Nova

In ten minutes, every girl’s fantasy, including mine, will be in my Audi. For three days, twenty-two hours, eighteen minutes, and thirty-four seconds, I've replayed over and over how this ride will go down.

He'll survey the supple leather interior with his smoldering baby blues, and then, he’ll fold his tall, Adonis like frame into the front seat and make himself comfortable. I'll lower the windows for the sole purpose of seeing his dark sex hair being played with by the breeze. His tattooed forearm will reach out, find a radio station he likes (preferably country,) and his chiseled jaw will turn my way. I’ll say something witty, and the slight dimple that made him a star will appear.

Aaaand, that’s why they call it a fantasy. In reality, I'm probably going to forget my name, or heaven forbid, giggle. And I don’t even have an Audi, it’s a Honda Civic.

It's not every day you have the current number one box office star in your car. Actually, not any day for a regular person like me. And the real kick in the rear end? Not only will he be in my car, soon, he’ll be in my life— as my stepbrother.

Fate has brought Ethan Hale into my life and kept him unattainable. How’s that for cruel?

It’ll be okay, I tell myself, as I rush across the parking lot. He’s just a person. A very sexy person.

“Morning, Nova,” Chuck greets me from behind the ticket counter of the virtually empty airport. “Picking Ethan Hale up?”

Of course, he knows why I’m here. That’s the thing about a small town, everyone eventually finds out everything. My mother’s string of men has always been a hot topic and this one is fire.

“Yeah,” I answer, dragging that familiar embarrassment along with me to a chair. It’s like carrying an extra body with me.

Somehow, in a weird twist of fate, my mother has managed to become engaged to Ethan’s father after showing him a vacation property. Talk about whirlwind romances. I guess I can't blame him, really. My mother has an allure that seems to draw men in. One after the other.

I may look like her—blonde, light brown eyes—but the similarities end there. In my twenty-six years, I've had one semi-serious relationship which ended in a bitter breakup and zero desire on my part to replace him. Mom, on the other hand, would have replaced him five times over by now. So, it doesn't surprise me she's getting married, because, well, this will be her third. What surprises me is that Ethan Hale is taking time off from promoting his next box office smash to attend their small-town wedding. Right here in Pity Falls, Montana: population 5,021.

“If anyone gives you a hard time, let me know.” He watches me over his bifocals. “I’ll kick their ass.”

I smile at him. “Will do.”

That’s one silver lining about not having a father around, I guess: I’ve become the adopted child of the men in town whose hair I cut.

I sink back against the stiff padded chair and stare out the wall of glass onto the empty runway. The sign I made and a Styrofoam cup of black coffee I purchased for Ethan sit beside me, along with packs of sweetener and a little white mountain of creamers. Flavored and non. Ethan Hale doesn't seem like a cappuccino type of guy, so I've covered all my bases. Hopefully.

A silver smidge appears in the sky, circling and slicing through the puffy clouds, growing larger until it's landed on the tarmac.

Like any normal person in this situation, I bolt from my seat and panic. He's a movie star. A freaking movie star. The real deal—red carpets, awards shows, tabloids splashed with him and the string of models and actresses he’s been involved with. I paid twelve dollars to watch him on screen. Twice. And now he’s here, and I’m not ready for this upheaval. I like quiet and pretending my mom isn’t a revolving door for men.

Snatching up my red leather bag, and all my things, I decide to leave him here to fend for himself. He's famous; someone will take pity on him.

Before I can do any such thing, the arrivals enter the airport, and I stand stuck on the linoleum floor, holding the tiny sign with ‘Ethan Hale’ scrawled in black letters in my sweaty hand.

My wedges won’t move. He’s breathtaking in his worn jeans, black t-shirt, and Dodgers ball cap pulled low on his forehead. It would be a shame his sex hair is covered if not for the fact he looks so damn sexy.

His eyes lock with mine and ten strides later he's in front of me. Me. Ethan Hale is standing toe-to-toe with me, Nova Sparks. How is this even happening?

