We all have dreams that light us up and turn us on.
Ones that make us tingle and come alive.
I didn’t expect mine to become a reality.
And I never thought they’d look like him.
When I step onto the airplane, my heart pounding with anticipation, I expect to find business class bursting with glamorous people and enough legroom to lie down between rows.
There isn’t room for a floor nap, but there are hand towels and bottled water.
I strap into 1B, then tuck my magazine and boarding pass into the pocket on the wall in front of me.
“Would you like a blanket?”
The flight attendant’s perky voice has me straightening.
“I’m fine, thanks. Honestly, I could sweat in a snowstorm. I used to think it was a curse, but it’s kind of a blessing.”
She’s staring at my pink flip-flops as if they might bite her.
“Please switch your phone to airplane mode for takeoff.”
She continues down the rows.
My phone shows no new messages, so I send one.
Nova: Can’t wait to see you! I can’t believe this is really happening. Wish me luck :D
I switch the device off and twist the silver bangle on my wrist.
I’m on an adventure, I remind myself as I lean toward the window in time to see a plane lift off the tarmac.
My stomach flips.
This is why I got the aisle seat—so I’m as far as possible from watching that.
I open a note on my phone and reread what I’ve written.
Mari and I used to dress up as brides. We’d make dresses out of old tablecloths and toilet paper and race through the fields.
I’d run as fast as my legs would carry me, and she followed behind to make sure I didn’t fall.
She’d roll her eyes and tell me I was being ridiculous, but I knew she loved me.
“How long until takeoff?” a woman across from me asks when the flight attendant passes the other direction.
“We’re waiting on one more passenger.”
I didn’t realize planes waited on passengers.
Out the window, another plane races down the runway like a speeding bullet.
The shrill sound of a phone echoes in my mind, the only warning before darkness reaches for me, clawing up from deep in my stomach. Sweat beads at the back of my neck.
I’ve been talking myself into this for days.
But now…I’m not sure I can do it.
It’s not too late to get off.
I’m halfway out of my seat when I collide with a man coming down the aisle.
He’s huge, towering above me and easily engulfing the space around us with his broad shoulders and wall of a chest. His face is partially hidden by his hoodie while sweatpants cling to his lean hips and strong legs. A logo-print duffel is clutched firmly in his hand.
He glances into the overhead with a brief double-take at my pink luggage before dropping his bag at his feet and yanking off Beats headphones.
"You’re in my seat.”
His voice is more growl than words, and it rubs along my skin like sandpaper.
My fear is crowded out by disbelief at this man’s audacity. “I don’t think so. I’m 1B.”
I checked my boarding pass a zillion times as I navigated the airport.
His eyes narrow. “I’m always 1B.”
“Except today,” I go on helpfully as I drop back into my aisle seat, which grew infinitely more appealing in the seconds since this stranger tried to take it from me.
I shift my knees to the side, the universal symbol for “go on through.”
His stare is intense, and looking for a way out, I reach into the pocket for my boarding pass that’s tucked in a magazine somewhere.
My bracelet slips halfway off, and I push it back on.
He doesn’t move.
Finally, his impatience overwhelms me.
“Fine! If it matters so much to you, take it.” I shift over to the window. Not my fault if I lose my breakfast on him. “We’re waiting for a late arrival…”
I trail off as the flight attendant shuts the doors.
He’s the late arrival.
He shoves his duffel into the overhead compartment and sinks into the seat, tugging his hood back from his head.
My breath catches.
His eyes are the color of chocolate, smoldering with little flecks of gold and fringed with thick lashes. A faded scar slices through one of his eyebrows. Almost-black hair decorates his square jaw, a five o' clock shadow though it’s barely two. His nose has a slight dent, and his lips look as though they’ve been cut from marble.
Good God, he’s beautiful.
Strikingly, imperfectly beautiful.
Picasso said the reason his portraits were skewed, why he painted every eye differently, is because every eye is different. It’s not an issue of painting; it’s an issue of seeing.
If uniqueness is beauty, this man is a work of art.
The pilot runs through the takeoff spiel, and the flight attendant demonstrates how to fasten a seatbelt. Her attention is fixed on the guy next to me, as if he’s the one responsible for getting us to our destination in one piece.
“The flight over to Denver will be turbulent,” the pilot says over the speaker.
I take a deep breath as I pull out my phone and switch on the signal.
Nothing from Mari.
