5. Maeve
5
maeve
I’m a dirty, filthy whore.
That’s the only words I can think of as I board the airplane and take my seat in first class. The second I hit the leather, I feel the tidal wave of the last day wash over me. And none of it is good.
That’s a lie. My body feels more relaxed and sated than maybe ever in my life. I’m also thoroughly exhausted because the sex was nothing short of earth shattering. And the orgasms? Out of body experiences. Apparently when you don’t have sex for five years, your orgasms are triggered a little more easily than you remember.
I’ve also never had two in one night. I didn’t think my body could do it, hence why I dared Logan that task. I figured it was an easy win. But apparently even my own orgasms stood no chance against Logan Matthews. That was further proved sometime in the middle of the night when I was woken up by Logan’s face between my legs. I think I came in thirty seconds.
Who was that woman? It’s like I was me—I mean, I felt every single thing he did to my body—but I was an alternate version of me. A version who begged a man to fuck me. Who got fingered in an elevator. Who enjoyed getting spanked while getting fucked from behind. All by a man seven years younger than me who I saw on a magazine cover at the airport with a model as they were entering a club in New York.
Seeing that cover made me feel more at ease about my decision to sneak out this morning. I knew I couldn’t face him sober in the harsh light of day. What would I have said? “Thanks for the orgasms! You win!”
I was already humiliated by my actions enough, so I did the smartest thing I could do—I crept around in the dark looking for my clothes, realized I didn’t have any underwear, got haphazardly dressed, went to the front desk to ask for my bags that they were still holding and got changed in the lobby bathroom. I then did the walk of shame to the airport and got here way too early, all because I didn’t want to make eye contact with the man who made me see literal stars.
“Can I get you anything, ma’am?”
I slowly nod at the flight attendant. “A Diet Coke. Please.”
Seconds later it’s in my hand and I’m nearly chugging it. I already had my hangover cure this morning of bacon, egg, and cheese on a bagel, but the familiar fizz is hitting the spot.
My eyes are heavy, and I let them close as the rest of the passengers filter onto the plane. Luckily, this is a direct flight back to Nashville, so the goal is to let the exhaustion take over so I can be alert when I get home tonight. I haven’t seen my son in more than a week, and I need to relieve my sisters, who’ve been pulling shifts to cover me during my custody time.
My guess is that Jayce will want to stay up tonight, and because I’m a guilty mother who’s been away, I’ll let him. The problem with that is the morning will still come at its normal time—promptly at 7:14 a.m., when Jayce will wake me up to pour him his juice and cereal so he can eat while cramming in an episode of Paw Patrol before school. I could go back to sleep after I drop him off. But will I? Absolutely not.
Which is why I need to catch as many Zs as I can now. Between the tiredness from travel, and my body being exhausted from last night, I should be able to sleep just fine on the flight. If I were currently in my bed, I might actually sleep for more than five hours. That would be a new record.
I’ve never been a great sleeper, but as I’ve gotten older, and the stress of being a single mom and running my own business has grown, there isn’t a pillowcase, blackout curtain, or melatonin dosage in the world strong enough to get Maeve Banks into a REM cycle. But judging how I’m already feeling like I’m dozing off, and I won’t be self-conscious as there’s no one sitting next to me, maybe the trick all along was a healthy dose of dick—specifically of the tall, handsome, and British variety.
No brain! Stop it! You’re a dirty whore, and you need to stop thinking about him!
I turn my head toward the window as I try to shake the thoughts from last night. My brain has always gone a mile a minute, but it’s usually with things about work, or Jayce’s schedule, or what is going on with my family. That’s another reason why I swore off sex. I didn’t have the capacity to deal with dating. And my days of hooking up were over, both because I was a grown-up and they just weren’t good enough to bother.
Then again, if I’d had sex with Logan before I made this declaration, I might have been singing a different tune.
“Passengers, if we could have you all find your seats as we begin the in-flight announcements...”
That’s the last thing I remember hearing before I’m in a full slumber. I somehow block out the takeoff. If there’s a baby crying in economy, I wouldn’t know. Because somehow, I’m currently falling into the best sleep I’ve had in ages while I guiltily think about Logan’s tongue between my legs…
Ding! Ding! Ding!
The sound of the airplane call, combined with a shake of turbulence, snaps me awake. Which is a fucking shame, because I was in the middle of a dream where Logan was fucking me on the glass dining table of the penthouse.
I’m thrown by a huge bit of turbulence that sends my head into the window, which also causes me to drop the glass of now-melted ice and Diet Coke that somehow I’ve been holding the whole time.
“Shit-mother-fucker-bitch!”
I try to look around for a napkin or something to wipe the cold liquid off my lap when a familiar chuckle turns my blood cold.
No…it can’t be.
“Here, Love. Let me help you.”
What in the literal, actual, and metaphorical fuck is happening?
I freeze at the sound of the voice that’s coming from next to me. I know it’s him. There’s no other voice like that in the world. But I refuse to look to make sure. Between the spill, the dream I was just having where I’m not sure if I was talking in my sleep and called out his name, and the unknown of whether I have drool on my chin, it’s best I stay facing forward.
“Oh, come on, Maeve. Aren’t you happy to see me?”
