Chapter 3
ALEC
Two weeks of blood tests, EKGs, and a new daily regimen of blood pressure medication later, I’m finally taking that doctor-prescribed vacation.
Since I had no idea where to go, my assistant, Martha, made all the arrangements for me.
One full week in Barbados. I’m already bored out of my skull and itching to be back in my office.
Unfortunately, my escape vehicle to the tropics is a commercial airline instead of my usual private jet, which is currently being upgraded with new avionics.
Just one more way the universe seems determined to fuck my life over lately.
It’s been years since I’ve flown commercial, and now I remember why.
Apparently “first class” means slightly more comfortable than flying in the cargo hold.
At least I have my hotel accommodations in Barbados to look forward to.
Martha did some finagling and was able to book me at one of the best resorts in their largest, most luxurious suite.
I plan to spend my week of forced relaxation enjoying the privacy of two-thousand square feet of solitude and tropical breezes. I just need to get there first.
The Miami layover from LaGuardia was a nightmare of delayed connections and gate changes, but at least now I’m settled into seat 2A on the final leg to Bridgetown.
My laptop sits closed on the pull-out table like a digital siren song, surrounded by the HoloTech cybersecurity penetration test results I’m absolutely not supposed to be reading.
I had to sneak the computer out of my office when Martha wasn’t looking.
Dr. Vaughn’s orders were crystal clear: complete break from work, dramatic stress reduction, or risk “much more serious health consequences.”
The problem is, not working feels more stressful than working.
The meditation app Dr. Vaughn insisted I download is burning a hole in my phone like a guilty conscience.
Mindful Moments—Christ, even the name makes me want to punch something.
But the alternative is another lecture about “cardiac events” and “lifestyle modifications,” so I suppose I should make an effort.
I plug in my earbuds and select whatever bullshit session promises to make me a more Zen human being. The narrator has the kind of voice that belongs in a funeral home—all hushed reverence and artificial calm.
“Close your eyes and allow yourself to settle. Clear your mind. Thaaat’s it… Now, imagine a place of comfort and calm. A place where you are utterly relaxed… perhaps a childhood memory, a favorite retreat, somewhere that brings you peace.”
I wait for something to materialize in my head. Anything. My mother’s kitchen? No, that place was always filled with the stress of unpaid bills. My corner office? That’s the opposite of calm. The house in the Hamptons I bought last year? I’ve been there exactly twice, both times for client dinners.
The silence in my skull is deafening.
“Let yourself sink into this peaceful sanctuary,” the narrator continues, apparently operating under the delusion that I’ve successfully conjured some sort of mental spa retreat. “What do you see? What do you—”
“Whew! That was close. I almost missed the flight!”
A melodic, far-too-cheerful voice cuts through my attempted meditation like a buzzsaw through tissue paper.
I crack one eye open to see a dark-haired woman in a light cotton sundress hovering in the aisle next to me—all curves and bounce and the kind of megawatt smile that should come with a warning label about potential retinal damage.
I stare at her and her smile beams even bigger. “Hi!” She points at the empty seat next to me. “This is me. I’m seat 2B.”
Wonderful. I start to reach for my seatbelt, but before I have a chance to unfasten it and get out of her way, she steps in front of me, navigating awkwardly around my legs as she squeezes past me.
As annoyed as I am, I’m also a man, and it’s impossible not to appreciate the eyeful of perky cleavage she gives me as she awkwardly makes her way into her own seat.
The enormous straw beach tote bag she’s carrying bangs into my knee and then knocks my shoulder while she gets situated next to me.
She smells incredible—not the calculated assault of expensive perfume, but something warm and natural that makes me think of tropical beaches and lazy Sunday mornings.
Things I don’t do and places I don’t go, but suddenly find myself wanting to experience.
I clear my throat and try to ignore her. Fat chance.
“Barbados, here I come!” she announces to no one in particular, apparently under the impression that everyone on this plane gives a damn about her travel plans. “I still can’t believe I’m actually doing this.”
