Page 19 of At First Smile

“Now calling our passengers with disabilities requiring additional time to preboard flight sixteen-forty-two to Los Angeles,” the gate agent announces.

Rowan stands and slings our bags over his broad shoulders. “Ready?” His hand reaches out for me.

I take it. “Yes.”

A slight jitter meanders across my limbs as we settle in the second row of first class.

It feels like a lifetime ago since Rowan snarled at the gate agent that he and his wife would be rebooked for today, but it was only yesterday when we adopted that little ruse after the flight attendant mistook us for a married couple.

“You okay?” His callused fingers squeeze mine.

“No. You?”

“Hey, if you can swim with sharks, you can do this.” He raises our joint fingers to his lips and kisses.

“I shouldn’t have told you that story. You’re going to think I’m way braver than I really am. It’s all bluster. I’m actually a wimp.”

“Care for a drink before takeoff?” the flight attendant asks.

“Yes.” I perk up. “My husband and I would like two glasses of champagne.”

“Very good,” the flight attendant drawls, walking away.

I lean into Rowan, my lips brushing the shell of his ear. “By the way, those are both for me. You know…liquid courage. I just didn’t want the flight attendant to get judgy about me double-fisting champagne.”

“If you stay that close to me, he may get judgy about me dragging you into the bathroom.” Rowan’s low timbre ignites my nerves.

“Well, after two glasses of bubbles, I may drag you in there and let you bend me over the counter.” Sultriness coats my words.

“Christ,” he groans, laying his head back against the headrest. “Luv, I think a plane crash is the least of my worries right now.” He shifts in his seat, drawing my attention to his lap.

“ Oooh .” My lips part. “Your mom naked.”

His head snaps to me. “What?”

I wave my hand toward his lap. “Think about something unsexy to help, er… deflate that situation. Not that I’m insulting your mom. I’m sure she’s a very sexy woman, but I’m assuming that you don’t think so.” My face pinches. “At least I hope so.”

He leans over and plants a laughing kiss. “How are you both adorable and sexy?”

I nuzzle my nose against his. “Ditto.”

“JoJo’s picking you up at the airport, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think”—Rowan twists a tendril of my hair around his finger— “she’d mind if I took you home instead. I realize this is a little greedy of me, but I don’t think I’m ready to say goodbye to you at baggage claim.”

“First,” I say as I stroke my fingers against his beard, “it’s not goodbye; it’s a see you later. Second, I’ve promised to process the last week with her. She’s a licensed clinical social worker and lives for that shit.”

“I get it.” A sad smile curls his lips. “How was it being back for your aunt’s ceremony?” His fingers skate over the top of my hand.

Threatening tears sting my nose. I turn my head and peer out the window. Below me carts whizz by. Workers in yellow vests scatter across the tarmac.

“If you want to wait to talk about it with JoJo, it’s okay. We can talk about anything you want, or we don’t talk at all. You mentioned your audiobook on the drive up. We could do that.”

Brows knitted, I twist. “ We ?”

“Earbuds come in pairs, one right, one left. We could listen to your audiobook together.” Our gazes weave.

“Champagne for the lovely couple.” The flight attendant appears with our drinks.

Rowan takes both glasses, and the flight attendant moves away.

“It’s not that I don’t want to talk to you about this; I just don’t want to cry. I know baggage claim isn’t goodbye, but we only have a few more hours together. I don’t want to spend it on sad things.” I take my glass from him.

“Then let’s listen to your thousand-year-old vampire fall in love with the gawky librarian.” He clinks his glass against mine.

“She’s a museum docent.” I sip my drink and tsk at him. “And don’t drink all that. That’s my second glass of liquid courage.”

He drank it but ordered me a second one after takeoff, so I forgave him quickly.

Heads pressed together and gazes linked, we lose ourselves in my audiobook and in each other.

The periodic bumps and jolts of the flight are unnoticeable from the confines of our little bubble.

His grin is wide at the cheesy bits. My hands rest on his denim-clad thigh during the tense scenes.

His fingers trace my mouth at the parts that make me smile.

Our breathing grows ragged at the sexier scenes.

Headiness sets in as we deplane. The three-and-a-half-hour flight reminiscent of a languid game of foreplay. My entire body is humming with need for this man.

Hands clasped, we walk through LAX. If JoJo hadn’t already driven from Seal Beach, I’d probably run away with Rowan. A tipsiness washes over me. It’s not the two glasses of bubbly; it’s him.

We weave through the crush of LAX passengers. No matter the date or time, it’s always disordered here, like swimming upstream against an entire school of misdirected salmon. It’s six p.m. on a Saturday and the airport buzzes with life.

Rowan pulls me close and tucks me into his side, shielding me from passersby, some who stare while others’ focus remains on their phones. I let myself melt into him.

We finally make it to baggage claim. My right eyebrow arches at the increased number of people gawking. I have enough vision to see people pointing and staring, reactions that I often get, but this is unusual. It’s brazen. It’s rude. Some people even lift their phones and snap pictures.

“What is happening?” My lips purse.

“I’m sorry.” Rowan’s tone is gruff and a little breathy as if the words sprinted out of him. His hold around me tightens. “Where’s JoJo meeting you?”

“At the carousel.” I twist and take in the scene.

A barrage of people shout Rowan’s name, bright lights flash, and the loud snapping of cameras assaults me.

My eyes squint and I grimace just a bit. “Rowan, what’s happening?”

“I’m sorry, Pen… so fucking sorry.” He lets out a heavy breath.

“What are you sorry about?” My brow puckers.

“Rowdy Rowan, who’s the girl?” someone shouts.

“Iverson, any comment about Landon Phillips being named NHL Man of the Year?” A gravelly masculine voice yells.

“Or the rumors that Landon is pressing charges against you?” Someone else chuckles.

“Fuck.” Rowan’s muttered word oozes with pain.

“Rowan, what are they talking about?” My gaze bounces around the space.

“Remember I told you about the person I punched—” he starts.

But someone cuts in, “Iverson, any truth to the rumor that Madeline Jacobson wants to trade you?”

“Pen!” JoJo calls, running towards us.

“Is that JoJo?” He squeezes my hand tight.

“Yes.” Even over this chaotic cacophony of sounds I recognize my best friend’s distinct smoky voice.

“Thank god.” He sloshes a breath.

“Rowdy Rowan, is she your new girlfriend? Is she part of your plan to clean up your image?” someone mocks.

Image? I bristle.

“Fuck off!” Rowan roars and spins towards the sound.

“Rowan!” I snap, my mouth dropping open.

Reminiscent of a galloping stallion my pulse rages. The crush-drunkenness that fizzed inside me mere moments ago sobers with confusion. My breath shallows at the rampage of shouts and camera flashes.

“What on earth?” JoJo reaches us. Her gaze drops on Rowan. “This is him? This is your Rowan,” she gapes.

“Iverson! Iverson! Who is she?” The voices grow more demanding.

My eyes widen. “Who are you?”

“Just Rowan.” He swallows thickly. “Your Rowan… At least, I hope.”

“What about Emma Sinclair, Rowan?” someone laughs.

Who’s Emma? Tears brim in my eyes.

“I’m so sorry. I should have never… I’m sorry, Pen.” He lets go of my hand and walks away. The further he slips from me, the onslaught of shouts and camera flashes and snaps quiet.

“Pen, did you know who he was?” JoJo asks, looping her arm around my shaking shoulders.

“My Rowan… At least, I thought.”