Accidentally…Over? (Accidentally Yours #5)(8)
Author: Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

Tulum was her home now. Always would be.

Ashli slipped from bed and pulled back the curtains, gazing appreciatively at the view of the tropical turquoise waves and soft, powdery white sand. No. She’d never leave. Not for anything.

A jog sounds wonderful.

Máax arrived at Ashli’s café to inconveniently discover she was off for the day. Seemed many of her regulars were also disappointed by the news. Nearly every godsdamned male who passed through the door asked for her.

Máax stomped out his spark of jealousy. You idiot. You do not want her. Even if you want her. That’s the bond speaking.

Máax waited until the young man working the counter went outside to deliver a cappuccino. He slipped behind the register and dug around, quickly finding Ashli’s home address on a sheet of emergency contacts, along with her phone number. Bingo.

Máax silently made his way out the door and started down the palm tree–lined, dusty, narrow road that ran for miles along the beach. Yeah, that road. The one where Ashli was to die in about a week. Of course, he would change all that today. Just as soon as he found her. Not that it should be hard. There wasn’t much to this tiny beach community except for a few small—

“Ya viene el fin del mundo! Arrepiéntanse ahora! Ya viene el fin del mundo! Arrepiéntanse ahora!” A small, beat-up truck with a megaphone strapped to the roof sped down the dirt road, blaring, “The end of the world is coming. Repent now!”

Thanks, ass**les. Like I needed the reminder.

Anyway, where was he? Oh yeah. There wasn’t much to the tiny community apart from a few eco-resorts, the kind with huts instead of hotels, and—

“Ya viene el fin del mundo! Arrepiéntanse ahora! Ya viene el fin del mundo! Arrepiéntanse ahora!” The truck had made a U-turn.

“Oh. Come on!” Máax yelled. “I’m on it, okay?” Motherfuckers.

So instead of hotels, there were several small communities of private vacation homes on the beach. How’d he know? Let’s just say, he’d been suckered into “helping” Cimil with another one of her little schemes. One that took him to these parts, and one that he now questioned having participated in.

A little too late now.

Máax was almost to the first house along the road when he spotted a young woman with café con leche skin wearing the tiniest pair of shorts and an even tinier little top, running down the beach.

Ashli…

His body began to heat immediately, and it wasn’t due to the searing morning sun beating down on his na**d body or the balmy tropical air lacking even the slightest breeze. It was her large, plump br**sts and small, athletic body. It was her wild, dark hair whipping against her back as her aggressive stride carried her down the shore. He couldn’t help but hunger for her. Even if he didn’t. But he did. Wait. No, he didn’t.

Sonofabitch! Get yourself together, man. You. Do not. Want her. You do not want a mate. There was no reason in the world for him to get sucked into some ridiculous, sappy, tragic love story. Romeo and Juliet. Lancelot and Guinevere. Tristan and Isolde. Those were stories written by fools about fools. Those stories were for humans, weak and driven by impracticality. He was a god. Strong. Defiant. Loyal. And very practical, he might add. Most certainly, he would not allow himself to suffer for an eternity simply because the Universe—cruel-hearted bitch that she was—decided to create an ideal female. One specifically designed to make him feel complete. One that would give him the most euphoric pleasure a male could ever know—

Idiot. You’re not helping yourself here.

With Ashli out on a jog, Máax decided this was the perfect opportunity to explore her home. If he were to protect her, he’d have to learn her surroundings, her routine, and he’d need to prevent her from getting in a car, where it would be difficult for him to follow.

He walked along the road until he came across a house with a gated driveway and tall stucco walls. He peered through the bars and spotted her little red car parked on the gravel driveway. A lush, tropical garden obscured most of the Spanish-style bungalow, and impressively tall palm trees shaded the roof. It was a charming, cozy home, but it irritated him to see her in such a modest dwelling. She was his mate. She deserved a grand, modern house with—

Sonofabitch. She is not yours. You must resist the urge to shelter and care for her.

Snarling at himself, he made his way around her property via a small trail that led to the sloped beach. He found the back entrance to her yard—a tiny patio with a low wall that butted against the beach without much protection from intruders. He hopped over the wall and tried the back door.

Unlocked.

“Damned woman is asking for trouble.” He’d have to talk to her about that later. If he talked to her. At this point, he didn’t know if he’d ever speak with her.

He entered the kitchen and was hit with a delicious scent—sweet, floral, and fresh.

Ashli.

Must ignore how good she smells. It is simply chemistry. A physiological reaction. Are you weaker than chemistry? No! You are not. You are a god. Chemistry is your bitch.

He looked around the kitchen, inspecting for any obvious dangers. It was cheerful and tidy with white-and-blue Mexican tiled counters. A bowl of mangos and papayas topped the little wooden table in the center of the room.

Nothing overtly perilous.

Máax continued to the living room. Typical for these parts, the floors had that reddish-brown tile and the walls were made of rough plaster. On the coffee table, a bright blue, hand-painted ceramic water pitcher sat next to a small potted plant and a little Mayan statue of his sister Akna, the Goddess of Fertility. The statue depicted her with a giant round belly, gritting her teeth as she prepared to give birth. Máax instantly found himself imagining Ashli with a big round belly, carrying his bab—

Sonofabitch! No. You will not have babies with her. You are going to be entombed. Forever. And if that doesn’t happen, it’s because there’s an apocalypse. There is no future for you and her.

Grumbling profanities at himself, he finished inspecting the room. Beautiful black-and-white photographs of the ruins of Tulum hung on the wall. He leaned in toward one of the frames to inspect the signature. “Ashli Rosewood.” She’d taken the pictures. He didn’t know why, but imagining her traipsing about in the ruins with her camera made him smile. Then there were her stunning photos of the beach. She seemed to love the ocean as much as he did.

Not that it mattered.