Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Alyssa
His hand brushes mine again—fingertips grazing my palm, lingering at the dip between my knuckles, as if letting go might cause something to unravel.
He doesn't say a word about it, doesn't look down, just keeps touching me like it’s second nature now. Like I might slip through his fingers if he doesn’t.
The tarmac is quieter than I expected—eerily so. No roaring engines, no chatter, just the faint hum of hidden machinery and the occasional blink of runway lights glowing like distant fireflies. Everything is immaculate.
The asphalt gleams under overhead spotlights, flawless and freshly painted, like it’s been manicured for people who don’t have to wait.
Not a single scuff or crack in sight. A sleek control tower rises in the distance, its glass windows dark, antennas pulsing red against the ink-black sky.
It’s as if the whole place was designed to exist just outside reality—where no one asks questions and everything runs for just a certain number of people.
The car eases to a stop beside the jet, the low hum fading until the world feels suspended—like even the night is holding its breath.
He comes around to my side and opens the door. I hesitate—not out of doubt, but because something about this moment feels unreal. Like it shouldn’t be happening to me.
Then his hand reaches for me.
His fingers graze mine—just a touch, but it sparks all the way up my arm, landing somewhere dangerous. He helps me out like he can’t not touch me. His grip is protective in a way that feels anything but polite.
He doesn’t let go.
Instead, his grip shifts—fingers sliding between mine, palms aligning until there’s no space left. The move is simple, but it feels intimate enough to steal the air from my lungs.
It’s almost as if he’s claiming something he lost and isn’t ready to let go again.
My pulse stumbles. His thumb drifts over my skin—slow, unhurried, almost reverent—and the world narrows to that single point of contact. The jet, the night, the silence . . . all of it fades until it’s just him and the way holding my hand suddenly feels like too much and not enough at once.
My breath stumbles from the quiet certainty in the way his thumb drifts across my skin, as if he already knows how to touch me without asking.
“Mr. Vaughn,” a woman in a tailored navy coat says, stepping toward us from beneath the wing. Her hair doesn’t move, not even in the breeze. “Your aircraft is ready. The pilot will taxi as soon as you’re aboard.”
I squint at him, suspicious. “This whole ‘Mr. Vaughn’ thing is highly questionable.”
He shifts beside me, jaw tight. “It’s my last name,” he mutters, like the words taste bitter. “Blame my father . . . or grandfather for that matter.”
Then he climbs the stairs first, not waiting for an answer. At the top, he turns and holds out a hand, palm open, waiting. I hesitate for a second too long.
He doesn’t say anything. Just keeps his eyes on me, like the world won’t move until I do.
When I finally slip my hand into his, his fingers curl around mine, warm and certain. He helps me up, and even after I’ve found my balance, his thumb lingers against my skin—just a subtle drag, a promise he doesn’t voice.
He lets go, but only because he has to.
And somehow, it still feels like he hasn’t.
The jet is sleek and silver, reflecting the overcast sky like a mirror. No logos. No name on the tail. It could belong to anyone . . . or no one. As if it exists in an entirely separate world—one that doesn’t follow the same rules as mine.
Inside, it’s even more surreal. Cream-colored leather seats, polished mahogany trim, everything gleaming like it’s been wiped clean of fingerprints or people.
There’s just quiet opulence, a folded blanket rests on one seat, two crystal glasses already waiting, and low music curling through the cabin—Ella Fitzgerald, lilting and soft, like the walls themselves remember a different decade and don’t want to let go.
I sink into the seat across from him, stiff, clutching my purse like I’m waiting to be asked to leave. Or wake up. Or both.
He watches me carefully. Like he knows this doesn’t make sense to someone like me, and is bracing for me to bolt.
“You okay?”
“No,” I whisper. Then louder: “I mean . . . I don’t know. This isn’t exactly normal.”
His mouth lifts slightly, more ache than amusement. “You need a new normal,” he says. “Maybe learn to relax while you’re at it.”
Easy for him to say. He’s lounging like this is just another Tuesday. One arm sprawled across the top of his seat, like he’s on some talk show couch instead of a luxury jet that feels like it fell out of another dimension. He looks at home here. I don’t even look like I should be holding the glass.
The pilot’s voice crackles through the intercom, slightly distorted, like he’s talking to us from a submarine.
“Mr. Vaughn, we’re cleared for takeoff. Should be smooth all the way down to San Cristobal, Baja California.”
I blink. “We’re going to Mexico?”
He nods. “Told you there’d be a beach.”
That’s all he says. Like it’s obvious. Like this whole detour was written into the script from the start, and I just missed the rehearsal.
“Rafe . . .” I manage, but the words collapse halfway out of my throat. What am I even supposed to say? Thanks for the emotional whiplash? For casually rewriting my entire reality like it’s nothing?
“Not Rafe. It’s Dexter,” he corrects, voice steady. “The name’s Dexter Vaughn. Rafe’s just the guy who showed up late to your event. I paid him off to disappear, so I could prove to you that I actually knew who the fuck Hall & Oates were.”
There’s a smirk tugging at his mouth—perfectly timed, a little too casual. A grin meant to keep things light when they’re anything but.
And me?
My jaw’s somewhere on the tarmac as I stare at him. Not Rafe, but the Dexter Vaughn.