We all have dreams that light us up and turn us on.
Ones that make us tingle and come alive.
I didnāt expect mine to become a reality.
And I never thought theyād 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 isnāt 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.
āWould you like a blanket?ā
The flight attendantās perky voice has me straightening.
āIām fine, thanks. Honestly, I could sweat in a snowstorm. I used to think it was a curse, but itās kind of a blessing.ā
Sheās staring at my pink flip-flops as if they might bite her.
āPlease switch your phone to airplane mode for takeoff.ā
She continues down the rows.
My phone shows no new messages, so I send one.
Nova: Canāt wait to see you! I canāt believe this is really happening. Wish me luck :D
I switch the device off and twist the silver bangle on my wrist.
Iām 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 seatāso Iām as far as possible from watching that.
I open a note on my phone and reread what Iāve written.
Mari and I used to dress up as brides. Weād make dresses out of old tablecloths and toilet paper and race through the fields.
Iād run as fast as my legs would carry me, and she followed behind to make sure I didnāt fall.
Sheād roll her eyes and tell me I was being ridiculous, but I knew she loved me.
āHow long until takeoff?ā a woman across from me asks when the flight attendant passes the other direction.
āWeāre waiting on one more passenger.ā
I didnāt 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.
Iāve been talking myself into this for days.
But nowā¦Iām not sure I can do it.
Itās not too late to get off.
Iām halfway out of my seat when I collide with a man coming down the aisle.
Heās 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.
"Youāre in my seat.ā
His voice is more growl than words, and it rubs along my skin like sandpaper.
My fear is crowded out by disbelief at this manās audacity. āI donāt think so. Iām 1B.ā
I checked my boarding pass a zillion times as I navigated the airport.
His eyes narrow. āIām always 1B.ā
āExcept today,ā 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 āgo on through.ā
His stare is intense, and looking for a way out, I reach into the pocket for my boarding pass thatās tucked in a magazine somewhere.
My bracelet slips halfway off, and I push it back on.
He doesnāt move.
Finally, his impatience overwhelms me.
āFine! If it matters so much to you, take it.ā I shift over to the window. Not my fault if I lose my breakfast on him. āWeāre waiting for a late arrivalā¦ā
I trail off as the flight attendant shuts the doors.
Heās 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 itās barely two. His nose has a slight dent, and his lips look as though theyāve been cut from marble.
Good God, heās beautiful.
Strikingly, imperfectly beautiful.
Picasso said the reason his portraits were skewed, why he painted every eye differently, is because every eye is different. Itās not an issue of painting; itās 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 heās the one responsible for getting us to our destination in one piece.
āThe flight over to Denver will be turbulent,ā 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.
āDo you take a lot of planes?ā I ask.
My seatmate stares blankly.
āIs this one good? Safe?ā I press.
He leans over me to look out the window. āGot two wings.ā
The plane starts its acceleration down the runway.
āIām Nova,ā I manage as the plane lifts off.
Talking will keep my mind off our situation.
Hoodie Guy glances over but doesnāt answer. Heās a few years older than me, probably late twenties or early thirties.
No name. Got it.
āAre you from Denver?ā I press.
āNo.ā
āMe neither. Iām going for a wedding.ā
He exhales hard, as though resisting small talk is the noblest possible pastime and he considers himself a knight of the highest order.
āWork.ā
Itās a grudging gift from lips so perfectly formed Iād trace them, if I didnāt think heād bite me first.
His knees nearly reach the opposite wall, even with the added legroom, while my feet barely touch the floor.
āConstruction? Because youāre huge,ā I go on at his expression. āTall, I mean,ā I add as the woman across the aisle coughs. āNot huge other places.ā
His brows lift.
Now Iām looking at the hands folded across his stomach. Theyāre big, and tan, with long fingers and tidy nails.
Outside, the ground drops farther away. I force my attention away from the window.
āIāve avoided flying for years now, but my sister is getting married and I wonāt let her down. In fact, Iām working on my speech right now. Do you want to hearāā
āI donāt.ā
My mouth snaps shut.
If Mari was here, sheād tell me not to talk so much.
I flip my phone facedown in my lap and take a deep breath.
āIām sorry. Itās my nerves about flying. Iām 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. Iād do anything for my sister. Weād do anything for each other,ā I finish in a single breath.
My seatmate frowns, studying me with a new intensity.
As if, for the first time, Iām something other than a nuisance.
He reaches across to lower the shade so I canāt see the lack of ground firsthand.
The panic recedes a degree.
Heās close, his faces inches from mine.
āSwitch me seats,ā 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 itās 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 theā¦
Theyāre mysterious and badass and more than a little hot.
My thighs press together.
I havenāt thought about sex in weeks. Possibly months. Not sinceā¦
Well.
Letās 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 donāt 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 andā
The flight attendant unclips from her seat and approaches. āCan I get you a drink, Mr.āā
āTequila?ā I ask hopefully.
Itās fake courage, but Iāll take whatever I can get.
My seatmate holds up two fingers.
The flight attendant nods so fast her neck cracks. Guess Iām not the only one noticing how attractive he is.
A few deep breaths later, she returns with the drinks.
āTo new adventures.ā 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.
Iām thirsty again.
The tequilaās 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.
āDo you like games?ā I ask. āWe could play one. Two Truths and a Lie. Thatās where I make three statementsāā
āI know how to play.ā
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. āI once stole a chocolate bar from a grocery store.ā
His beautiful mouth twists in dissatisfaction.
