“Fine, think about lemons.” She appeared satisfied with that suggestion.
“Are the lemons being squeezed over your bikini-clad body?”
She threw her hands up in the air. “Bloody hell, can you turn everything into some sort of sexual reference?”
“It’s a talent. I don’t share it with just anyone, you know.”
“Are you sure that you and Jen aren’t very distant cousins? Because sometimes you’re just the male version of her.” She paused, and her face wrinkled up in a cute disgusted look. “And, it’s sort of creepy.”
“Is the creepiness so bad you can’t be near me and therefore have to fantasize about me in the quiet night, tucked away in our bed with your hair spread out all around you and your skin flu—” His words were muffled as his mate’s hand slammed over his mouth.
“Do not even finish that little scenario, Mr. Miklos.” She hissed at him. “You’re incorrigible.”
When she started to pull her hand away he moved fast, snatching it and bringing it to his mouth. He kissed her wrist and then the palm of her hand, his eyes never leaving hers.
“You’re matchless, unique, exceptional, and, most importantly”—he winked at her—“you’re mine.”
Sally was nearly breathless from Costin’s bombardments of thoughts, playful flirting, and sensual declarations. The wink was almost her undoing. Undoing to what, she wasn’t sure. Maybe she was going to drag him to the bathroom and become part of the mile-high club, or maybe she’d just maul him right there in their first-class seats. Wouldn’t that be a memory for the people of flight 432? Regardless, she had to admit that it felt good to be joking with him, and, for the first time in days, she felt like she could breathe.
Once everyone was seated and the cabin door shut, the hostess began her spiel on all the safety features of the plane. Sally was convinced it didn’t matter if her butt cushion could float or that some oxygen mask would plop down and probably smack her in the face in the event of an emergency. People would be so scared they wouldn’t be able to think rationally. Seriously, who thinks to grab a cushion when all you can think is that you might be taking your last breaths?
The plane began to move in reverse, and she looked out the small window. There were people scurrying all about, some with illuminated batons in their hands, waving them to direct the plane. Others were in small vehicles driving them as if they were being chased by hell hounds. How on earth did they not crash into a person, plane, or one another? Her thoughts drifted away from her current time and place and was replaced with visions of her parents.
She hadn’t seen them since they’d gone home while trying to hide from Rayaz. That turned out to be an epic failure of a plan. She wondered what her parents would have thought had they known the real reason they’d come back to Coldspring. She smiled to herself as she considered her dad’s reaction. Chris Morgan was the serious type and very analytical. He would have been trying to determine the statistical probability of Rayaz figuring out where they were. Her mom probably would have been trying to hatch her own plan to keep them hidden while at the same time acting like they were running from an angry cat and not a deranged warlock. Her mom often dealt with conflict by simply downplaying it, as if that would somehow change the situation.
She missed them both. But she was still scared to see them. What if they could tell she was tainted? What if they could see just how far she’d fallen into the dark pit of despair? They would still love her because they were her parents, for crying out loud. But would they be disappointed in her? She should have been able to fight whatever magic had been done to her. She should have been able to say no to Jericho. But she hadn’t. She’d folded like a house of cards.
Her attention was momentarily averted when she felt the plane begin to pick up speed. It always made her stomach drop when a plane raced down the runway, trying to get enough velocity to ensure lift off. Every flight she’d taken, she’d felt the huge piece of metal wouldn’t get enough speed to raise up off the runway and they’d just keep going, careening through a field and into a tree or pole or something. Of course, that had never happened, and it didn’t happen this time either. Within a matter of seconds, they were climbing higher and higher into the sky. She looked out the window and watched as the ground below became smaller and smaller.
“Everything looks so tiny,” she said as Costin leaned over her to look out the window.
“If we knew where our pack was, we could squash them with our fingers.”
“And why would we want to do that?” Sally asked.
He smiled and shrugged. “Because squashing people is fun.”
She shook her head at him and then settled back into her seat. It was going to be a long trip home.
“Don’t think I’m about to let you go back inside of that head of yours,” Costin whispered, and his lips brushed her ear. He leaned back and smiled, his gorgeous dimple making an appearance. “We’re going to play charades,” he said, waggling his eyebrows at her. He unbuckled his seatbelt and practically bounced out of his seat.
Sally reached for him. “Costin, wait!” He moved too quickly. He was already out of his seat and three rows up the aisle, talking to the flight attendant who looked like she was going to start panting at any moment. Sally wanted to roll her eyes, but she daren’t take her eyes off the woman standing so close to her mate either.
Finally, he turned and faced all the first-class seats. His shoulders were pulled back, and he held himself with an air of confidence that had other men ducking their heads.
“Hello, ladies and gentlemen,” he said in his smooth, inviting voice. “I was wondering, since it is going to be quite a long flight, and also because my beautiful wife has been feeling kind of down, if you all would be interested in playing a game of charades?”
Sally smacked her hand to her face and groaned. Only. Costin.
“Now, before you grumble”—he said, holding up a finger,—“hear me out. For every correct guess, I will personally make you a mixed drink and cover the tab.”
“Can you even make drinks?” A man in a suit on the second row, with a comb-over that rivaled Donald Trump’s, asked loudly.
“I own my own bar, and I make Tom Cruise in Cocktail look like a two-year-old playing with Coke bottles.” Just then the flight attendant wheeled out a cart laden with various bottles of alcohol, a bowl of ice, and some lemons and limes.
Sally couldn’t keep the stupid grin off her face as she watched her mate demonstrate for the skeptical crowd just how mad his bartending skills were. He tossed bottles, caught them, spun them, and poured them with such speed and skill that he practically made bartending an art.
When he was done, the first-class passengers broke into applause. And that was how Sally got sucked into playing charades with a bunch of strangers on a plane, forty thousand feet in the air. Jen was going to eat it up.