I turn it off again and lean back against the headrest.
The engine starts, a rolling hum that vibrates through me.
“Do you take a lot of planes?” I ask.
My seatmate stares blankly.
“Is this one good? Safe?” I press.
He leans over me to look out the window. “Got two wings.”
The plane starts its acceleration down the runway.
“I’m Nova,” I manage as the plane lifts off.
Talking will keep my mind off our situation.
Hoodie Guy glances over but doesn’t answer. He’s a few years older than me, probably late twenties or early thirties.
No name. Got it.
“Are you from Denver?” I press.
“No.”
“Me neither. I’m going for a wedding.”
He exhales hard, as though resisting small talk is the noblest possible pastime and he considers himself a knight of the highest order.
“Work.”
It’s a grudging gift from lips so perfectly formed I’d trace them, if I didn’t think he’d bite me first.
His knees nearly reach the opposite wall, even with the added legroom, while my feet barely touch the floor.
“Construction? Because you’re huge,” I go on at his expression. “Tall, I mean,” I add as the woman across the aisle coughs. “Not huge other places.”
His brows lift.
Now I’m looking at the hands folded across his stomach. They’re big, and tan, with long fingers and tidy nails.
Outside, the ground drops farther away. I force my attention away from the window.
“I’ve avoided flying for years now, but my sister is getting married and I won’t let her down. In fact, I’m working on my speech right now. Do you want to hear—”
“I don’t.”
My mouth snaps shut.
If Mari was here, she’d tell me not to talk so much.
I flip my phone facedown in my lap and take a deep breath.
“I’m sorry. It’s my nerves about flying. I’m trying not to have a panic attack. If I have to spend the entire flight curled in a ball on the floor, I will get there in one piece. I’d do anything for my sister. We’d do anything for each other,” I finish in a single breath.
My seatmate frowns, studying me with a new intensity.
As if, for the first time, I’m something other than a nuisance.
He reaches across to lower the shade so I can’t see the lack of ground firsthand.
The panic recedes a degree.
He’s close, his faces inches from mine.
“Switch me seats,” he says before I can thank him.
My heart beats faster as I reach for my seatbelt.
We switch spots, and his body brushes mine. I nearly trip. Sparks dance along my nerve endings.
He puts a steadying hand on my waist.
Only it’s not steadying at all. It makes my stomach flutter in an entirely new way.
His hands are huge, and when I look down, tendrils of black ink like smudges of charcoal extend from under the cuffs of his sweatshirt.
What the…
They’re mysterious and badass and more than a little hot.
My thighs press together.
I haven’t thought about sex in weeks. Possibly months. Not since…
Well.
Let’s just say what happens between the sheets has never blown my mind.
But between his massive build, the glittering dark eyes, and the intriguing secrets, this man is built for fantasies I never knew I had.
I don’t normally go around thinking filthy thoughts about strangers, especially grouchy ones, but I sneak another look at those hands as he sits, adjusting his sweatpants over hard thighs and—
The flight attendant unclips from her seat and approaches. “Can I get you a drink, Mr.—”
“Tequila?” I ask hopefully.
It’s fake courage, but I’ll take whatever I can get.
My seatmate holds up two fingers.
The flight attendant nods so fast her neck cracks. Guess I’m not the only one noticing how attractive he is.
A few deep breaths later, she returns with the drinks.
“To new adventures.” I lift my glass and then drink its contents back in a single shot, the heat burning down my throat.
He watches before drinking his in a long, slow gulp, his tanned throat bobbing.
I’m thirsty again.
The tequila’s already working its magic, and the humming of the plane sounds farther away and less threatening. The alcohol has the not-unpleasant side effect of making my skin tingle.
“Do you like games?” I ask. “We could play one. Two Truths and a Lie. That’s where I make three statements—”
“I know how to play.”
My seatmate stacks our empty glasses and sets both on his tray.
I take that as assent and try to think up a good one. “I once stole a chocolate bar from a grocery store.”
His beautiful mouth twists in dissatisfaction.
Lame.
“I once gave a man a tattoo.”
Now there’s a lift of one dark brow. He’s listening.
“And… I love my sister more than anyone in the world.”
He makes a sound like a scoff as he takes me in, a long sweep from my toes upward that lingers on my faded jeans, the curve of my breasts under my off-the-shoulder T-shirt, and my candy-pink hair before landing on the lip gloss I swear the tequila washed away.