Lame.
āI once gave a man a tattoo.ā
Now thereās a lift of one dark brow. Heās listening.
āAnd⦠I love my sister more than anyone in the world.ā
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.
Iām not a total stranger to male attention. But Iāve never been the subject of a look like that, and certainly not from a man like him.
āThe last one.ā
My mouth falls open in protest. āWhat? Why would I lie about that?ā
āYouāre not lying to me. Youāre lying to yourself.ā
What theā¦? Did this guy Iāve known for fifteen minutes seriously question my relationship with my sister?
The flight attendant returns, like a magnet whoās 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. Sheās perturbed Iām 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.
āYour turn to say three things,ā I inform him.
āNo.ā
āThatās how games work.ā
āāHow games workā is you should know the rules before you start.ā
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.
āMy new brother-in-law, heāsāā I catch myself, remembering my sisterās request to be discrete. According to Mari, Harlanās some hotshot basketball GM, and I shouldnāt announce that to everyone. āHeās really into sports.ā
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.
āJust because youāre not into sports doesnāt mean itās not a viable interest for others.ā
Apparently, tequila has the side effect of giving me a soapbox and whispering that I should use it.
āThat so.ā
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.
āYou ever play basketball? I bet youād be good.ā
His mouth twitches. A sign of life. āIāll keep that in mind.ā
He reaches for his headphones and tugs his hoodie back up over his head.
Guess weāre 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 donāt typically draw people, but Iām itching to draw him.
Itās not only the beautiful lines of his face and body, larger than anyone Iāve ever seen in person. Itās his magnetic charisma, which is twisted because he couldnāt give more standoffish vibes if his sweatshirt had āSTAY AWAYā printed from cuff to collar.
A few times, I catch him looking at me.
Itās like being scorched by the sun. Not sunbathing-on-a-beach sun, but ant-under-a-microscope sun. Iām not used to his intensity, but I donāt 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 didnāt realize how much distance was between us until I got the invitation saying she was getting married to a man Iād never met.
The second I got the invitation, I called and told her I was coming to help.
For the next month, Iām in Denver for her wedding. We havenāt talked about exactly what Iāll be doing, but Iāve already had visions of us hugging, our flower bouquets wrapped around one anotherās shoulders, and the happy tears in her eyes when I give the worldās best MOH speech.
Itās not like Mariās all I have in the world, but⦠well, she sort of is.
An announcement comes over the intercom to say weāll 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 ārocking in a cornerā scenario, but it seems more likely with every bump.
āIām sorry, Mar,ā 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, sheās 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. āWhatās wrong?ā
āI canāt do this,ā I whisper as I squeeze my eyes shut. āI canātā¦ā
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.
Itās barely big enough for both of us. His legs brush mine, his knees resting against my thighs as the plane bumps and jolts.
āOh God,ā I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut.
āMy friends call me Clay, but Iāll take it.ā
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.
āThese are amazing.ā I whisper like Iām 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 doesnāt pull away.
āHow many do you have?ā I ask.
āTwenty-nine.ā His voice is softer than it was before. āOne for every year Iāve been alive.ā
On his other arm, thereās a pine tree, tall and strong with thinning branches near the top.
āYou got your first tattoo when you were a baby?ā
I only realize how dumb that sounds once itās out.
But instead of calling me out, his eyes crease at the corners. āI doubled up a few years.ā
He looks different when heās half-smiling. I wonder what it would take to make him smile for real.
āI always wanted one, but it was never the right time,ā 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. Heās 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.
Heās 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, heās another kind of art. Every inch of shredded muscle and smooth skin makes me wonder what he does, what heās capable of doing.
I take a breath and focus on the lines and not the fact that weāre millimeters apart.
He shows me a tattoo riding the crest of his shoulder, a hawk. Iāve 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 Iām creating it instead of being its victim.
Itās as if, in this tiny excuse for a room on a bouncing metal tube, Iām safe with him so long as weāre breathing together.
āThis oneās the newest.ā He points to the rabbit on his wrist. āItās for my sister. She can be a pain in the ass, but I like knowing sheās with me.ā
Itās a gruff admission, but suddenly, emotions rise up that I canāt contain. Ones that have nothing to do with planes and bumps.
āYou were right.ā I swallow hard. āThings 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 havenāt told my sister any of it because she lives this perfect life. Now sheās marrying some guy Iāve never met, and I need the month leading up to this wedding to show her I can be a good sister.ā
Overhead, the yellow-orange lights make a halo around him.
He grabs my chin and swipes at the tears I didnāt feel drying on my cheeks.
āYouāre doing something you hate for someone you love. Youāre already a good sister.ā
This room is too small, and heās too big, and I feel the distance between us as much as the places weāre 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. Itās not fear or panic anymore, the fundamental need to be apart from this plane.
Itās a pull toward him.
And Iām not the only one feeling it. I see it on his face, in the flaring of his nostrils, the tic of his jaw.
āTell you what, Pink.ā His voice is a gravely rasp that ends between my thighs, even before I can process the nickname. āWe make it out of here, I owe you a tattoo.ā
Iām 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. āFor real?ā
He bends to my ear, his lips brushing my skin. āI promise.ā
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. Thatās what this feels likeālike heās touching me but a new part of me. A part Iām 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, Iām 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.
āExcuse me,ā I ask the flight attendant as I wipe at the corner of my mouth. āWhat happened to the man who was sitting here?ā
She looks at me as if Iām nuts.