Chapter 7
Erin follows Violette Hadford down a jetway at JFK that leads straight to the private plane she'll be traveling on with Mia Wilder and the rest of her team.
When the doctor's jaw nearly dropped at the mention of it, the lawyer clarified that the plane was rented and that this wasn't their usual way of getting around — just the most practical option given the schedule.
They step out onto the tarmac through a pair of heavy iron doors, and Erin spots the plane with the stairs already in place and a few people who haven't boarded yet milling around outside.
"Go ahead and board, Doctor. Make yourself comfortable — we'll be leaving in twenty minutes," Violette says as someone stops her at the foot of the stairs.
Erin walks past and heads up, where a flight attendant greets her with a warm smile.
"Dr. Dooley?" the young woman says.
Erin raises an eyebrow and decides not to ask how she knows who she is, because the answer will probably alarm her.
"Yes," she says.
"Ms. Wilder asked that you sit with her.
She's right over there." The flight attendant gestures toward two pairs of facing seats on the right side of the plane — cream leather, so thickly cushioned that Erin feels drowsy just looking at them.
"If you'd like to hand me your bag, I'll put it in the overhead compartment. "
"Sure, thanks." Erin hands it over and moves past the attendant toward the back of the plane.
As soon as she reaches the first row of seats, she runs into Noah, who stands up with a sleepy-puppy grin and pulls his headphones down around his neck.
"Dr. Dooley, I'm really glad you took the job."
His sincerity is so genuine that Erin feels almost overwhelmed when she shakes his hand.
"Call me Erin, okay?"
"Of course." Mia's personal assistant smiles. "I'm always just Noah."
She smiles back, feeling a quiet relief knowing there'll be at least one person on the team she actually likes.
"Good to see you, Noah."
He sits back down and she continues toward the rear of the plane, nodding hello to faces she doesn't recognize, making her way to a small lounge area at the back where the singer is sitting.
At first she only catches the lavender hair, but then she has a clear view of Mia Wilder, who looks up the moment she senses someone nearby.
The singer is lounging sideways, back against the wall of the plane, legs stretched out across the seat beside her.
She's wearing black jeans and an oversized white hoodie rolled up to her elbows.
Her hair is pulled back, though it's not quite long enough for the elastic to hold all her wavy strands in place — they fall loose on either side of her face, framing a pair of deeply blue eyes that are now watching Erin with an expression that's fully, unmistakably awake.
"Dr. Erin Dooley," Mia says, savoring the name, closing the book in her lap as her smile curves sideways.
"Hey, Mia." Erin pulls off her hoodie before sitting down, and the singer's eyes follow every movement as she drags it over her head.
She's wearing gray cargo pants and a black tee — tucked in at the front, untucked at the back.
Mia can't look away. The night of the concert she'd found her attractive, but her mind had been foggy and her memories were blurry and incomplete — she hadn't held onto any detail beyond the gentle look in the doctor's gray eyes.
Now she can really look, and what catches her attention most are Erin's arms, completely toned, the clean lines of muscle shifting with every movement.
It's a quality Mia finds both gorgeous and deeply appealing, and she can't stop wondering what this woman's stomach must look like as she stands there folding her hoodie neatly and setting it on the empty seat.
Erin sits down across from her and sinks into the cushion like it was built around her.
She crosses her left ankle over her right knee and rests her right elbow on the armrest. Mia's gaze drops to her boots — black, ankle-height, military-style but sleeker, very much her thing — and she decides that Erin Dooley checks every single box on her list of what she finds irresistible in a woman: dark hair, athletic build, attractive as hell, and — most importantly — older than her.
"How are you feeling?" the doctor asks, pulling Mia out of her daze.
"Perfectly fine," she says, drawing her legs in and sitting up properly so she can look at Erin without craning her neck.
"Any dizziness since Friday? Vision—"
"Hey, Dooley, hold on a second." Mia cuts her off. "You just got here. Can we talk about something other than this weird syndrome I have?"
"This weird syndrome you have is the only reason I'm here."
