Page 1 of I Would Beg For You

Chapter 1 Naomi

Stupid delay, stupid storm,now another text coming in! My father is growing overly worried, and I don’t like it. My only solution is to work damage control at this point, and I hate this.

Me:It’s weather, I can’t control it. I’ll let you know when I get to the gate.

A quick look at the departure board almost makes my heart stop when the tiles start to move. Not again. It’s done this three times already today—our flight which should’ve taken off at six this morning got pushed up and up and up. It’ll soon be twelve hours we’ve all been stuck here.

The tiles keep shuffling, then settle, and a collective whoosh of relief can be felt across the waiting room. They went from ‘Delayed’ to ‘Boarding Soon.’

My body sags in my seat, the twinge in my back not letting me forget I’ve been sitting in this plastic bucket chair for ages on my ass. What ass? Yeah, it’s gone completely flat now. Thanks, unplanned storm that doused the whole area with blustering snow just today. Even the books that bring me so much solace have lost their appeal during the past hours.

All I want is to get home. I should’ve been there months ago. After finishing my degree, I was looking forward to a summer of R&R in my home town of Mendham Township in Morris County, New Jersey. I didn’t count on my father pushing me like a pawn on a chessboard, already enrolling me—as an unpaid intern, of course—to help out at the Board of Commissioners, our county’s seat of government.

I did my time, served my county, then someone there offered a paid internship in their policy-making firm in Salt Lake City. I jumped on it, and now, four months later, I’m going home for that well-deserved break.

An inkling tells me I have another think coming. My father is running for Mayor this year. The kicker—it’s a steppingstone to becoming Governor very soon. His party has all but confirmed he’s on the fast track to the top spot in the state. He doesn’t have a campaign manager, as far as I know.

Cue the niggling feeling I am going home to fill that very slot.

A sigh escapes. And damn, are those little tiles shuffling again?

Everyone’s eyes have turned to the board located conveniently on top of the massive sliding doors leading to this waiting area. As I squint to check, the wide panes of glass slide open, a tall, dark figure strolling in.

Black shoes, black pants, black travel case rolling smoothly at his side, a long black coat tied at the waist, a gloveless hand a stark contrast against the thick wool fabric.

A jolt runs through me, the memory of a stark hand standing out like this flitting into my brain like a lightning bolt. I haven’t allowed myself to think of that moment. Ofhim.

Something about that hand makes me grow cold. It can’t be… No. Too much of a coincidence.

Though I am going home, a neighborhoodhealso calls home. But what on earth would he be doing in Salt Lake City? I wince.He can ask the same thing about me. We’re both a long way from home.

Unbidden, my gaze travels over the man striding into the waiting area with a casual gait, long legs eating up the tiled floor at a rapid pace.

The coat can’t hide he is a big man, much taller and broader than most. Well-built, like he works out to enhance what God has naturally given him. He fills that tailoring perfectly, broad shoulders outlined to their full breadth, sleeves wrapping around muscular arms with rippling biceps, surely. The pants will no doubt be doing the same to strong thighs that bring to mind solid but lean tree trunks.

Ask me how I know… Because I recognize him even before my eyes land on his face. Seeing him finally just makes all the pieces click into place.

Square jaw, full lips that look uncompromising, a nose that broke once, hence the slight deviation along the bridge, wide forehead brushed by tousled black hair that never stays put. And the eyes—the same deep blue, like the first dip of a paintbrush doused in Prussian Blue into a jar of clear water.

A small gasp escapes me.

Valentino Andretti.

Still the same five o’clock shadow I recall—this time on the face of a man who has lived life. The cheekbones are more defined, and the crinkle of lines at the outer corners of his piercing eyes wasn’t there last time I saw him five years ago. Older—he’s thirty-four now—but still him.

Still my first crush.

Still the same man who broke my heart when he rejected me and scowled in my face when I told him I loved him.

The memory I’ve been trying to keep at bay resurfaces with a surge. Me reaching out to touch his cheek. His hand coming up to clasp my wrist. I never thought it was to stop me. Untilhis grip tightened around my forearm, his tanned skin a stark contrast against the milky alabaster of mine.

That’s what started it all, the sight of his hand on his coat, the contrast.

I blink to here and now. Unfortunately, my gaze is still on his face. Mortification slithers in like a sour reek. I hope I don’t look like an awe-struck fan right now.

Those blue eyes catch mine, and then the bastard smiles. One side of his lips curls up in a sardonic little half-smile.

He saw me, alright. Damn.

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