Chapter 1 #2
“You’re not lying to me. You’re lying to yourself.”
What the…? Did this guy I’ve known for fifteen minutes seriously question my relationship with my sister?
The flight attendant returns, like a magnet who’s 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. She’s perturbed I’m 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.
“Your turn to say three things,” I inform him.
“No.”
“That’s how games work.”
“‘How games work’ is you should know the rules before you start.”
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.
“My new brother-in-law, he’s—” I catch myself, remembering my sister’s request to be discrete. According to Mari, Harlan’s some hotshot basketball GM, and I shouldn’t announce that to everyone. “He’s really into sports.”
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.
“Just because you’re not into sports doesn’t mean it’s not a viable interest for others.”
Apparently, tequila has the side effect of giving me a soapbox and whispering that I should use it.
“That so.”
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.
“You ever play basketball? I bet you’d be good.”
His mouth twitches. A sign of life. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He reaches for his headphones and tugs his hoodie back up over his head.
Guess we’re 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 don’t typically draw people, but I’m itching to draw him.
It’s not only the beautiful lines of his face and body, larger than anyone I’ve ever seen in person. It’s his magnetic charisma, which is twisted because he couldn’t give more standoffish vibes if his sweatshirt had “STAY AWAY” printed from cuff to collar.
A few times, I catch him looking at me.
It’s like being scorched by the sun. Not sunbathing-on-a-beach sun, but ant-under-a-microscope sun. I’m not used to his intensity, but I don’t 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 didn’t realize how much distance was between us until I got the invitation saying she was getting married to a man I’d never met.
The second I got the invitation, I called and told her I was coming to help.
For the next month, I’m in Denver for her wedding. We haven’t talked about exactly what I’ll be doing, but I’ve already had visions of us hugging, our flower bouquets wrapped around one another’s shoulders, and the happy tears in her eyes when I give the world’s best MOH speech.
It’s not like Mari’s all I have in the world, but… well, she sort of is.
An announcement comes over the intercom to say we’ll 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 “rocking in a corner” scenario, but it seems more likely with every bump.
“I’m sorry, Mar,” 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, she’s 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. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t do this,” I whisper as I squeeze my eyes shut. “I can’t…”
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.
It’s barely big enough for both of us. His legs brush mine, his knees resting against my thighs as the plane bumps and jolts.
“Oh God,” I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut.
“My friends call me Clay, but I’ll take it.”
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.
“These are amazing.” I whisper like I’m 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 doesn’t pull away.
“How many do you have?” I ask.
“Twenty-nine.” His voice is softer than it was before. “One for every year I’ve been alive.”
On his other arm, there’s a pine tree, tall and strong with thinning branches near the top.
“You got your first tattoo when you were a baby?”
I only realize how dumb that sounds once it’s out.
But instead of calling me out, his eyes crease at the corners. “I doubled up a few years.”
He looks different when he’s half-smiling. I wonder what it would take to make him smile for real.
“I always wanted one, but it was never the right time,” 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. He’s 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.
He’s 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, he’s another kind of art. Every inch of shredded muscle and smooth skin makes me wonder what he does, what he’s capable of doing.
I take a breath and focus on the lines and not the fact that we’re millimeters apart.
He shows me a tattoo riding the crest of his shoulder, a hawk. I’ve 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 I’m creating it instead of being its victim.
It’s as if, in this tiny excuse for a room on a bouncing metal tube, I’m safe with him so long as we’re breathing together.
“This one’s the newest.” He points to the rabbit on his wrist. “It’s for my sister. She can be a pain in the ass, but I like knowing she’s with me.”
It’s a gruff admission, but suddenly, emotions rise up that I can’t contain. Ones that have nothing to do with planes and bumps.
“You were right.” I swallow hard. “Things 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 haven’t told my sister any of it because she lives this perfect life.
Now she’s marrying some guy I’ve never met, and I need the month leading up to this wedding to show her I can be a good sister. ”
Overhead, the yellow-orange lights make a halo around him.
He grabs my chin and swipes at the tears I didn’t feel drying on my cheeks.
“You’re doing something you hate for someone you love. You’re already a good sister.”
This room is too small, and he’s too big, and I feel the distance between us as much as the places we’re 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. It’s not fear or panic anymore, the fundamental need to be apart from this plane.
It’s a pull toward him.
And I’m not the only one feeling it. I see it on his face, in the flaring of his nostrils, the tic of his jaw.
“Tell you what, Pink.” His voice is a gravely rasp that ends between my thighs, even before I can process the nickname. “We make it out of here, I owe you a tattoo.”
I’m 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. “For real?”
He bends to my ear, his lips brushing my skin. “I promise.”
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. That’s what this feels like—like he’s touching me but a new part of me. A part I’m 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, I’m 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.
“Excuse me,” I ask the flight attendant as I wipe at the corner of my mouth. “What happened to the man who was sitting here?”
She looks at me as if I’m nuts.