Page 3 of At First Flight (Coral Bell Cove #1)

As a kid, takeoffs sent me into a spiral of motion sickness.

On our private jet, the attendants always had crackers and ginger ale ready once the plane leveled out.

My motion sickness improved as I got older and utilized a plane more than the average billionaire.

But as the plane surges through the sky, reaching a higher altitude with each passing second, my nausea is combated not by ginger or salty carbs but by a woman whose hands clutch the armrests as if her life depended on it.

Her ivory skin has turned an ashen shade of white, matching her fingernails clawing at the metal of the support, all in stark contrast to the dark lashes fanned along her cheeks as she clenches her eyes tightly shut.

The neckline of her dress moves in tandem with her short spurts of breath as she tries to pull air into her lungs.

She’s at a point I recognize all too well—a looming panic attack.

Peering over the headrest, I search for the flight attendants, ignoring my own wave of uneasiness as the aircraft continues to climb.

When I don’t locate them, I quickly unlock my seat belt and slither across the row from my seats to hers as if I were in the newest spy movie.

Thankfully, no one says anything as I move.

“Hey.” My voice comes out low and rough, not quite a whisper but not loud enough to startle her. “You okay?”

She doesn’t answer. Her shoulders are pulled in so tight I swear she’s trying to disappear inside herself.

I hesitate. This isn’t something I do. I don’t reach across invisible lines.

I don’t insert myself where I’m not wanted, but something about her makes me forget all that.

My body moves before my mind can catch up.

I reach over and wrap my hand around hers, easing her fingers free from the support they’ve welded themselves to. Her skin is warm. Soft. Too soft for how hard she’s holding herself together.

Her breath hitches, and I expect her to pull away, to flinch, but she doesn’t.

I keep holding her hand, cradling it in mine. Her palm is smaller than I expected. Delicate. But her grip tightens like she’s been waiting for someone to anchor her.

My thumb moves in slow strokes over her clenched knuckles. A steady back and forth that feels instinctive even though nothing about this is familiar.

I’ve never done this before. Never offered comfort like it’s mine to give. I don’t know the first thing about calming panic attacks. But I don’t feel out of my depth sitting here and holding her hand.

I feel steady.

Cracking one eye open, she peers over at me. And despite whatever she thought of me during our initial meeting, pink stains her cheeks as she flips her hand around and intertwines our fingers together.

For the first time in decades, I feel a sense of peace, even as the plane ascends to new heights. She must feel the same because her breath begins to slow, her skin returning to its just barely sun-kissed state.

By the time the plane levels and the seat belt light flicks off, ghost girl sports a healthy sheen of nervousness over her pale skin as our hands unclench. But not the kind related to the takeoff of the flight. More like she doesn’t know what to do with me.

“So have you given it any more thought?” I ask as the attendants work their way through the aisle with their snacks and drinks. They’d serve us lunch a bit later during the almost seven-hour flight.

At first, I wonder if the bride hears me, but slowly, she grapples with her dress as she turns to face me.

“I don’t even know you.”

“Well, I’m hoping to change that. Dean Harrington,” I say, turning to face her completely and holding a hand out.

She stares wide-eyed at it as if waiting for my fingers to grow claws and score her delicate skin, clearly not recalling how she gripped my hand minutes ago.

When she realizes I’m nothing more than an ordinary man with a propensity to say exactly what’s on my mind, she clasps her hand within mine.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Any name to go with that shake?”

She hesitates as her palm slips free and brushes away fake lent from her tulle skirt. “Lila,” she says quietly, eyes cast downward. She quickly brings her gaze back up to meet mine and speaks with more strength. “My name is Lila.”

“Well, Lila, we have a pretty long flight. Care to share why you’re wearing a wedding dress on the way to Scotland?”

Her hand trembles as she reaches toward her hair and tucks a loose strand behind her ear. I wish I’d been the one to push the glossy strand away from her face. I bet it feels like the finest of silk. Something woven straight from the cocoon.

“It’s… complicated.”

With a quick flick of my wrist, my Patek Phillip watch glistens under the airline’s dim overhead lighting. I make an exaggerated motion of looking at the time before I meet her eyes again.

“Well, it seems we have roughly six and a half hours to fill. Unless you want to sit in this confined tube and watch a movie or something.”

“I don’t have earbuds.”

The attendant steps to our row and visibly jolts when she notices I’ve switched seats.

Before she can get a word out, I explain that our guest in row 3A was suffering from a panic attack, and I attempted to calm her down.

Her eyes immediately dart to Lila’s, who surprisingly nods and assures the attendant everything is okay.

When she’s satisfied, she moves along to the next row.

“Read a book?” I offer, smiling as Lila rolls her eyes and sinks back into her chair. The turmoil she was dealing with earlier, whatever caused her to dash onto the plane wearing a wedding dress, falls away like the bark of a birch tree.

“I haven’t read a book in months.”

“Want me to guess what kind of books you read?” I peg her as the kind to read smutty romances of the monster variety.

Maybe paranormal. I know from my friends and their wives the kind of books that are all over social media.

The steamy kind. The sex-filled kind. The kind I’d read a few of, to none of my friends’ knowledge, to make sure I knew the level of expectations women held nowadays.

“No.”

“I’m guessing it was a romance with dragons and fae. That sound about right?”

“Wha—how do you… I mean… no, it was a small town.”

“Ah, my favorite.” She probably thinks I’m joking, but the small-town trope has proven to be my favorite. Something about them reminds me of the romances from classic movies.

My ghost girl, the woman who will haunt me for life, guffaws, which only leaves me yearning to hear a full-bellied laugh rise from her chest. I’m enraptured by the woman wearing white as her laughter tinkles around the cabin.

Men around us take notice as if her chuckle is a calling card for all un-mated males.

“You’re the most ridiculous man I’ve ever met.”

“Well, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Are you normally this strange, or is it just for my benefit?”

“My only goal was to see you smile, ghost girl. Hearing you laugh was like watching the northern lights for the first time. Beautiful and fleeting.”

“I… I have had little to smile about recently, but… it’s been nice to laugh. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. And my offer still stands.”

“What offer?” she asks as she turns in her seat to fiddle with the screen attached to the back of the seat in front of her. The window cover at her side has remained closed since takeoff as if something unwelcome could peer in at any moment.

“The one where you marry me.”

Lila’s shoulders jerk subtly as she speaks, and I wonder if it has anything to do with the predicament she’s found herself in.

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, we’ll just have to change that, won’t we?”