Chapter 4
FOUR
PHOENIX
The plane lurches sideways, yanking me from sleep so violently I nearly bite through my tongue.
My eyes fly open to darkness—no, not darkness.
The blanket. I’m still wrapped in the blanket like some kind of demented burrito and the world is tilting at an angle that makes my stomach flip.
The engines whine with a pitch that sounds wrong, too high, too strained, and for one horrifying second I think we’re actually falling.
Then the plane levels out.
My heart hammers against my ribs hard enough to hurt. The Xanax must have knocked me out harder than usual because my mouth tastes like something died in it and my brain feels wrapped in cotton. Through the fog, I become aware of warmth against my left side. Solid. Familiar.
Mason.
He’s asleep in the seat next to me, head tilted back at an angle that’s going to murder his neck later.
His glasses sit slightly crooked on his nose, and there’s a tiny crease between his eyebrows like he’s solving problems even in his dreams. The sight of him—steady, constant Mason—makes something in my chest unclench.
That’s when I realize I’m holding his hand.
Not just holding. Clutching. My fingers are wrapped around his like he’s the only thing keeping me tethered to earth.
Which, considering we’re thirty thousand feet up in a metal death trap, might actually be true.
His palm is warm against mine, fingers slack with sleep, and I can feel his pulse beating steady against my thumb.
How long have I been holding his hand?
Heat floods my face. I must have grabbed him when the turbulence hit earlier, but that was…God, how long ago? An hour? Two? And I never let go. Just sat here, unconscious, clinging to my assistant like a little kid with their security blanket.
I carefully extract my fingers from his, trying not to wake him. He shifts slightly but doesn’t open his eyes, and I tuck my traitorous hand under my thigh where it can’t cause any more trouble.
The plane drops again.
This time it’s not a lurch but a full-on plummet, the kind where your ass actually leaves the seat for a second and your stomach tries to crawl up your throat. The overhead compartments rattle. A stack of paper coffee cups at the bar goes clattering to the floor.
“Fuck!”
My hands shoot out, grabbing both armrests with enough force to leave bruises, and I might be hyperventilating. Definitely hyperventilating.
A dark chuckle is audible even over the plane engines.
I whip my head around to find Atticus watching me from across the aisle. He’s sprawled in his seat like we’re lounging by a pool instead of potentially plummeting to our deaths, one ankle crossed over his knee, those stupid green eyes amused as he blatantly studies me.
I force myself to breathe through my nose. “Is there something on my face?”
“Besides panic?”
“I’m not panicking.”
“Right.” He tilts his head, studying me like I’m some kind of fascinating science experiment. “That’s why you’re white-knuckling the armrests hard enough to bend metal.”
I look down. My knuckles are indeed white, the tendons standing out like rope under my skin. I force my fingers to relax, one by one, even though every instinct screams at me to hold on tighter.
“We hit another pocket of turbulence,” I say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere around manic. “It’s normal. Totally normal. Happens all the time.”
“It does.”
“Yes.” I pull the blanket tighter around myself. “Thousands of flights every day hit turbulence. It’s just air pockets. Atmospheric pressure. Science stuff.”
His mouth quirks.
“Shut up.”
His smile widens. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking it loudly.”
“Thinking what?”
“That I’m being ridiculous.” The plane shudders again, not dropping but shaking, like we’re driving over the world’s worst road, and I dig my nails into my palms. “That I’m stupid little girl afraid of some bumpy air.”
“I think,” he says slowly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, “that we might have gotten off on the wrong foot.”
I stare at him. “Seriously? You’re trying to make nice now? While we’re being shaken like a martini at thirty thousand feet?”
“When better?” That smile spreads across his face, the one that sells albums and breaks hearts. “We’re trapped in a metal tube together. Might as well be civil.”
“Civil.” I taste the word like it’s something sour. “Is that what you call implying we’re fucking to every photographer in LA?”
“I implied we might be dating. You’re the one who jumped straight to fucking.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “Because that’s what everyone assumes. Alpha and omega, working together, showing up places together. The math isn’t complicated.”
“Is it?”
“Oh please.” I shift in my seat, trying to find a position that doesn’t make me feel like I’m about to slide off. “You think I don’t know what this is? Pretty omega, past her prime, clinging to relevance by dating the hot new thing? Tale as old as Hollywood.”
“You’re twenty-seven.”
