She hated the idea of having a bodyguard around twenty-four seven nor did she think it necessary. Plenty of A-list celebrities flew without an entourage, and that was the way Sasha wanted to live. It was enough she boarded via a special terminal that had a separate door from which to enter the plane. Some perks were worth it and necessary.

Beside her, Cassidy dressed similarly, and with her blond hair, she and Sasha looked like sisters. They grabbed their bags and took an Uber to the hotel in the Meatpacking District in New York City, remaining under the radar almost the entire time.

As they walked outside to their Uber, hot, humid, New York air surrounded her. Although it was late June, the weather had that mid-summer, sticky feel.

They stepped toward the sidewalk and Sasha felt the weight of someone’s stare. She turned to see a brown haired man in a baseball cap a few feet from her. She thought he’d ducked his head and focused on his phone as she glanced over but couldn’t be certain he’d ever seen her. Paranoia at its finest, she mused, still not used to the stares even after a couple of years.

Once settled in the suite, Sasha relaxed, tossing her hat onto the couch in the main lounge area.

“Long flights are a bitch,” Cassidy muttered, doing the same.

“Amen.” Sasha flopped onto the sofa beside their caps, kicked off her Chucks, and groaned. “Let’s order in dinner.”

After they decided on their meals and Cassidy placed an order, they talked until the food arrived. It wasn’t until Sasha was alone in her room, washing up, that she allowed herself to face her plans for tomorrow.

Seeing Xander wouldn’t be easy but it was necessary. Both for her professional sense of comfort when portraying his character and for her to make things right.

***

Xander woke up to blessed silence. The band had obviously stayed at Dash’s house this morning. After his normal a.m. routine, he and Bella made their daily run into town, circled around, and headed back home.

Nearing the end, Xander slowed to a walk and whistled to Bella, who’d gotten ahead of him, to do the same. The humidity was high and sweat poured down his body. Lifting his shirt, he wiped his face and looked forward to stepping inside and feeling the air conditioner cooling him off.

As he approached his house, he saw a car in the driveway and someone sitting on his front porch. His eyes weren’t what they used to be, not since the severe concussion he’d received from being too close to an IED blast in Afghanistan. His glasses, which he only wore when his eyes hurt from exhaustion, usually after too much writing, were inside.