“You must be Nova?” he says, dropping his leather duffel to the floor with a plunk.

I nod. “Nice to meet you. I brought you a coffee,” I tell him, holding the cup out.

His eyes lower to my offering, then back to me. “I'm not a coffee drinker.”

“Oh, no problem.” On legs I can barely feel, I cross to a small silver trash can and chuck it. “How was your flight?” I ask, turning to face him.

My exposed shoulders tense as his eyes sweep down my flowy black halter tank and jeans to my pink tipped toes, then back up to my face.

“I don't do well on crop dusters,” he says.

“I'm sorry.”

“Did you build the plane?”

“What?” I tilt my head at him. “Um, no.”

“Then why are you sorry?”

“I don't know. Because I'm polite?”

“That's a question. Are you polite, or aren’t you?”

My face heats at his inquisition. Maybe he's grumpy from the early morning flight. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.

I pull my keys from my purse. “Definitely polite,” I clarify for him. “Ready?”

Silent, he picks up his bag and follows me through the small waiting area out to my car. This is the most awkward meeting ever. I’ve never met a celebrity before, and I’m somehow keeping it together. I pop the trunk, and he tosses his bag in before slamming it shut. My car gives a little bounce from the force.

“Are you hungry?” I ask, opening my door and sliding behind the wheel.

“Famished. The crop duster didn't exactly offer first class amenities.”

Right. Ethan Hale is used to jets and flying in the lap of luxury and using words like famished. I'm trying real hard to pretend he's not famous, but it's not working.

My hands fumble with the key in the ignition as he opens the passenger door and slides in the... backseat.

Our eyes meet in the rear-view mirror. “You can ride up front,” I offer.

He removes his cap and runs his fingers through those famous dark locks. He’s so perfect, he doesn’t even have hat hair.

“Do you have lemons in here?” His brows draw together as he searches for the source of the smell. Unfortunately, he’s not going to find it. There was no time to take my car to a shop to be cleaned, so I improvised and used a lemon furniture polish wipe to clean my dash. “Damn, it's strong,” he complains.

He's overreacting a tad and beginning to unravel my already frayed nerves with his surly attitude. Early flight or not, there's no excuse for rude.

I roll his window down to let some fresh air in. “There, how's that?”

I pull out of my spot and turn in the direction of Main Street.

“Can you speed up or something to get some air in? I could walk faster.”

My eyes meet his again in the rear-view mirror. No one is around on the empty two way street, so I give the big ass baby in the back seat what he wants. My foot floors it. Air whooshes in the windows, and I get the satisfaction of seeing Ethan Hale thump back against his seat.

“Better?” I ask, smiling.

His eyes narrow on mine. “Slow down,” he growls in the commanding voice he uses on screen.

Not because he told me to, but because we are now on the outskirts of town, and I definitely don’t want a ticket to add to this fiasco, I let up on the accelerator.

A few miles down the road, I make a right into the local Breakfast Haven and stop in the drive-thru line. I'm not sure I can sit down to breakfast with Ethan Hale, so to-go is what he's getting.

“What would you like? The food here is great,” I say, glancing in the rear-view mirror.

“Egg white omelet with spinach and feta.”

Our eyes meet, and he cocks a brow at me.

I roll up to the order board. “Two bacon, egg, and cheese biscuits with hash browns,” I tell the robotic sounding voice. “Sorry,” I apologize to him, “they only sell unhealthy things here.”

“Did you make the menu?” He leans forward and reaches over the seat to hand me a twenty. Ignoring his question, I take the bill from his fingers and hand it over to the cashier. “Can you park? I can't eat and ride, and I'm fucking dying of hunger.”

I take the bags and find a place to park.

“Here,” I say, jabbing the biscuit at him. “Eat up before you die.”

A smirk lifts his lips and he shakes his head, clicking his tongue. Tsk’g me. And then I do something rash. Impulsive. Totally satisfying.

I hurl the biscuit at Ethan Hale’s famous face.