Page 32

Magnolia Sebring

The sleek white jet waits for us on the tarmac. “Seriously? You won’t tell me?”

Alex looks at me like he’s keeping the world’s best secret locked behind that smug, gorgeous smirk. “Not yet.”

He’s wearing gray joggers and a black long-sleeve tee, sleeves pushed up, sunglasses tucked in the neck—annoyingly casual for someone who’s whisking me onto a private chartered plane without giving me a single clue about where we’re going.

He leans in, his voice brushing against my ear. “The only thing I’m telling you is that we’re both joining the mile-high club on this flight.”

My stomach flutters. “You should come with a warning label.”

“Hey, you’re the one who married me,” he says, unremorseful.

“Tell me this trip doesn’t involve bugs, survival skills, or Naked and Afraid energy.”

“Only the naked part, the kind that comes with full-body workouts and no safe words. But if we’re being honest, I think you should be a little afraid.” Alex looks down and lifts a brow, nodding toward his groin. “Your friend’s not planning to take any days off.”

I arch a brow and flick my eyes downward. “Yeah, he’s a real workaholic, isn’t he? Always clocked in and ready for work.”

Alex chuckles, low and smug. “Can’t help it. He loves his job.”

“He sure does.”

Alex’s voice dips, grazing the shell of my ear. “You keep staring at me that way, and he’ll be working late.”

“Hope he packed electrolytes and a recovery plan—this honeymoon isn’t for the weak.”

“Oh damn… I have been waiting for this.”

“Have you now?”

“Yeah, ever since the night I told you my real name. Favorite, I knew I was going to marry the fuck out of you someday.”

His laugh rumbles through me, and for a second, I forget we’re standing in front of a jet waiting to take us to some unnamed place.

I glance toward the sleek chartered plane, and back at him. “You’re not giving me anything? Not even a continent?”

He grins, shaking his head, so damn pleased with himself, and driving me mad.

I trust him more than anyone on this earth, but I also prefer being in control.

Knowing things. Planning outfits. And he’s denied me all of that in the name of our surprise honeymoon adventure.

There’s only one thing I know for certain: based on the size of this jet, the man is about to drag me halfway across the globe.

It’s twice the size of the one that shuttled me between Charleston and Dallas. It’s a little over-the-top.

“I’ll tell you this much. We have four stops,” he says as we climb the steps.

I stop, glancing back at him. “ Four ?”

He grins. “A week at each destination. A month of celebrating us. No schedules. No obligations. Just being together in some very special places.”

I pause at the top of the stairs, looking back one last time. Goodbye, Samoa… until next time.

“Don’t be sad, babe. We’ll come back soon.”

“I know.”

The jet’s door closes, and he gives me a look that makes every nerve in my body go still and alive at the same time. “You’ve seen my fire. Time to meet my frost.”

“What does that mean?”

He tips my chin up so my eyes meet his. “You’ll see soon enough, Mrs. Sebring.”

You’ve seen my fire. Time to meet my frost.

Sweden? I think so.

His hands slide over my hips with practiced ease, sending my pulse into a climb higher than this plane when we take off. And I don’t ask again where we’re headed next. Because it doesn’t matter. I would go anywhere with this man.

Somewhere near the cockpit, I hear the low voice of the attendant.

Alex leans in. “I’ll be right back.”

He approaches the attendant. His voice is too low for me to catch what he says, and his expression is unreadable from this angle. She nods once, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, and disappears behind the curtain.

He returns, that wicked glint in his eye now dialed all the way up, settling into the seat beside me with that maddening calm he wears too well. He leans in. “I told her to bring our meals sooner rather than later because we will require privacy after we move to the bedroom.”

I twist in my seat. “There’s a bedroom back there?”

He grins. “Oh yeah. We’re going to be in the air for a while. The private bedroom is why I picked this jet. I’ll give you a tour later.”

Right on cue, the pilot’s voice comes over the speaker. “We’ve reached cruising altitude, so you’re free to move about the cabin.”

I turn back to Alex. “How many hours are we on this plane?”

“Around twenty in the air plus refueling time.”

My brows lift. “Mr. Sebring, where in the world are you taking me?”

