Chapter 35
CABIN PRESSURE
RORIE
Stepping onto the plane, I give myself a silent pep talk.
I’ve done this a hundred times before.
I belong here.
I scan the faces. The power.
My heart hammers against my chest. I’m two seconds away from imploding.
This isn’t just a flight. It’s sixteen hours of pure, unfiltered hell with business class champagne, gourmet cashews, and a high probability of catastrophic decisions.
The jet is ridiculous, by the way. Cream leather seats. Someone literally handed me a chilled towel when I stepped on board.
However, none of that matters the second I look up, because my heart plummets to my toes.
Nolan “My-Pussy-Remembers” Rhodes is lounged in his seat wearing in a navy henley, sleeves tight around his biceps, top few buttons undone. Does he know what that does to people?
To me.
And if he doesn’t, then God is playing a cruel, elaborate joke.
Because he looks good.
Unfairly, obscenely good.
He’s watching me.
Our eyes lock for half a second. My heart clenches. My breath stutters. And that tight, sharp heat between my ribs—the one I’ve been trying to starve since he sent that email—ignites as though it’s been waiting for this exact moment.
But it’s not just Nolan I’m looking at.
It’s Carl.
He’s the man I told things to. The one who made me laugh when everything else felt too heavy. The one who sent me a damn galaxy in a box and then shattered me with a three paragraph email.
That man.
Is this man.
The one who helped me.
The one who hurt me.
Same fucking person.
I don’t know where to put any of that.
Jeremy’s behind me, singing “Danger Zone” while adjusting his aviators he bought special for the occasion.
We’re the last to board, and nearly every seat is full.
Except two.
One next to Maya.
The other next to Nolan.
Jeremy speeds up, acting like he’s going for the last damn cronut on Earth, throws himself into the open seat by Maya, sprawls like a Roman emperor, and then—
Finger guns.
“Hey!” I whisper-shout, glaring at him.
Unbothered, he grins then tips his head toward the only seat left and says, “May the sexual tension be ever in your favor.”
I want to murder him, strangle him with his complimentary blanket.
I want to teleport.
I want to crawl out of my skin.
I don’t.
I breathe.
Because that’s what you do when your friend double-crosses you and you’re about to sit beside the man who fingered you into temporary amnesia.
I glance back at Jeremy. He smirks that smug, sparkling bastard. Fuck him.
Maya elbows him but does nothing to help.
Fine.
I can handle this.
I, Rorie Adams, marketing professional and vaguely responsible adult, will hold my head high and spend sixteen hours trapped beside the walking identity crisis that is Carl/Nolan Rhodes, aka, monumental mistake.
Except—God help me—I’m not even sure it was a mistake.
I exhale, slap on the most neutral face I can find in my feelings toolbox, and make my way toward the seat.
Nolan doesn’t move.
Doesn’t smirk.
Doesn’t blink.
Just watches.
“Is this seat taken?” My voice is crisp and civil.
He gestures to the seat beside him like we’re strangers instead of two people who share a complicated, semi-anonymous emotional bond and an unfortunately unforgettable bathroom history.
Totally normal.
Totally fine.
Just me.
Him.
And sixteen hours of altitude-fueled tension.
What could possibly go wrong?