Erin says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world, but Mia smiles — then bites her lower lip like she's just taken a small hit.
"So you're not interested in my life beyond my symptoms? You don't want to know—" She's trying to flirt.
"No, Wilder, I'm not," Erin cuts her off.
Mia stares at her for a moment, thrown. She has a vague memory of the ambulance ride, but she does remember trying to flirt with this woman — the way she does with anyone she's attracted to, or as a defense mechanism when she feels vulnerable — and she also remembers that Erin didn't waver, didn't play along, didn't get flustered the way other women do.
Mia figured it was because she'd been too weak to come at her the right way, but now she's perfectly fine, and nothing she does — like looking at her with one of her crooked smiles — seems to get any reaction out of the doctor at all.
"Did you eat breakfast this morning?" Erin asks.
"Avocado toast and a coffee. Why?"
"Black or with milk?"
Mia runs a hand through her hair, thinking that if every conversation she gets to have with this woman is this dull, the next four months are going to be a very long, very frustrating ride.
"Black."
"Do you have any allergies I should know about?" Erin continues — she hasn't had time yet to read through the full medical file Violette forwarded to her email that morning.
"No, I'm not allergic to anything," Mia says, impatient.
"In that case, starting tomorrow, coffee always with milk or cut with a lot of water."
Mia pulls a face.
"Black coffee dehydrates you, so if you're going to drink it, it needs to come with something else. That's not negotiable."
Erin pulls a notepad and pen out of her bag, uncapping the pen with her teeth and holding the cap between them while she writes something down.
Mia watches, staring at the strands of hair that fall loose around the doctor's face as she looks down at her notepad, focused, that pen cap still between her teeth — the one Mia feels a sudden urge to take out with her own.
She's just realized the doctor is attractive without even trying; she doesn't do anything specific to get Mia's attention, because Mia likes everything about her — from the wavy hair that looks completely untameable under that clip to the leather bracelets stacked along her wrist.
"Is there anything else that isn't negotiable?" The question sounds innocent, but the playful, teasing tone Mia uses makes it very clear she's going somewhere else with it.
Erin glances up slightly and pulls the pen cap out of her mouth to set it back on the pen.
"Anything you do that affects your condition. None of it will be."
Mia keeps the knowing smile on her face, props her elbow on the armrest, rests her cheek against her hand, watching the doctor.
It's a look that always works on her; most women fall apart when she looks at them that way.
But Erin glances at her for a second and goes right back to the notepad, ignoring her completely.
"Why don't you let your hair down?" Mia asks suddenly.
Erin barely lifts her head — and finds those blue eyes locked on hers.
For just a moment, her pulse kicks up. She knows exactly what game Mia is playing, and that her main goal is to get her into bed, the way she probably does with any woman she finds remotely attractive.
She's done a little research; it seemed like the reasonable thing to do before spending four months with someone on tour, and if there's one result that dominates when you type her name into a search engine, it's Mia Wilder and her lovers.
The singer is openly gay, and despite being only twenty-six, she's been photographed with dozens of women.
Erin is clear on the fact that no matter how appealing the idea might be in some abstract way, she's not about to become another name on that long list of the singer's passing interests.
"There are a few things I want to go over with you. We could use the flight if that works for you," Erin says, ignoring her completely.
Mia leans forward, elbows on her knees, closing the distance — but the doctor doesn't move a muscle when the singer whispers.
"One of these days, Dooley, I'll be the one letting your hair down."
Erin looks at her. She'll admit the girl knows how to work it, because in any other context and set of circumstances, she'd already have her sitting in her lap and would be doing her best to kiss the life out of her and quiet the pull she can feel going off, sharp and direct, between her legs.
"Let me give you some advice, Wilder," Erin murmurs back — though she doesn't lean forward, because that's exactly what Mia wants.
"Please." The corner of the singer's mouth curves up slightly.
"Don't waste your energy on me. The only thing that interests me about you is that you don't pass out again. Beyond that, any attempt to seduce me is a waste of your time and mine — and I like to spend mine on things that actually matter to me."