3

“I’m sure that was an anomaly,” he suggests.

“Unfortunately, no.” I shake my head. “My life is… It’s a mess, to keep a long story short. So being around someone like you is a lot for me to handle. I’m worried I’m going to make a fool of myself. Even though I’m pretty sure I already have. And I still am. Like now. And now. And now.”

He shakes his head. “You haven’t made a fool of yourself.”

“Oh God, you're nice, too,” I groan. “You’re clearly only saying that to spare my feelings.”

“If you really feel like being down on yourself, I’ll give you one thing: you aren’t a very good judge of character.”

“I’m not?”

“No,” he says, leaning in close. His breath smells like peppermint. “Because I am the farthest fucking thing from nice.”

The image of him barking something cruel in Russian into his phone rises up in my mind. I want to ask him what that was about. Maybe he’s having a bad day at work, too. Maybe we could bond over having shit-for-brain bosses.

But I doubt it.

Something tells me he’s the boss.

“You’ve been nice to me,” I counter lamely.

“Because you’re interesting,” he says. “You were right: I am successful. And I know I’m attractive.”

“Humble, too.”

“I don’t need to be. And neither do you.” He drags his fingers across my knuckles, and I clench my legs together. “I’m surrounded by people who know exactly how to act and always say the right thing. It’s boring. I much prefer a little… spontaneity.”

“Spontaneity?”

Not sure I’m his girl in that regard. Sure, I “spontaneously” stole my younger sister from our psycho mother and had her move in with me. But I doubt that “let a fourteen-year-old move into your crappy apartment” is the kind of spontaneity he’s talking about.

He nods. “I like to keep things exciting.”

His words feel like an invitation. One I feel powerless to turn down. I mean, fate got me bumped to first class and then plopped down in this seat next to him. Who am I to refuse destiny, right?

Just as I’m about to fumble my way through something resembling flirting, the plane lurches sideways yet again.

“Shit!” I yelp and clamp my hand down on the armrest.

Correction: arm, not armrest. Russian Guy’s arm, to be specific. There are fingernail indents in his skin by the time I peel my hand off, but I’m too far gone to even apologize. The fear is choking me out and I can’t stop it.

The pilot comes over the speakers to tell everyone to stay calm. But I barely hear him. We’re dying. I’m sure of it. This is the end.

“Hey,” Russian Man says in his unreasonably sexy voice. “Are you okay?”

I should nod or blink or say something. It doesn’t even have to be cute or funny or charming. I should just say a single word, any single word, to let him know I’m not out of my mind.

But I can’t make my body do anything. I’m in fight or flight… while on a flight.

That would be a great thing to say right now! A little quip to impress him. But instead, I shake my head as the plane shakes and rattles again.

Then I stand up and crawl over him. “I’m going to be sick. For sure this time.”

The flight attendant doesn’t even look surprised when she sees me hop up again. She just glares at me and shakes her head.

Once I get close enough, she wags a finger at me. “No, ma’am. You need to sit down right now. If you’re feeling ill, grab the bag between the seats and—”

“I’m going to be sick,” I gasp. It feels like my lungs are going to explode. “I need to—”

Get off this plane, I think. Though that isn’t really an option.

“You need to sit down,” she says again.

She glances down the aisle, and I’m sure she’s looking at an air marshal coming to tie me up in duct tape. I wouldn’t even blame them. I’m being a menace.

But my heart is racing, and—

“Why does this damn plane keep shaking?” I blurt a bit too loud.

The attendant stiffens. “You’re causing a scene. You need to—”

“Let her by,” a deep voice behind me says. I don’t need to turn around to know who it is.

Mortification ripples through me at the knowledge that Handsome Stranger—formerly known as Russian Guy—is witnessing this epic breakdown. But the plane lurches again and I stumble back.

Instantly, one of his strong arms wraps around my middle, holding me steady. I sink into his warmth and sigh without even realizing I’m doing it.

“Open the bathroom,” he orders. “Now.”

The attendant narrows her eyes on me, but even she isn’t immune to Handsome Stranger’s charms and/or implied threats. Her face softens and she spins on her heel, bathroom key in her hand.

She unlocks the door and holds it open. “I don’t want any more trouble. Get her relaxed and find your seats.”

He nods, pushes me into the small space, and pulls the door shut behind us.

I was consumed by fear and anxiety and panic out there, but the moment we’re in the small bathroom together, there is only him. He smells like peppermint and citrus, a bright scent that cuts through the antiseptic haze of the bathroom.

“Are you going to be sick?” he asks.

I blink up at him, shocked by how close he is to my face.

His hands smooth down my arms. “If you’re going to throw up, I’d like to know.”

“No,” I rasp, swallowing audibly. “I’m okay. I’m—”

“You’re having a panic attack,” he says. “You’re not fine.”

I sag in his grasp. “I hate flying.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I need the money,” I say. “I’m headed to see a big client of my company. My boss abandoned me to handle this trip on my own, and the client is apparently a huge asshole, so I’m stressed and then this goddamn plane keeps hitting goddamn turbulence, and I just need for my goddamn brain to be goddamn quiet. I need to figure out how to turn my thoughts off so I can—”

Suddenly, Handsome Stranger lifts me onto the sink, steps between my legs, and presses his lips to mine.

And my entire brain goes dead silent.

His mouth is soft and his body is hard, and I can’t think about anything except the fact that he is touching me. Kissing me.

Holy. Shit.

His tongue slides along my bottom lip, and I slowly open my mouth. His hands curve up my back, pulling me closer to him as his tongue probes into my mouth. I moan like—shit, what did that one boyfriend of Mom’s used to call it? Oh, yeah—like a bitch in heat.

The self-aware embarrassment cuts through everything and I jerk away from him. I clap my hand over my mouth and stare at him, eyes wide.

His eyes aren’t wide, though. They’re perfectly normal. Perfectly gray.

“What was that?” I gasp.

“Spontaneity,” he says. “Did it work?”

I don’t need to glance down to know my nipples are very much visible through my thin cotton shirt. And there’s moisture between my legs.

Did it work? he asked. Duh, it worked. It worked so well that I’m not sure any other man will ever get me to “work” ever again.

I swallow and nod. “Yeah… Um, thanks for that. I guess. I needed that. And a kiss is better than a slap, so—"

“Why would I slap you?" He tilts his head to the side. I wish I had run my hands through his hair while I had the chance. It's golden brown and falls over his forehead like silk.

"I don't know. Like in movies? To break me out of my panic?"

"Is that the only reason you think I kissed you?"

God, I hope not. But I can't say that. Can't admit to wanting this stranger. I barely even know him, for crying out loud.