CHAPTER 1

~Morgan POV~

'Oh please, oh please, oh please…don't crash!'

I trembled as the plane took off.

My hands gripped the armrests so hard my knuckles turned white. The plane shook and rattled as it climbed higher into the sky. My stomach dropped with every bump. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to breathe, but my chest felt tight.

This was my first time on a plane. My first time leaving Seattle. My first time doing anything this big.

The plane shook again, harder this time and a small gasp left my lips. My thoughts raced in circles. What if something goes wrong? What if the plane falls? What if I this was a mis—”

"Wow, that's a lot of strength for a lady."

My eyes flew open, when I heard a voice beside me. I knew it was a jab aimed at me. I was about to confront the person when I looked down and saw my hand wrapped around their arm. Not the armrest, an actual person's arm and I was gripping it like my life depended on it.

Heat rushed to my face.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry!" I let go immediately and pulled my hand back.

The man chuckled, a low, rich sound that made my stomach flip for an entirely different reason than the turbulence.

"It's fine. Really."

I finally looked up at him.

And oh God.

He had the kind of face that made you look twice. Dark hair that fell carelessly across his forehead, like he'd run his hands through it too many times. A jaw sharp enough to cut glass, covered with stubble that suggested he'd either just rolled out of bed or didn't care about looking polished. But it was his eyes that held me, storm-gray and uncomfortably direct, like he could see straight through whatever mask I was wearing.

A small scar cut through his left eyebrow. That detail felt important somehow. It kept him from being too perfect, too untouchable.

Heat crawled up my neck and spread across my cheeks. I forced myself to look away.

His lips curved into a small smile, like he knew exactly what effect he had on me.

"First time flying?" he asked.

I heard the question, but my brain was still trying to process the fact that this man existed. That I'd just been death-gripping his very muscular arm. That he was sitting right next to me.

"I—yes," I finally stammered. "First time."

He laughed again, and the sound wrapped around me like warm honey. He stretched out his large hand in front of him, flexing his fingers slowly.

"I can see that," he said, his voice tinged with amusement.

He extended his hand toward me. The same one I'd nearly crushed.

"Damien," he said. "Damien Cross."

There was something in his voice that stirred something low in my stomach that had no business happening on a plane full of strangers.

I stared at his hand. At the long fingers and rough calluses that said he wasn't some pretty businessman in an expensive suit. He worked with those hands. Used them.

My throat went dry.

Stop being weird, Morgan.

I forced myself to take his hand. The moment our skin touched, heat licked up my arm. His grip was firm. Possessive, almost. Like he had every right to hold me.

"Morgan," I breathed. "Morgan Hayes."

He didn't let go. His thumb brushed across my knuckles, just once and my entire body went tight. When he finally released me, I felt the loss of his touch like a physical thing.

Get it together.

"So, Morgan Hayes." The way he said my name made it sound like something dangerous. "What takes you to New York?"

New York. The city I'd dreamed about. The city that was supposed to save me.

I was running toward something. Or maybe running away. I wasn't sure anymore.

I'd gotten the call three weeks ago. A modeling contract. Real money. Real work. After years of being told I wasn't enough, someone finally wanted me.

It should have felt like victory.

Instead, it felt like escape.

"Vacation," I lied. Then, because lies always felt heavy on my tongue, I added, "And work.”

He didn't ask for details. Didn't pry, just nodded like he understood something I hadn't said out loud.

"Business meeting for me," he said, his lips curving into a smile that was all sin and shadows. "Nothing as interesting as whatever you're running toward."

Running toward. Not going to. The difference in those words felt intentional.

"I'm not running," I said, but even I could hear the lie.

His smile deepened. "Sure you're not."

The plane leveled out as I felt the shaking stopped, but my pulse didn't slow down.

"So what kind of business?" I asked, desperate to shift focus away from myself.

"The boring kind." He stretched his long legs out as much as the cramped space would allow. His knee brushed against mine. He didn't move it away. "Real estate development. Contracts. Numbers that make people's eyes glaze over."

"Sounds... profitable."

"It is." His eyes held mine, dark and unreadable. "But profit's only interesting when you have something worth spending it on."

The way he looked at me when he said it made my skin flush hot.

A flight attendant passed by with drinks. Damien ordered whiskey, and I asked for water because my mouth had gone desert-dry.

"Water?" He raised an eyebrow. "You sure? You look like you could use something stronger."

"I don't drink on planes," I said.

"First time flying and already making rules?" His voice dropped lower, intimate. "I like that. Shows discipline."

The word discipline in his mouth sounded obscene.

"Someone has to have standards," I shot back, surprising myself.

He laughed. A real laugh that made his whole face change…made him look younger. 

"Standards. Right." He took a sip of his whiskey, his eyes never leaving mine. "What other standards do you have, Morgan Hayes?"

He was…flirting. I knew because I've spent the last decades of my life reading insufferable romance books and imagined this position as given the way my stomach knot and my thighs press together. 

"Wouldn't you like to know," I said, trying to sound confident even though my heart was hammering.

"I really would." He leaned closer. Close enough that I could smell his cologne, something dark and mesmerising. "In fact, I'm finding myself very interested in everything about you."

My breath caught. "You don't even know me."

"Not yet." His gaze dropped to my lips for just a second before returning to my eyes. "But we've got..." He glanced at his watch. A Rolex. Of course. "Four more hours until we land. Plenty of time to fix that."

"Four hours isn't enough time to really know someone."

"Then we'd better not waste it."

He shifted in his seat, angling his body toward mine. The movement was subtle but deliberate. Claiming space. Claiming attention.

"Tell me something real," he said. "Not the vacation story. Something true."

I should've deflected. Should've kept it light and safe.

Instead, I said, "I'm terrified."

His expression softened just slightly. "Of flying?"

"Of everything." The confession slipped out before I could stop it. "Of failing. Of succeeding. Of getting to New York and realizing I made a huge mistake."

Damien didn't look away. Didn't laugh or tell me it would be fine. He just studied me with those intense eyes like he was memorizing every detail.

"Fear's just another word for caring too much," he said finally. "The only people who aren't afraid are the ones with nothing to lose."

"And you?" I found myself saying. "What are you afraid of?"

My breath almost hitched as his smile turned sharp. "Boredom. Predictability. Safe choices." His knee pressed harder against mine. "Missing out on something extraordinary because I was too careful."

The air between us felt charged. 

"Is that what I am?" My voice came out breathier than I intended. "Something extraordinary?"

"I don't know yet." He tilted his head, studying me. "But I'm very interested in finding out."

An older woman across the aisle shot us a disapproving look. We were sitting too close. Talking too quietly. The intimacy between us was probably obvious to everyone around us.

I didn't care.

"You're very direct," I said.

"Life's too short to play games." He finished his whiskey and set the empty glass aside. "I see something I want, I go after it. No apologies."

"And you want...?"

"Your number." He said it simply. Like it was obvious. "Your time. Your attention." His eyes darkened. "Whatever you're willing to give me."

My pulse thundered in my ears. This man, this stranger, was looking at me like I was something precious and dangerous all at once.

"That's a lot to ask from someone you just met."

"Then tell me no." His voice was a challenge. A dare. "Tell me you're not feeling this too, and I'll back off. Be a perfect gentleman for the rest of the flight."

I opened my mouth. The word no should've come easily.

It didn't.

Because I was feeling it. Whatever this was. This unfathomable pull, heat. 

"I don't know you," I said weakly.

"So get to know me." He leaned back slightly, giving me space to breathe. "Ask me anything. I'm an open book."

"Somehow I doubt that."

His smile was wicked. "Smart girl.”