Chapter 27 Rhea
TWENTY-SEVEN
RHEA
Paris. Actual, honest-to-God Paris.
I’m on a plane—a jet, a private jet—headed to Paris. And I can’t stop crying. Not sobbing, not hiccuping into a tissue. Just… quiet, stunned tears. Tears of joy. Of disbelief. Of total, dizzying, breathtaking overwhelm.
He’s planned everything.
From the moment we stepped off that tiny Maplewick puddle-jumper, I’ve felt like I’ve been dropped into someone else’s life. The way he took my hand and said, “It’s this way,” like he was leading me into a dream.
And then the second plane—this one—so sleek and impossibly elegant, with a crew that treats us like royalty. Like this is just a normal Friday.
Somehow, he even made arrangements with Laney. Not just for Saturday night, but Sunday night too. Because we won’t be back until around early. Monday morning.
And that little shit has evidently used her key to my house to retrieve my passport—and smuggled it into the side pocket of my bag. I should be furious.
But of course, she knows me.
If I’d known, chances are I would’ve come up with a hundred reasons not to go. But here I am.
Friday at 7:30 a.m. to Monday at 3:30 a.m. That’s how long this man wants to spend with me.
I fight the mom guilt that always hovers at the edges… and decide to lean in.
France.
Fucking France.
“Could I get you something to eat or drink?” the flight attendant asks. She’s warm, professional, and dressed like something out of a luxury travel magazine. The whole plane is like that—leather and crystal and soft white lighting. It looks like a palace in the sky.
“Oh,” I say, I think I’m okay.”
“Coffee? Fruit juice? Cocktail?” She persists.
“How about a ginger ale?” Spencer asks, and it's true. It is what I was just considering.
“That would be great.”
He is sitting across from me, facing me, watching, letting me feel everything without interruption. Just that quiet, steady gaze of his. The one that tells me he wants to be here. That I’m not imagining this.
He really meant it. He wants to give me something unforgettable.
But it’s not one unforgettable night. It’s a whole goddamn dream.
And it’s happening. To me.
“You okay?” he asks gently.
I nod. “Yes. Just... not sure I packed appropriately for... You know... Paris.”
He smiles, as if he’s pleased by my worry. “Well, I checked in with Laney,” he says, like it’s no big deal. “Asked a few questions. Got some hints.”
“Laney?” I say, already laughing. “You asked Laney to pack more clothes for me?”
“No. She just gave me some excellent intel,” he shrugs, grinning. “Anyway, a few things are hanging in the wardrobe in the sleeping cabin. Just some options. See what works, what you like. Take it all—or don’t. Whatever makes you happy.”
I hear the words. I hear them. But they don’t quite register all the way, not with the way he’s looking at me.
Then he stands and comes to me, taking my hand. Warm. Solid. Certain. And he kisses me. Slow and deep. Like he means it.
When he finally pulls back, he rests his forehead against mine. “I want this to be perfect. To be a dream. So just for these three days, Rhea—please. If anything crosses your mind, ask. I’ll do my best to make it happen.”
I swallow, my throat tight with emotion, but I manage a teasing smile. “Well then. I suppose I’d better go inspect the wardrobe you and Laney curated.”
He stands and offers his hand. “Come on. I’ll give you the tour.”
The sleeping cabin is near the back of the jet, tucked behind a frosted glass sliding door. It opens with a quiet click.
The room is gorgeous. Soft recessed lighting. Cashmere throws. A full-size bed made up with hotel-luxury linens. It puts my bedroom at home to shame.
“This is... like a dream.” I say, and know it sounds stupid.
He steps closer again, voice low. “That’s the idea.”
And then I don’t care about the wardrobe anymore, I just want him.
He brushes a strand of hair from my forehead.
I can’t stop myself. I pull his head to mine and kiss him. Hungry. Needy. Urgent.
My hands slide down the strong planes of his back to his jeans, and he groans softly, his mouth moving to my neck, nipping at my earlobe until I feel dizzy with desire.
His hands settle on my hips, tugging me into him, and I can feel the hard press of him through denim.
My breath catches.
“Whatever you want,” he murmurs against my skin. “Whatever your heart’s desire. Just tell me what it is… ”
I open my mouth to answer—but then there’s a firm knock on the door.
“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Devereaux,” a voice calls. “The captain says we’re about to hit a pocket of turbulence. It’s best to return to your seats and buckle in.”
We both freeze for a second, then burst out laughing. We straighten, still flushed, still breathless, and head for the door.
“You,” I say softly as we step back into the main cabin. “That’s what I want. I want to be here. With you. Holding you. Being held by you.”
He turns, his expression tender, and squeezes my hand. “Then that’s exactly what you shall have,” he says.
As we settle back into our seats, he leans close again. “Also—if you’d rather wear what you’ve got on, or switch into sweats, or pajamas, your birthday suit—whatever. This wasn’t about a wardrobe makeover. I just knew my surprise might leave you a little... unprepared.”
I laugh, sinking into the soft leather seat as the engines hum around us.
Unprepared doesn’t even begin to cover it.