He’s captivated me and he’s not even trying.
How annoying is that?
I change positions in my reclining chair, arching my back as I stretch my arms above my head. It feels so good, a tiny sound of pleasure escapes my mouth as stiffness unfurls from my spine. The moan is barely audible, yet there’s a slight pause in the persistent clicking of Underwood’s laptop keys, as though it has shattered his focus. By the time my hands fold back in my lap, his keystrokes have returned to normal and I’ve convinced myself the lapse was all in my head.
Just because you’re attuned to his every move, doesn’t mean he’s attuned to yours, Violet. Your sleep deprived brain is imagining things. Get it together.
With effort, I shove him from my head and squeeze my eyes shut. The jet’s plush recliners are infinitely more comfortable than the narrow middle-seat I was crammed into on my flight from Boston to Los Angeles. My eyes are finally growing heavy when a sudden jolt of turbulence rocks the cabin.
I’m instantly awake.
There’s a crash from the kitchen galley as a tray goes tumbling. My eyes snap wide as my fingers curl into the armrests like talons, an automatic reflex to combat the sensation of sudden free-fall. I can’t even form a screech of dismay as we plummet — there’s no air left in my lungs. My stomach has shot up into my chest cavity and taken up residence inside my throat.
Contrary to popular near-death-experience lore, my life does not flash in front of my eyes. There is no montage of watercolored high school memories — graduation and the homecoming game, prom and my first kiss with Clint as the center console dug into my ribs after he drove me home from cheerleading practice in his truck last fall. The only thought in my head is, Mom is going to kill me if I die in a plane crash! which may well be the dumbest thing I’ve ever fathomed in my seventeen years of life.
Not exactly an eloquent end-of-existence sentiment.
Thankfully, the pilot, who is clearly far cooler under pressure than I am, corrects our course so fast, the sleeping passengers barely have time to blink awake before we’re gliding smoothly once more. Through the window, I watch the wings level out and tell myself to stop preparing for demise. It was only a bump.
Planes don’t just fall from the sky, Violet.
Breathe.
In and out.
“Sorry about that, folks.” The captain’s voice crackles over the speaker system. “We’ve run into a patch of rough weather, but we’re going to do our best to avoid the worst of it by diverting our course about fifty miles. Don’t worry, we shouldn’t touch down in Fiji more than a few minutes past your scheduled arrival. In the meantime, keep those seatbelts securely fastened. There may be some turbulence for the next hour or so.”
I pull in a deep breath as I reach over and check Sophie’s seatbelt is snug across her stomach. She’s still sleeping soundly, hands pillowed beneath her head. I brush a strand of hair off her cheek, then sit back and tighten my own belt. It feels painfully ineffective, this thin tether against gravity, especially when we hit another jarring bump a few moments later. My soda can rattles on my small side table as my heart leaps inside my chest. I watch a bolt of lightning slash the dark sky outside the portal. It seems far too close for comfort.
My fingers tighten against the leather of my seat as we jolt through the air with all the grace of a wheelbarrow on a dirt road. Despite the luxe accommodations of, as Samantha would say, flying private, I can’t deny I’d feel a whole lot safer in a jumbo jet right now.
I glance around the cabin for a distraction. Samantha’s so drugged she hasn’t stirred, despite the frequent bumps of turbulence. The Flint executives are all silent and still in the darkened front section. The flight attendants are strapped into their jump seats in the galley. Which just leaves…
Him.
Over the desperate thudding of my pulse, I hear a metal cap twist open. Unable to stop myself, I allow my eyes to shift to the man sitting across from me for the first time since we boarded. Those chiseled features are half in shadow, but I can feel the weight of his tractor-beam emerald eyes on my face as he lifts the flask to his lips and takes a lengthy swig. I watch him swallow, mesmerized by the way the muscles in the strong column of his throat contract as the alcohol slides downward. The silver container flashes in the semi-dark as he holds it out across the space between us.
“Here.”
My brows shoot up. I don’t move a muscle.
“Take a swig,” he says softly, eyes locked on mine. “It’ll soothe the nerves.”
I don’t know what comes over me, in that moment. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m scared out of my head. Maybe it’s the dark, quiet cabin. Maybe it’s simply the fact that, for the first time since our paths crossed this morning, he’s not looking my way with total disdain, or chiding me for daring to breathe his air.
Whatever the reason, I bite back a snippy retort about plying underage girls with alcohol and allow my eyes to flicker down to the silver flask clasped in his strong fingers. Those hands hold so much power. They’ve won three Pulitzer Prizes. Looking at them now, though… all I can think about is how they’d feel cuffing my throat like a necklace.
Bending me to his will.
I’ve never felt this way before. I barely recognize these strange desires swimming inside my head. It’s entirely out of character for me to be unhinged by the mere sight of a man’s hands, and yet… I want to trace their tendons, want to study every callus and learn every line.
His throat clears softly, drawing my gaze up. I feel my cheeks heat, embarrassed by the strange course of my own thoughts. My heart thuds against my ribs like a wild animal trying to escape its cage.
“No,” I force out, breathing too hard. “N-no thank you.”
“Suit yourself.”
He shrugs and settles back against his seat. A few seconds later, we hit another dreadful bump of air, strong enough to jostle my entire body sideways. Biting the inside of my cheeks to suppress a squeak of fear, I watch as bolts of lightning streak the clouds just outside our windows. Planes may be engineered to survive a strike, but the thought of being hit with that much electricity sends a shiver down my spine.
I close my eyes to shut out the view and turn my focus inward, counting down in my head until the turbulence subsides.
One Mississippi
Two Mississippi.
Three Mississippi.
When the shaking ceases, I open my eyes and look straight into the stranger’s. He’s watching me again with that all-too-perceptive gaze. A true photographer, he takes inventory of every detail, from my white-knuckled grip on the armrests of my seat, to the tension in my ramrod spine, to the lack of blood in my complexion.
“What?” I snap thinly, annoyed by the implication in his eyes.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Just because your mouth didn’t open, doesn’t mean you weren’t communicating.”