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Where Love Grows

By Heidi Chiavaroli

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Prologue
Twenty Months Earlier
Asher Hill opened the email, adrenaline rushing to his limbs in the same way it did when he was heli-skiing or bungee jumping or placing first in a triathlon. His eyes skimmed the numbers in the report, landing on the bold one at the bottom of the page.
He jumped out of his chair with a hearty, primal shout of victory and pumped the air with his fist. The door of his office burst open. His best friend and president of Paramount Sports stood at the threshold. “Sales numbers that good, eh boss?”
“Yeah, buddy. Man, it feels good to be on top.”
“We’ll be saying the same thing at the top of El Cap by the end of the weekend.” Lucas pocketed his phone. “Checked with the tech team, and they’re all set to film. I’m heading out. See you tomorrow, bright and early.”
“Sure thing.”
“Don’t work too late—the missus won’t be happy.” Lucas chuckled at his joke and closed the office door.
Alone, Asher leaned back in his chair and smiled. Hiring the new director of marketing had been a good choice, after all. Another few months like this and Asher would hand out hefty bonuses to his team.
He closed his eyes, and imagined climbing over the last ledge of the Dawn Wall in Yosemite. The rush. The scent of pure, fresh air. The feeling that nothing was impossible.
Though he’d never free-climbed the mountain, victory rushed through his blood already. Those sales numbers were just a foretaste of the success to come this weekend.
Asher’s phone rang, her name lighting up the screen. The fact that those five letters didn’t make him apprehensive or urge him to run away was both foreign and strange.
He picked up. “Mon cheri,” he said, low and seductive, already anticipating their time together that night—the scent of her long blond hair and the softness of her honey skin. How her laughter reminded him of a bubbling brook, or the sound of the first bite into a crisp apple.
“Asher Hill, I don’t care if you are one of Forbes 30 Under 30. I don’t care if you are the hottest guy I’ve ever dated…Asher, you do not stand a girl up—you do not stand me up—for dinner.”
He looked at the display clock on his laptop and cursed. “El, I’m on my way right now. Just tying some things up at the office.”
“You’re always tying things up at the office.”
He sensed what she doesn’t say heavy beneath her words. When are you going to tie things up with us?
He shivered at the thought of marriage. “Give me twenty minutes.”
“Tonight was supposed to be about us. What if you fall off the top of that horrid mountain and I never see you again?”
“Free climbing, Elise. It doesn’t mean we don’t use protective gear, we just don’t use special gear to help us ascend. I’m not stupid. I’ll be home safe and sound and into your waiting arms by Sunday night.”
“Okay, but hurry over now. I want every last minute I can with you.” Her voice turned husky. It stirred desire within him. “I promise I’ll make it worth your while, especially if you leave your phone at the door.”
“Oh, really?” He played into the game. “And how would that be? The hottest guy you ever dated deserves some details, don’t you think?”
She giggled, and he thought of that bubbling brook again. Could this be the woman he was meant to be with forever?
“I’ll see you soon, Mr. Forbes.”
Asher hung up the phone while loosening his tie. He slid his laptop in his briefcase and walked out the door of his office. He passed down a long hallway, each room now empty, and into the reception area where a large professional picture of him hang gliding was suspended above the desk. Asher Hill Takes on the World, the Sports Illustrated headline read. The magazine had interviewed him about his hobby-turned-multi-million-dollar business.
On a normal night, he would stay a few minutes and enjoy the quiet heartbeat of the company he built, but Elise’s words propelled him out the glass double doors.
He pushed the button to the elevator. It opened to reveal a grungy-looking fellow closing a guitar case. There was a music agency on the floor above Paramount run by a family friend of his parents.
Asher whistled long and low after getting a glimpse of the guitar. “That a Gibson?”
“Sure is, and it just got me an agent.”
“Sweet. Congrats, man.”
Asher’s gaze dwelt on the guitar case. Someday soon he’d pick up his guitar. When things settled down, when he could be sure the company he’d worked to build could survive without his constant supervision.
He said goodbye to the guitar man as his phone rang out from his pocket.
His lawyer. Asher groaned. The man didn’t call to make small talk.
“Ted, what’s up?” He pushed open the door and entered the busy city streets of Los Angeles, vibrant and hopeful. As full of opportunity as it was of culture and diversity, greasy food and nightclubs.
He passed a man in ragged clothing with a cardboard sign asking for handouts and Asher dug into his wallet for one of the coffee shop gift cards he kept for such a purpose. He may have grown up privileged, but he always gave to the less fortunate. Life handed out hard turns, and he often wondered if he’d be where he was today if he wasn’t raised in the home of his childhood. If he hadn’t had the privilege of going to the best schools and getting a lesson on any sport he’d taken to at the moment. If his parents hadn’t been so obsessively encouraging.
Thinking of his family reminded him of the deep-sea fishing trip he promised his younger brother Ricky the month before. Asher made a mental note to scour the internet tonight for a boat to take them out on the water. Tonight, after his time with Elise.
Ted’s voice brought him back to reality. “Nothing good, sorry to tell you. You remember that lawsuit I told you about?”
Asher searched for a cab. The sky spat rain. The air smelled of wet pavement. “The guy with the prosthetic who claimed we fired him because he was handicapped when, in fact, he was smoking pot on our time?”
“That’s the one. Well, I hate to say it, but it sounds like he actually has a leg to stand on. No pun intended.”
Seeing a vendor selling flowers, he decided to get Elise a bunch to make up for his tardiness. He craned his neck to peer around the slight turn in the road. It was clear. “We spoke to the manager. Seemed straightforward to me. What’s the issue?”
He pressed his phone to his ear and began to jog lightly across the street as the sky opened up.
Not until he was halfway across did he realize his mistake. Elise hated flowers. She was allergic and would much rather have something tiny and sparkly, something that adorned the third finger of her left hand. She’d told him so last week.
He hesitated for a split second, thinking to turn around, hearing Ted’s voice drone in his ear about a disability act and the guy with the prosthetic. He heard a horn and turned. Too late, he saw a car glossier than that Gibson guitar careening toward him. He tried to move, but for once, his body failed him. All he could see was the hood of the car, the Mustang logo in between the sting of raindrops. A scream overpowered the murky air, foreign and so filled with primal fear it couldn’t belong to him.
And then, everything went black.

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