2

Today was the wrong day to start thinking positively. Because now, I’m positive this plane is going to crash.

I was sleeping. Or resting, at least. Trying to close my eyes and calm the twist of anxiety in my gut. It was almost working, too, which is obviously when the turbulence started.

Take-off and landings are always the worst part. Once the plane is in the air, I can usually relax. But now, the screen in front of me is flickering along with the cabin lights as the plane shakes and trembles.

“Of course, the one time I fly first class is the one that crashes,” I mutter to myself. Elise is in the row behind me, so there’s no hand to hold. I just white-knuckle the armrests and squeeze my eyes closed.

When we were boarding, the flight attendant saw Elise and I were about to be seated directly in the middle of a rowdy bachelor party and upgraded us to two empty seats in first class.

“Thanks so much,” I’d said, embarrassingly close to tears of gratitude. “I’m on a work trip and things aren’t going the way I thought they would. I just… I really needed this.”

Elise was so embarrassed by my emotions that she pretended she didn’t know me.

But the flight attendant patted my back and whispered in my ear, “Us ladies have to stick together.”

Everyone around me in first class looks like they belong. The woman next to me has on a velvet sweatsuit with a satin eye mask. Everything from her fur slippers to her noise-canceling headphones screams luxury.

The man sitting diagonally across the aisle is snarling something in Russian in flagrant disregard of the “No cell phones” rule the rest of us peasants have to obey. I don’t see anything beyond a broad shoulder and stubbled square jaw, but I’m glad I’m not in the shoes of whatever poor soul is on the other end of his rebuke.

If the plane splits apart Lost-style and the first two rows are forced to fend for ourselves on some desert island, then it’ll be Elise, me, Velvet Tracksuit Woman, and Russian Guy.

Suddenly, I’m not sure if the attendant did me a favor or not. Russian Guy doesn’t look like he plays well with others.

Just as the seatbelt light dings on, my stomach flips dangerously. I’m immediately positive I’m going to throw up.

My eyes fly open and I reach for a vomit bag, but there is nothing. The seat back in front of me is empty. No in-flight magazine, no blanket wrapped in plastic, and definitely no vomit bag.

Can I hold it in? Mind over matter. Mind over matter.

But then my stomach contracts and my mind is no longer first-in-command. It isn’t even second. My stomach is in charge and my feet are taking orders without question.

Before I can stop myself, I stand up and rush towards the bathroom.

“Miss, you have to sit down,” the flight attendant from before scolds. “The seatbelt light is on and—”

I ignore her and charge ahead. She undoes her seatbelt like she means to stand up and block me from getting into the bathroom.

So much for “us ladies need to stick together.”

I barrel into the bathroom, lock the door behind me, drop to my knees, and rip open the little plastic lid.

And as soon as I do, the feeling in my stomach fades away.

“What the hell?” I gasp, almost annoyed at myself for not throwing up. There’s a first time for everything, I suppose. Roger was right about that much.

There’s a pounding on the bathroom door. “Miss, you cannot be in there. This door should have been locked. You need to come out.”

The plane is still shaking, but not as badly as it was a few moments ago. My heart is pounding and there’s sweat on the back of my neck… but no vomit.

I close the lid and stand up, then wash my hands before I finally open the door. The flight attendant is glaring at me.

“You need to sit down, ma’am. Now.”

I nod pitifully and start picking my way down the aisle towards my seat. “I’m sorry. I’m a nervous flier and the turbulence and… I thought I was going to be sick.”

“When the seatbelt light is on, you need to stay in your seat and—”

Before she can finish her scolding, another burst of turbulence knocks the plane sideways. The flight attendant goes one way, I go the other…

And I land right in the lap of Scary Russian Guy.

I yelp and try to right myself. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—The turbulence, I just—”

He grips my waist and lifts me up like I weigh nothing. “Breathe. It’s okay.”

His voice is deep and icy. I finally look up at his face and freeze.

Holy shit, this man is hot. Like, cover of a men’s magazine, lead of a superhero movie franchise hot.

His eyes are a molten silver that churns with unreadable emotion. His jaw is clenched tight, hair tousled, fragrance seductive.