I reluctantly turn my head and if I had another drink to drop, I would.
Yup. There he is, in all his sexy, British glory. The man who made me beg. The man who made me scream. The man I can still feel inside me.
The man I was banking on never seeing again.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
I don’t know what about my tone just now made him smile, but I want to wipe the smug grin off his face. “Flying to Nashville.”
I shake my head a little, because obviously this has to be some sort of dream.
“Aren’t you a billionaire or something? Why are you flying commercial?”
He shrugs as the flight attendant comes over to hand me a napkin. I should thank her—or at least make eye contact with her—but I’m too confused and a little angry by my current situation.
“A private jet just seems wasteful,” he says. “Plus, you never know who you’ll sit next to on a plane. It’s an experience you can’t replicate.”
I feel ridiculous thinking about this, but I need to ask it to ease my mind. “Did you get on this flight to see me? I didn’t tell you where I was going.”
This gets a laugh out of him. “I wish that was the case. But sadly no. This is pure serendipity.”
“Really? This is coincidence?”
“It is. And a pleasant one. Since we didn’t get to see each other this morning, this can serve as our goodbye.”
I feel my cheeks turn beet red. How dare he call me out with the truth. Rude.
“I wanted to get to the airport early,” I reply, my defensive tone telling him exactly how much a liar I am.
“I didn’t know it was open at five in the morning.”
Shit, he knew when I left? I thought he was asleep.
“But no matter,” he continues, since I’m still too stunned to speak. “I still got the experience of sleeping next to you, even if only for a little bit. Your snores are adorable, by the way.”
I audibly gasp. He did not! I mean, I probably was, but you don’t say things like that out loud to strangers. Shit, you’re probably not strangers with someone who you’ve seen naked.
“I was not.”
I try to ignore the flirty smile and his dazzling green eyes behind his black-rimmed glasses. The whole look is sexily unsettling, especially when I can still see that face buried in my pussy.
“You tell yourself whatever you need to, Love.”
Ugh! That fucking name!
“I wasn’t snoring. And quit calling me Love.”
He shakes his head as a small laugh escapes. “Can’t. We made a bet. And I believe I won. Twice. Or was it three times?”
The audacity of this man…how dare he use things I said and did against me?
I could blame the booze. Say the gin was talking, and I wasn’t aware of what my body was doing under the influence. But that would be a damn lie. I knew every second of what I was doing. I felt every delicious thing he did to my body. And now I have to pay the consequences.
Which apparently is him sitting next to me for the final forty-five minutes of our flight.
In maybe a more frustrating move than him calling me out on the bet, or the snoring, or calling me Love, instead of waiting for me to respond, the bastard turns away, focusing on something on his phone while I’m left slack-jawed and still wet.
From the ice.
Not for any other reason.
I try not to make it obvious, but I glance over to him. Maybe in the daylight, and him not teasing me, I can realize that he’s not as sexy as he was last night.
Much to my disappointment, he’s even better looking now. Because of course he is.
Gone is the suit and tie. Instead we have a fitted henley and a pair of blue jeans. I’m sure they’re designer, but just the look of jeans and a shirt makes him seem so…normal. Combine that with him wearing his glasses and his messy brown hair, and no one would guess that the man is worth billions.
Don’t get me wrong, I love a man in a suit. Especially a custom, tailored one like he had on last night. But this look? The one of relaxation and a guy who you could picture sitting at a sports bar with his buddies? That also scratches an itch for me.
And a man who can be both? Let’s just say it’s a good thing I’m never going to see him again.
Needing something to distract me, I take my cell phone out of the seatback pocket. I didn’t want to check my phone on this flight, wanting a few hours of being off-line, but when I decided that, I didn’t realize my one-night-stand was going to be sitting next to me.
At first I don’t see anything alarming when I connect to the airplane WiFi. A few back and forths on the family group chat, as we begin preparations and planning for the holidays. Thanksgiving is in two weeks and Christmas is right around the corner, which means not only coordinating my family’s schedules, including when Jayce will be with his dad and when my sister Quinn will be coming home from Arizona over her winter break.
I ignore the texts and head over to my emails. I doubt there’s anything urgent, but the little red number at the corner of the icon says I have thirty-four emails, and that’s just unacceptable.
Zero notifications is where I like to live.
I scroll through, reading, replying, or deleting what I need to. Nothing major. Clients wanting follow-ups or additions, now that their spaces are done. A few past clients wanting to know if they can hire me for holiday parties.
Just as I’m getting down to the final emails, I read the name that makes my blood boil every time it pops up in my inbox.
To: Maeve Banks, Banks Interiors
From: Katherine Smith
Subject: Reschedule?
“Fuck my life, not again,” I groan as I read the email. I mean to keep it to myself, but I know I said it louder than I should’ve.
Though in my defense, if they knew I’ve now received six of these emails from Miss Katherine Smith—who I am starting to think is a fake person—you’d let out audible obscenities too.
Ms. Banks,
We’re sorry to have to cancel our consultation. The client’s schedule has changed and won’t be able to meet with you tomorrow at the agreed upon time. Please let me know what your availability is next week so we can try and make this happen.
Regards,
Katherine Smith