I can’t sense anything over the deafening roaring in my head.

Lucas.

His hair is longer now, and styled differently, with bangs covering most of the left side of his face, but it has to be him. No other man can make me so aware…like an electric current has gone through me.

“Madam?”

I jerk my head back at the man and merely blink at him. Who is this man? Why is he talking to me?

“You like a table?”

Right. Dinner. “No… No, thank you. I’m sorry. I have to go.”

I turn and start walking, intent on returning to the hotel. I glance back over a shoulder, and Lucas is still there, standing next to a local merchant. He’s alone. But for all I know Faye Belbin is here too, maybe haggling with a vendor over an elephant carving.

Mocking laughter echoes in my head. Haggling! Ha. That’s so funny, Ava. The women Lucas dates do not haggle. Ever. The kind of women he dates are otherworldly beautiful, sophisticated, wealthy…

Not like me.

It takes no time at all to reach the big intersection. The light’s red, and I grip my hands together in front of me. I want to cross now, but too many tuk-tuks and cars are speeding past. Unless I don’t mind being plastered all over a windshield, I’m stuck until the light turns.

Someone tugs at my shirt, and I almost cry out in alarm. My heart thumping at a hundred miles an hour, I spin around, ready to face him.

“Flower?”

I look down at the young voice. A girl who can’t be more than six or seven shows me a long string of small white flowers. Her hand is tiny, her wrist bony and delicate. The dingy pink dress she wears is overly big, and her skinny legs are bumpy with bug bites. Her dark eyes beseech me to buy something. It’s obvious if she can’t sell, she and her family may not be able to eat. Why else would a young girl like her be out and about at this hour in an area full of tourists?

The light turns green, and the girl’s eyes flicker to the people starting to cross. The corners of her lips droop, and I reach into my wallet and pull out a hundred-baht bill.

“Here.” I hand it to her and take the flowers without thinking. I have to go. Now. “Keep the change.”

I trot fast to make the light. The girl yells out something behind me, but I don’t stop. She’s most definitely not telling me I paid her too little. I’ve seen skewered meat carts selling their goods for no more than twenty baht apiece. There’s no way her little flowers can cost more than a meal.

When someone catches me by my shirt, I turn my head over a shoulder. “You can keep the cha…”

My words trail off as I take in Lucas’s face, so close to mine that our noses almost touch. I can smell his favorite soap, mint and warm skin, a combination that leaves me breathless. Unblinking, I take in his masculine magnificence. The eyebrow that isn’t hidden by his hair is tilted in that familiar arrogant line that says he’s too smart and too used to getting his way and that’s exactly how he wants his life. The bridge of his nose is strong and straight, the kind that creates a bold profile in men. His jaw has the same hard, square look, like it’s been carved from granite. The only soft part of him is his mouth, which is currently set in a flat line.

Suddenly I can’t think, can’t move. The flowers fall from my limp grasp. But his hand at the small of my back pushes me toward the other side, and we cross before the light changes. My foot catches on a crack in the uneven sidewalk, and I stumble. He catches me, pulling me closer to his large, muscled body, and I cover my face, hoping and praying that I’m hallucinating.

But when I drop my arms to my sides, I still see Lucas. I still feel his hand wrapped around my biceps.

Why now? Why here?

Why?

“Ava.” His voice is the same, gravelly and low. And I shiver as it envelops me like the softest silk.

My breath catches in my throat, and suddenly I can’t speak. My stomach roils like a thousand angry bees are buzzing inside it.

I whisper the only word I can. “Why?”