I’m not a total stranger to male attention. But I’ve never been the subject of a look like that, and certainly not from a man like him.
“The last one.”
My mouth falls open in protest. “What? Why would I lie about that?”
“You’re not lying to me. You’re lying to yourself.”
What the…? Did this guy I’ve known for fifteen minutes seriously question my relationship with my sister?
The flight attendant returns, like a magnet who’s found her true north, and my hoodie hottie orders us two more tequilas.
The first is going to my head, like helium lifting me up.
The drinks are set in front of us moments later with another longing look at Mr. Grumpy, plus a suspicious one at me. She’s perturbed I’m building rapport with her dream guy.
Funny how being in a confined space with another person, in the presence of alcohol, breaks down boundaries.
I take a sip, trying his method of pacing consumption, and make a face.
It tastes terrible.
I toss the rest back in a single swig and set the cup on my tray with a flourish.
“Your turn to say three things,” I inform him.
“No.”
“That’s how games work.”
“‘How games work’ is you should know the rules before you start.”
He reaches for his phone and starts reading.
Well then.
I fish in the seat pocket and take out my magazine. Sports Illustrated.
My companion glances over. His eyes stick to the magazine.
“My new brother-in-law, he’s—” I catch myself, remembering my sister’s request to be discrete. According to Mari, Harlan’s some hotshot basketball GM, and I shouldn’t announce that to everyone. “He’s really into sports.”
He looks over my shoulder, then rips the open page out of the magazine.
He crumples it in his fist and shoves it in his seat pocket.
My jaw hits the floor.
“Just because you’re not into sports doesn’t mean it’s not a viable interest for others.”
Apparently, tequila has the side effect of giving me a soapbox and whispering that I should use it.
“That so.”
I survey his tall physique, admittedly a bit too happy to have an excuse to stare at his long, hard legs, his impossibly broad shoulders, his huge hands.
“You ever play basketball? I bet you’d be good.”
His mouth twitches. A sign of life. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He reaches for his headphones and tugs his hoodie back up over his head.
Guess we’re done talking.
For the next hour, I read my magazine and sneak looks at him while he plays around on his phone.
I wish I had a sketchpad.
I don’t typically draw people, but I’m itching to draw him.
It’s not only the beautiful lines of his face and body, larger than anyone I’ve ever seen in person. It’s his magnetic charisma, which is twisted because he couldn’t give more standoffish vibes if his sweatshirt had “STAY AWAY” printed from cuff to collar.
A few times, I catch him looking at me.
It’s like being scorched by the sun. Not sunbathing-on-a-beach sun, but ant-under-a-microscope sun. I’m not used to his intensity, but I don’t hate having his eyes on me.
I remind myself of the purpose of this trip.
My sister and I were close growing up. Even when she moved to Denver, we talked every few days and spent holidays together.
I didn’t realize how much distance was between us until I got the invitation saying she was getting married to a man I’d never met.
The second I got the invitation, I called and told her I was coming to help.
For the next month, I’m in Denver for her wedding. We haven’t talked about exactly what I’ll be doing, but I’ve already had visions of us hugging, our flower bouquets wrapped around one another’s shoulders, and the happy tears in her eyes when I give the world’s best MOH speech.
It’s not like Mari’s all I have in the world, but… well, she sort of is.
An announcement comes over the intercom to say we’ll be landing in Denver in an hour.
Not soon enough.
The plane bounces, and my stomach lurches. I unclick my seatbelt and stumble out of my seat toward the bathroom.
I was hoping to avoid the “rocking in a corner” scenario, but it seems more likely with every bump.
“I’m sorry, Mar,” I whisper.
I brace a hand on the counter and think of my childhood hero. My partner in crime.
Every time my life has gone to shit, she’s been the one who got me through. I want to return the favor. To be there when she needs me instead of the other way around.
A knock comes on the door, making it clank against the frame. Apparently, I forgot to lock it.
The door opens, and my seatmate is there, staring down at me with his trademark irritated expression. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t do this,” I whisper as I squeeze my eyes shut. “I can’t…”
I expect him to signal for the flight attendant to come get the crazy woman rocking in the bathroom.
Instead, he wedges inside along with me.
It’s barely big enough for both of us. His legs brush mine, his knees resting against my thighs as the plane bumps and jolts.
“Oh God,” I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut.