I glance over and find her looking at me, her smile still beaming.
Damn, she’s pretty. She’s got tousled dark hair that looks like she just rolled out of bed in the best possible way, and light blue eyes that are currently sparkling with enough enthusiasm to power a small city.
Everything about her screams sunshine and rainbows and other shit that makes my teeth hurt.
I point to my earbuds with the kind of deliberate gesture that usually gets the message across. Most civilized people understand this universal symbol for “shut the hell up and leave me alone. “This woman is apparently not most people.
“Oh wow, you’re already listening to music!
Are you getting pumped up for vacation too?
” She digs through the tote bag that looks like it could house a small family, pulling out magazines and snacks enough to fuel someone for a month.
“I made the most epic playlist for this trip—everything from Bob Marley to Beyoncé. Because if you can’t get excited about paradise, what’s the point of being alive, right? So, what are you listening to?”
I’m supposed to be unwinding on this flight, but apparently, we’re doing this instead. “It’s a meditation app,” I say flatly, hoping the word ‘meditation’ will penetrate whatever force field of enthusiasm she’s operating under. “I’m trying to relax.”
“Oh! Are you afraid to fly?”
“No. I fly all the time. The app is for something else.”
She nods, pursing her lips in a way that shouldn’t seem so adorable when I’ve never met someone so persistently aggravating. “I should totally try meditation. Is it working? You look pretty tense to me.”
Jesus Christ. It’s like someone weaponized optimism and aimed it directly at my nervous system. I give her a tight smile and point once more to my earbuds. For good measure, I release a heavy sigh before closing my eyes and settling back into my uncomfortable seat.
I mean, I hate to be an asshole, but if I let this conversation continue—one-sided or not—I’ll likely be dead on arrival from the very stress-related heart event that Dr. Vaughn is trying to help me avoid with this trip.
I try to focus on the meditation app again, but it’s like trying to meditate during a toddler’s birthday party. She’s not talking anymore, but her presence beside me is impossible to ignore. She’s just sitting there, but she radiates energy like a human disco ball, even when she’s silent and still.
I peel one eye open—just a crack—and watch her gaze out the little window with a child’s sense of wonder as the plane taxis down the runway then lifts off.
She seems transfixed on the view as we soar into the clouds.
Once we’re airborne for a few minutes, she starts fumbling around her seat, clearly trying to figure out the controls.
“How do you make this thing recline?” she asks, leaning across the armrest toward me to get a better angle at the seat adjustment buttons. Her shoulder brushes against mine as she reaches for the button that controls my seat. “Oh, sorry. That’s you, not me.”
The contact is brief but electric. I’m suddenly hyperaware of the warmth radiating from her skin through the thin fabric of her sundress.
And when she glances up at my scowling face, those electric blue eyes of hers collide with my gaze and for a moment I can’t breathe for the sudden current of awareness that arrows straight for my cock.
Fuck. This is not happening.
She finally adjusts in her seat and turns toward me, and I make the mistake of glancing down just as she shifts closer. The neckline of her dress moves with the motion, offering another glimpse of curves that makes my brain temporarily short-circuit.
She’s not at all my type, if I even have one anymore. And as annoying as I find her bubbly personality and lack of respect for someone else’s personal space, there’s no denying the woman is a knockout.
“Is this your first time going to Barbados?” she asks, apparently interpreting my open eyes as an invitation for twenty more questions.
“Personally, I’ve been dreaming about this forever.
Well, not forever-forever, but a long time.
I can’t wait to be surrounded by white sand, blue water, those tropical drinks with the tiny umbrellas. ..”
She trails off, and for a blessed moment I think she’s finally picked up on my signals. Then I feel her looking at me—actually studying me like I’m some sort of puzzle she needs to solve.
“I’m Ella, by the way. Ella Manning.”
I give her my close-lipped smile again, along with a polite nod.
She laughs. “This is where you’re supposed to tell me your name. We are going to be seatmates for the next four and a half hours, after all.”
