10 Days to Ruin: Chapter 24

Gina’s waving a lemon poppyseed muffin in front of my face like a dog treat. “Earth to Ariel. Hello? You’re zonked and it’s scaring me.”

I blink, my fingers still absently tracing the dip of my spine where Sasha’s hands had pressed into me yesterday.

Too much? he’d purred.

Barely felt it, I’d lied.

“Sorry. Just… thinking about work stuff.”

“Bullshit. No article is that interesting. Especially not an article about bakeries.” She leans in, nostrils flaring like a bloodhound. “You’re doing the post-sexual-tension stare, and I sense some tea. I command thee to spill.”

I duck so she doesn’t see the blush pinking my cheeks, the same blush that’s stayed stubbornly in place since I left the spa in self-loathing shame yesterday. “There’s no tension. There’s… annoyance.” I stab the straw into my iced latte hard enough to crack the plastic lid. “I’m annoyed that he just dismissed the masseuse like that. Annoyed that he barks orders like a fucking drill sergeant all the time. Annoyed that⁠—”

That when he pinned me to that table, steam curling around us like sin itself, I wanted to let him undo every stitch of my resolve.

Gina’s smirk widens. “Annoyed that you didn’t ride him into the sunset, you mean?”

The straw bends between my teeth. My mind briefly goes into replay mode: Sasha’s scarred torso glistening under spa lights, his grip on my hips firm enough to bruise. His breath hitching when I dragged my nails down his chest⁠—

“It was just a massage. He sucked. I’ve had better for ten bucks in Koreatown.”

Lie. Such a big, fat, embarrassing whopper of a lie. It was the best massage of my entire life.

His technique had been devastating. Clinical at first, then deliberate. Punishing. A thumb pressed to the pulse point behind my knee. A knuckle dragged up the arch of my ankle. My body had turned traitor, arching into every touch like a fucking submissive.

Gina scoots closer. “Sucked what?”

I roll my eyes so hard I see my own prefrontal cortex. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m trying, but you gotta give some to get some, girl. Bratty first date? Backfired. Office tease? Backfired. Spa tease? Extra backfired.” Gina’s brows waggle. “Face it, Ariel—your repellent game is working about as well as a screen door on a submarine.”

I slump, defeated. Gina’s right. The office stunt? He’d looked at me like I was course number one at the Last Supper. The rude diner act? He’d sent dishes back without blinking. The spa? Christ. Let’s not revisit the spa.

“We need a new strategy,” I blurt. “He’s like a horny Terminator. Nothing fazes him.”

“Wrong.” She leans forward, eyes glinting. “Everything fazes him. That’s why he’s still chasing. You’re the first thing that hasn’t fallen at his feet.”

I flick a sugar packet at her. “Insightful. Got a plan or just commentary?”

“Glad you asked.” She whips out her phone, pulling up a Pinterest board titled How to Lose a Guy in 10 Hikes. “We go full Basic Becky. Nature edition.”

I’m dubious, to say the least. “Hiking? Gina, you and I walked the mile every single P.E. class from third grade to senior year. That’s horizontal, and I still hated it. Now, you want me to go uphill?”

“That’s my point exactly,” she insists. “You were miserable for every single one of the twenty-three minutes it took us to walk that mile. Imagine how insufferable you’ll be when there’s elevation involved?”

My lips purse up as I think through the scenarios. “I’m not totally sure that’s a compliment, but okay, fine. I guess I’m just not sold. We really think that some mildly irritating exercise is gonna work when literally nothing else has?”

Gina shrugs. “If you have better ideas, I’m all ears.”

I press my forehead flat to the tabletop as I think. “I wish I could just stick him on the mountain and leave him there. That way, I could— Wait.” I bolt upright and look at Gina. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

She grins wickedly. “I think I’m thinking exactly what you’re thinking.”

Perfectly in sync with each other, we chorus, “Leave him there.”

It’s simple.

It’s genius.

Maybe this time, it’ll actually work.

Or maybe not.

Two hours later, I’m standing in my closet, holding up a pair of sequined booty shorts that even a Vegas showgirl would side-eye. “This is insane.”

“That’s the point!” Gina’s voice crackles through my AirPod. “We need distractions so he doesn’t catch on. You’re gonna be a glitter bomb in the wilderness. A peacock in REI.”

I toss the shorts aside, reaching for a mesh crop top with strategic cutouts. “What if I get poison ivy on my… everything?”

“Then Sasha will carry you back to civilization and rub calamine lotion on your hoo-ha. It’s a win-win.”

“I hate you.”

“Love you more. Now, don’t forget the Bluetooth speaker in your Juicy Couture fanny pack. Have it on full blast the entire time.”

“I’m getting less and less sure about this by the minute, Gee.”

I can hear the hum of the microwave as she cooks herself a delicious, nutritious Instant Noodles dinner. “Funny enough, I’m getting more and more sure. It’s foolproof. Men hate two things: being inconvenienced and Carly Rae Jepsen. All you have to do is blast your music, complain the whole time, and then strand him up there. Just like that, boom, engagement over.”

“Let’s hope so,” I mumble.

“There’s always the alternative.”

I pause. “Which is…?”

“Complete one-eighty. You beg him to manhandle you over a fallen log. You drop to your knees and plead until he snaps and drags you into the bushes to feast on your⁠—”

I hang up.

By dawn, my duffel bag looks like a Claire’s boutique exploded inside it. I’ve got:

I stare at my reflection—hot pink athleisure set, rhinestone-studded visor, bronzer out the wazoo. The girl in the mirror looks like she’s cosplaying a Bratz doll gone feral.

“You’ve got this,” I tell the nervous woman in the glass. “Be unbearable. Be unlovable.”

As soon as I say it, my phone buzzes.

SASHA OZEROV: Outside.

Looking down, I see his SUV idling like a panther at the curb. My stomach flips.

But when I get downstairs and yank open the door, ready to deploy my absolute worst, Sasha’s already got one hand braced on the headrest, his scarred neck craned to check oncoming traffic. His faded Henley rides up, revealing a sliver of abs—pale, ridged, there one second, gone the next.

He turns to look at me.

And for a millisecond, I’m back in that alley behind Zoya’s, watching grief fracture his granite composure.

She jumped… Her hands were bruised…

“Are you going to stand there forever?” he snaps.

“Someone’s grumpy.” I toss my fanny pack onto his lap. “Carry this. It’s vintage.”

He doesn’t move. Just lets the bag slide to the floor as I clamber in. His gaze stays fixated on the way my leggings strain at the thigh, the wobble of my stupid heels. When I’m finally seated, he sighs.

The engine roars.

So does my pulse.

No turning back now.