Chapter 1 #2
When the plane finally lurches into motion and begins its ascent, I notice the seat beside me remains conspicuously empty—strange, considering Dad’s assistant specifically mentioned a fully booked flight when explaining why only first class was available on such short notice.
I suspect manipulation; Lucas Barlow’s influence extends to airline seating charts when it suits his purposes.
Shrugging away the suspicion—one more mind game in an endless series—I balance my laptop on the tray table, log into Spotify, and immerse myself in Dad’s upcoming speech.
The irony doesn’t escape me: even thousands of miles away, I’ve been crafting his public persona, polishing his words until they shine with conviction I know he doesn’t possess.
Sometimes I wonder why he insists on using me as his unofficial PR consultant when he has an entire communications team at his disposal.
Is it simply another method of control, another invisible leash ensuring I remain tethered to his world even when physically distant?
I order a glass of Chardonnay from a passing flight attendant, the first sip sharp and acidic against my tongue as I begin adding rhetorical flourishes to make his environmental policy stance sound sincere rather than politically expedient.
My concentration shatters when a scent cuts through the airplane’s sterile atmosphere—an intoxicating blend of sandalwood, cedar, and something indefinably masculine.
I inhale shamelessly, my work forgotten as the fragrance wraps around me like velvet.
Damn, this smells so good. The thought rises unbidden, primitive and honest in a way I rarely allow myself to be.
I permit myself a sidelong glance and immediately regret it—or perhaps regret is exactly the wrong word for the sudden rush of heat flooding my system.
The man now occupying the formerly empty seat is nothing short of devastating.
His white shirt, casually rolled at the sleeves, reveals forearms corded with lean muscle and adorned with intricate tattoos that curve out of sight beneath the fabric.
His jawline could cut glass, shadowed with precisely the right amount of stubble, and his dark hair falls just so across his forehead in a way that seems both effortless and calculated for maximum impact.
As if sensing my scrutiny, his eyes open—revealing irises so intensely blue they seem almost artificially enhanced.
Our gazes lock for a fraction of a second that somehow stretches into infinity.
Nina Simone’s husky voice fills my headphones, crooning “I Put a Spell on You,” and I can’t suppress a wry smile at the universe’s perfect timing.
This scent is indeed a spell, weaving through my senses and short-circuiting my usually impeccable self-control.
Again, I steal another glance at the hotter-than-hell stranger beside me, and my body responds with embarrassing enthusiasm.
Goosebumps cascade across my skin like dominoes falling in sequence, and heat pools low in my belly, a sensation I haven’t experienced in longer than I care to admit.
I drain my wine in one undignified gulp, desperately seeking relief from the sudden temperature spike in my personal atmosphere.
The cool liquid does nothing to extinguish the warmth spreading through me.
I signal for another glass, acutely aware of the stranger’s presence beside me, like a gravitational force altering my orbit without permission.
My life moves at a relentless pace—client meetings bleeding into court appearances, research sessions stretching until dawn, and Dad’s political demands filling whatever microscopic gaps remain.
The mere concept of a relationship seems as realistic as sprouting wings and flying alongside this plane.
And after what happened with James two years ago—the betrayal still a raw, throbbing wound beneath my carefully constructed professional veneer—I’ve kept men at a clinical distance, viewing them as I might examine legal precedents: with detached interest and healthy skepticism.
But something about this stranger breaks through my carefully constructed defenses with terrifying ease.
It’s not just his obscene physical perfection—though God knows that would be enough—it’s something more primal, an electric current humming between us that makes the fine hairs on my arms stand at attention.
The logical part of my brain—the part that graduated top of my class and negotiates settlements that make seasoned attorneys fidget—screams warnings about airplane infatuations and the dangers of mistaking proximity for chemistry. It’s the wine. Yeah, I blame it.
I attempt to maintain some semblance of dignity while stealing glances that grow increasingly less subtle.
My eyes trace the constellation of veins visible beneath the skin of his forearms, the way his throat moves when he swallows, the slight curve of his mouth that suggests he’s perpetually on the verge of a knowing smile.
Heat crawls up my neck and settles in my cheeks, and I’m suddenly grateful for the dim cabin lighting that conceals what must be a mortifying flush.
My imagination runs wild with forbidden scenarios—his hands tangled in my hair, those full lips exploring places that haven’t been touched in embarrassingly long.
When Spotify’s algorithm shifts from Nina Simone to something more upbeat, the spell fractures just enough for me to surface from my hormone-induced trance.
Shit! I blink rapidly, as if emerging from a darkened theater into harsh daylight, and force my attention back to the glowing laptop screen where Dad’s half-finished speech waits accusingly.
The words swim before my eyes, refusing to arrange themselves into coherent sentences as my peripheral vision stubbornly registers every minute movement from seat 24A.
This flight stretches ahead of me like an eternity—twenty two more hours trapped in this pressurized tube beside living, breathing temptation.
I’ll need to summon every ounce of self-discipline cultivated during years of Barlow family media training not to make a complete fool of myself.
I take another sip of wine, hoping it might dull the keen edge of awareness that has my body humming like a tuning fork struck against stone.
Since when have I become this person—this bundle of raw nerves and inappropriate cravings?
Years of casual dates that never progressed beyond lukewarm goodnight kisses, of throwing myself into work rather than risk another emotional laceration, and suddenly one stranger’s cologne has me contemplating bathroom trysts at thirty-five thousand feet?
I mentally shake myself, disgusted and thrilled in equal measure by my body’s mutiny against common sense.
Melbourne has changed me in ways I’m only beginning to comprehend, loosened something tightly wound within me—something that London and the weight of Barlow’s expectations had nearly suffocated entirely.
I force my fingers to move across the keyboard, determined to reclaim control of my treacherous body and wandering mind.
The speech. Focus on the speech. Not on the way his presence beside me seems to alter the very air pressure in the cabin, making each breath feel insufficient and laden with dangerous possibilities.