Four-plus hours? It already feels like I’ve been sitting under the full blast of the sun for half a day.
“I’m Alec,” I tell her, deliberately avoiding giving her my last name. It’s not as if Alec Beckett is a household name, despite my status as one of the wealthiest American tech CEOs under thirty-five, but I’d rather not take any chances.
“Nice to meet you, Alec.” She reaches her hand out, waiting for me to shake it. I oblige, taken aback by the strength in her grip. For a petite, soft-looking woman, she’s anything but weak.
“So, do you live in Miami?”
“New York,” I answer, only because it would be rude not to. “Manhattan.”
“That’s exciting! I used to love going into the city. My family lives in New Jersey. Hoboken,” she adds with a wink. “I haven’t been back to see them for a long time. Not since I moved to Arizona a few years ago. Have you ever been to Sedona?”
I remove one earbud, giving up on the idea of having any kind of peace so long as I’m seated next to the most effervescent woman I’ve ever met. “Sedona, Arizona? No, I can’t say that I have even been there.”
“You should go sometime. It’s really beautiful. Red rock canyons, beautiful waterfalls, and some really powerful, mystical energy…”
I scoff, amused. “I don’t believe in mystical energy—powerful or otherwise.”
“You should believe in it,” she says, a serious look in her eyes. “It’s no joke, Alec. You said yourself you’re trying to relax, right? A place like Sedona is good for your soul.”
“Ah. Well, there’s the problem. I don’t have a soul.”
I’m joking, but she gapes at me as if she’s waiting for me to sprout horns any second now. Around this same time, the plane levels off, and the seatbelt sign chimes off. Almost immediately, she starts fidgeting again.
“Don’t hate me, but I should probably use the restroom before they start the beverage service,” she says, already unbuckling her seatbelt. “Sorry, I swear I have a pea-sized bladder. TMI, right? I tend to overshare when I’m excited.”
She pops out of her seat with a smile. “Don’t get up,” she says, placing her hand on my shoulder again as she starts to maneuver around me. “I’m a pro at this now. Besides, I don’t want to disturb you any more than I already have, so I’ll just… climb… over…”
I’m acutely aware of every inch of her as she moves in front of me—the way her dress brushes against my arm, the warmth of her body as she steps between my spread thighs, the soft sound of her breath as she navigates the tight space, her nice ass shimmying past my face with every awkward step.
She emerges into the aisle with a little laugh, her cheeks pink as she looks at me. “Sorry, that was harder than I expected.”
Little does she know, I think, shifting uncomfortably in my seat.
Jesus Christ. Get it together, Beckett.
“I’ll be right back, Alec,” she assures me before she heads to the restroom at the front of the cabin.
I watch her walk away—which is a mistake, because the view is exactly as distracting as I knew it would be.
I’m supposed to be relaxing, not getting turned on by the most annoying woman on the plane.
I force myself to look out the window at the clouds she seemed to be so mesmerized by earlier.
They’re just water vapor. Nothing magical about them.
When she comes back a few minutes later, I practically leap out of my seat to let her climb back into hers without igniting everything male inside me. Even still, I find myself holding my breath until she’s safely settled back in her seat.
“Sorry,” she breathes as she settles back into her seat, and I notice her cheeks are flushed too. “I’ll try not to bother you again.”
I grunt something noncommittal and immediately put my earbuds back in, cranking up the volume on the meditation app. Maybe if I focus hard enough on the narrator’s funeral-home voice, I can forget about the way her body felt pressed against mine.
“Close your eyes and return to your place of peaceful sanctuary,” the app instructs.
Right. My nonexistent place of peace that’s currently being invaded by a woman who smells like sunshine and makes my pulse race in ways that could literally kill me.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to conjure something—anything—calming. But all I can think about is the warmth of her hand on my shoulder and the soft sound she made when she brushed against me.
This is exactly the opposite of what Dr. Vaughn ordered.