“In actress years, that’s basically dead.” The words come out bitter than I intended. “Especially for omegas. We’ve got a shelf life shorter than raw milk.”
“That’s depressing.”
“That’s reality.”
He’s quiet for a moment, those green eyes steady on mine. “You know what I think?”
“That you’re God’s gift to womankind?”
“Besides that.” His grin turns wicked. “I think you’re attracted to me and you hate it.”
My jaw drops. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“You arrogant, self-absorbed—”
“See?” He leans back, satisfied. “If you weren’t attracted to me, you’d just laugh it off. But you’re getting defensive.”
“I’m getting defensive because you’re being an asshole.”
“Maybe.” He shrugs, unrepentant. “Doesn’t make me wrong.”
“You think every woman wants to sleep with you.”
“Not every woman.” His voice drops to that velvet tone that probably makes his groupies swoon. “But you? Yeah. I think you’ve thought about it.”
The worst part is he’s not entirely wrong.
I have thought about it. For about thirty seconds last night before the tequila knocked me unconscious.
He’s gorgeous, confident, and exactly the kind of bad decision I’d usually make.
But that doesn’t mean I’m going to give him the satisfaction of admitting it.
“You know what?” I pull the blanket up to my chin like armor. “I think you’re projecting. I think you want to sleep with me and your fragile alpha ego can’t handle that I’m not interested.”
“Every person with adequate blood flow to their genitalia probably wants to sleep with you.”
The statement is so matter of fact, so casually delivered, that for a second I can’t process it. Then the words sink in and I’m grateful for the dim cabin lighting because my face is definitely red.
“That’s—you can’t just—“
“What? State facts?” He tilts his head, watching me sputter. “You’re beautiful, talented, and you’ve got that whole damaged-but-defiant thing that makes people want to either protect you or break you. Sometimes both.”
“That’s fucked up.”
“That’s Hollywood.”
The plane drops again, harder this time, and I can’t suppress the squeak that escapes. My hands fly out, grabbing for something, anything, and end up clutching the armrests again.
“But,” Atticus continues like we didn’t just drop fifty feet in a second, “wanting to sleep with someone and wanting to be their friend aren’t mutually exclusive.”
“We’re not friends.”
“We could be.”
“Why?” The question comes out sharper than intended. “Why would you want to be my friend? What’s in it for you?”
Something flickers across his face, there and gone too fast to read. “Maybe I like you.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know enough.”
“You know Phoenix Riviera, the actress. The party girl. The mess.” I gesture at myself, at the blanket cocoon and designer sweatpants and yesterday’s makeup I definitely didn’t take off properly. “You don’t know me.”
“Then tell me something real.”
The request catches me off guard. “What?”
“Tell me something about you. Not Phoenix the brand. You.”
I stare at him, searching for the angle, the trap. But he just watches me with those impossibly green eyes, patient and curious and maybe, possibly, sincere.
“I hate flying.”
“I noticed.”
“No, I mean I really hate it. Terror doesn’t even cover it. Every time I get on a plane, I’m convinced it’s going to be the last thing I ever do.”
“Statistically speaking—”
“Don’t.” I hold up a hand. “Just don’t with the statistics. I know planes are safe. I know driving is more dangerous. I know all of that. Doesn’t matter.”
“Why not?”
The question is gentle, genuinely curious rather than mocking, and maybe that’s why I actually answer.
“My first flight was when I was six. For a commercial shoot in Miami.” I pick at a loose thread on the blanket, needing something to do with my hands.
“My mom had never flown before either. She took a bunch of Xanax, washed it down with airport bar champagne, and spent the entire flight either passed out cold or digging her nails into my arm so hard she drew blood.”
Mason shifts beside me, still asleep but stirring, and I lower my voice.
“She kept telling me all the ways planes could crash. Engine failure. Pilot error. Birds in the engines. Terrorists. Metal fatigue. Ice on the wings.” I laugh, but it comes out wrong.
“Six years old and I’m learning about explosive decompression while other kids are watching cartoons on their iPads. ”
“That’s abuse.”
The word hangs between us, stark and honest.
“That’s Victoria.” I shrug like it doesn’t matter. Like I don’t still have nearly invisible crescent scars on my forearm from her manicured nails. “She was scared. She didn’t know what else to do.”
“She was the adult. You were six.”
“Yeah, well.” I pull the blanket tighter. “Therapy is for people with money and time. We’ve only ever had one or the other.”