“My friends call me Clay, but I’ll take it.”
I force my eyes open to find him looming over me. His expression is composed, except for the flecks of gold dancing in those moody eyes.
He shoves up his sleeves, revealing muscled arms covered in tattoos. The stunning patterns of black inked across smooth, tanned skin make me gasp.
“These are amazing.” I whisper like I’m in a church.
The panic recedes enough for me to take his wrist, trace the parallel lines that begin to twist and intersect midway up his forearm.
He tenses at first, but doesn’t pull away.
“How many do you have?” I ask.
“Twenty-nine.” His voice is softer than it was before. “One for every year I’ve been alive.”
On his other arm, there’s a pine tree, tall and strong with thinning branches near the top.
“You got your first tattoo when you were a baby?”
I only realize how dumb that sounds once it’s out.
But instead of calling me out, his eyes crease at the corners. “I doubled up a few years.”
He looks different when he’s half-smiling. I wonder what it would take to make him smile for real.
“I always wanted one, but it was never the right time,” I say as I refocus on the tattoos. It feels safer than staring into his eyes.
The plane hits a bump, and my stomach lurches.
Clay tenses. He’s going to bail on me before I embarrass myself more by puking on him.
Instead, he reaches back and yanks the hoodie off over his head.
My heart stops.
He’s a canvas, a work of art. Like one of those I Spy books I had as a kid, except every tattoo is a masterpiece.
The body revealed by his white tank is as impressive as his tattoos. Beneath the ink, he’s another kind of art. Every inch of shredded muscle and smooth skin makes me wonder what he does, what he’s capable of doing.
I take a breath and focus on the lines and not the fact that we’re millimeters apart.
He shows me a tattoo riding the crest of his shoulder, a hawk. I’ve barely absorbed that when I notice the black snake disappearing under his tank.
The hammering in my ears is still there, but it feels like I’m creating it instead of being its victim.
It’s as if, in this tiny excuse for a room on a bouncing metal tube, I’m safe with him so long as we’re breathing together.
“This one’s the newest.” He points to the rabbit on his wrist. “It’s for my sister. She can be a pain in the ass, but I like knowing she’s with me.”
It’s a gruff admission, but suddenly, emotions rise up that I can’t contain. Ones that have nothing to do with planes and bumps.
“You were right.” I swallow hard. “Things have been strained between us. I was dating this guy, and we moved in together, and he dumped me and I got fired the same day, and I haven’t told my sister any of it because she lives this perfect life. Now she’s marrying some guy I’ve never met, and I need the month leading up to this wedding to show her I can be a good sister.”
Overhead, the yellow-orange lights make a halo around him.
He grabs my chin and swipes at the tears I didn’t feel drying on my cheeks.
“You’re doing something you hate for someone you love. You’re already a good sister.”
This room is too small, and he’s too big, and I feel the distance between us as much as the places we’re touching. He smells like soap and forest, like the pine tree on his arm.
My stomach is forgotten as the vibe shifts between us. The negative space is humming, throbbing. It’s not fear or panic anymore, the fundamental need to be apart from this plane.
It’s a pull toward him.
And I’m not the only one feeling it. I see it on his face, in the flaring of his nostrils, the tic of his jaw.
“Tell you what, Pink.” His voice is a gravely rasp that ends between my thighs, even before I can process the nickname. “We make it out of here, I owe you a tattoo.”
I’m suddenly aware of how close we are. How alone, despite the hundreds of people on the other side of the flimsy door.
He feels a little dangerous, but a good kind of danger.
My breath catches. “For real?”
He bends to my ear, his lips brushing my skin. “I promise.”
My entire body is humming with arousal and possibility.
Once, as a kid, I accidentally scraped my knee until it was bloody. Seeing the skin grow back was fascinating. That’s what this feels like—like he’s touching me but a new part of me. A part I’m not sure is ready to be touched.
I fist the front of his tank, my hand disappearing in soft cotton. The little sound I make is part moan, part sigh.
Everything goes black.
When I blink my eyes open, I’m back in my seat and have no idea how I got there.
I must have fallen asleep for landing because the plane is pulled up to the gate and passengers are dragging suitcases up the aisle.
The seat next to me is empty, the duffel and its owner long gone.
“Excuse me,” I ask the flight attendant as I wipe at the corner of my mouth. “What happened to the man who was sitting here?”
She looks at me as if I’m nuts.