The flight attendant comes to try to reel me back to where I belong, but my legs are no longer functioning. I’m stuck, staring at the man, imagining all the dirty things that voice of his could whisper in my ear. Possibly in Russian.

My stomach is fluttering again, but for a very different reason. Then more turbulence shakes the plane, and the flight attendant has had enough.

“Sit!” she commands, pointing at the empty seat next to the man. “Now!”

“But… but that isn’t my—My seat is over—”

She shoves me towards the seat. The man gently grips my waist again, helping me past him and into the seat next to him.

As soon as she’s satisfied I’m strapped in and no longer a nuisance, the attendant huffs away. I’m left to look over at my new seatmate with a nervous smile.

“I’m sorry. I thought I was going to throw up.” My face flames with embarrassment. “I mean, I didn’t. Didn’t get sick, that is. I did think I would, but I didn’t. I’m a nervous flier. In case you couldn’t tell.”

The man watches me, his light gray eyes observant but distant. It’s truly hard to look at him. People shouldn’t be allowed to be this attractive. Or this cool under pressure. I thought I was going to die, and he looks as relaxed as ever. The worst turbulence I’ve ever felt, and yet this man’s heart rate didn’t even approach room temperature.

“Are you going to get sick now?” he asks. There’s no detectable accent. Russian must be his second language.

“No.” I shake my head and then wince. “I don’t think so, anyway.”

He reaches into a small compartment between the seats and removes a hospital blue waterproof bag. “Use this if you need to.”

I wince. “I didn’t even think to look there. I figured the bags would be in the back of the seats.”

“First time in first class?”

I might be offended by his assumption if it wasn’t so incredibly on point. I nod. “Yeah. I got bumped up. I think the attendant took pity on me. She probably won’t make that mistake again.”

“Why would she take pity on you?”

I hitch my thumb towards the back half of the plane. “There’s a bachelor party back there. They were being pretty loud, and I was going to be sitting smack dab in the middle of them.”

“Good call on her part,” he says, sitting back in his seat. “Sitting a pretty woman near a group of horny men is a recipe for disaster.”

He places his arm on the armrest, and even though there’s plenty of space for both of us, his warm skin brushes across mine. Goosebumps race down my spine.

As if his skin on mine isn’t enough to process, my brain snags on “pretty woman.” Like a dumb teenager talking to her crush, I wonder, He thinks I’m pretty?

“Oh, uh, well,” I stutter. My tongue feels like it’s twice the size it normally is. “I don’t know if that’s why. I have been stressed. I’m on a work trip and things have been a mess. I think she noticed that and wanted to help out.”

“Are you saying you don’t think you’re pretty?”

I suck in a surprised breath and turn to him. He’s looking at me again, his face still completely unreadable.

Not sure what to do, I laugh like a loon. “I don’t—I wasn’t saying—You can’t just ask people something like that.”

He shrugs. “Why not?”

“Because it’s… uncomfortable.”

“For who?” he asks. “I’m not uncomfortable. I called you beautiful, and you seemed to disagree. I want to know why.”

“Pretty.”

He frowns. “Excuse me?”

I swallow. “You said I was pretty, not beautiful.”

“My mistake,” he says coolly. “Beautiful. Final answer.”

My face is bright red now. I could hang over intersections and direct traffic. I’m flaming with embarrassment and nerves. “Got it. Thanks.”

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” he inquires.

“No.” I shake my head. “Maybe… maybe ‘uncomfortable’ was the wrong word. You’re making me nervous.”

His mouth quirks up in a smirk. “Why?”

“As if you don’t know,” I snort.

That’s not an exaggeration—I do actually snort. Like a legit pig. I duck my face, but the man reaches forward to tilt my chin up with one callused finger.

“I want to hear you say it.”

I’m not sure if he actually doesn’t know or if he just wants to hear me say he’s the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.

“Well, for starters, you’re the beautiful one,” I say, gesturing to him with both hands like he’s the grand prize on a game show. “You’re quite handsome and clearly successful and very much in your element. Whereas I was just about to throw up in an airplane bathroom while a flight attendant beat on the door.”