He shrugs, pleased with himself. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Hours slip by in a quiet haze—laughter low, fingers tangled, the soft hum of engines lulling us into that strange between-time that only happens in the air. We sip drinks, graze on small plates, drift between easy conversation and the kind of silence that feels like belonging.

Beyond the windows, night eventually arrives. No stars. Only a velvet sky cut by the faint glow of distant cities far below. The sun gone, he takes my hand and brings it to his mouth for a kiss. “Come with me, love.”

He leads me toward the back where the dim cabin lights give way to a darker, quieter kind of luxury. The space opens into something intimate—a bed dressed in ivory linen pooling around the edges.

He glances at me with that expression—a quiet command written in the curve of his mouth, the heat in his eyes—and I follow his silent directions.

The bed is buttery soft beneath me as he eases me down, his movements unhurried but purposeful. Every touch is a promise, every breath a prelude.

There’s no rush. No urgency—only the steady drum of altitude, the hush of the surrounding cabin, and the sure weight of his body settling over mine.

He lifts my hoodie—which is his hoodie—and peels it off, letting it fall between us in a soft heap. My tank clings to my skin, thin and useless against the cool cabin air. But I don’t feel the chill––not with his warm hands on me and his mouth is even warmer.

He presses kisses to the place beneath my jaw, trailing heat down my neck, across my collarbone, to the place where my breath stalls. When his lips find the space over my heart, he lingers there for a moment, and I curl my fingers into his hair.

When I tug at the hem of his shirt, he pulls back long enough to slip it off. My hands roam over warm skin and familiar ink, tracing the curve of his ribs, the line of muscle that tightens when I graze my thumb across his side.

“We’re married, Alex.”

He meets my eyes, his expression soft. “Yes, favorite. We are very married.”

I told him once that if I ever got married, I wanted to be very married. No halfway, no hesitations. And now, looking at him, hearing those words in his voice… I know it’s come full circle.

He lowers his body to mine, slowly, until there’s no space left between us. When our bodies finally join, we slip into something that’s always belonged to us.

Every inch he moves is deliberate, dragging out the ache, the want. And when he presses into me, the rhythm we find is slow and deliberate.

I touch his cheek, and our eyes stay locked through it. There’s no veil between us. No holding back.

His hand slides along my side, settling low at my back, holding me to him. And I hold on to him just as tightly.

When we reach that quiet, breathless peak together, it doesn’t explode. It unfurls. Expands. Washes over us like something sacred.

We stay that way, unmoving, for a while. Breathing the same air. Letting our hearts settle against each other. My fingers trace the curve of his shoulder, the space between his ribs.

He shifts enough to press his forehead to mine. And in this moment—thousands of feet above the earth, with nothing but sky around us and a future ahead—his heartbeat is the only compass I need. And it’s pointing me home.

The hum of the engines and the warmth of his body lull me to sleep, and I curl against him somewhere over the ocean. I don’t know how long I’m out, but I wake to his voice. “Time to wake up. We’re landing soon. You need to bundle up, babe.”

Bundle up?

I stretch, rubbing my eyes. “I didn’t pack for cold weather.”

He grins. “Don’t worry. Violet took care of everything. She packed you a winter boutique.”

Outside the jet’s small window, the world is a different color—blue-gray skies and whitewashed earth.

Thick snow drapes the trees in the distance.

The tarmac glistens, slick with frost and morning light.

We descend the steps, and my boots crunch the packed snow beneath us while my breath fogs in the air.

The driver greets us in soft Swedish, and Alex responds in a language I’ve never heard him use before. That’s when I realize this is more than a random place on a map. This is the other part of him.

“Welcome to Sweden, favorite.”

The drive from the airport winds through a blur of evergreens and snow-draped hills, the city fading behind us. Everything grows quieter. Peaceful.

By the time we reach the cabin, my body has no idea what day it is. Somewhere over the Atlantic, I lost track of time—nights and days twisted into one long blur.

Outside, the sky is turning that deep Scandinavian indigo. A heavy hush blankets the landscape—trees, ground, roof—all tucked under snow. The tires crunch over the frozen drive as we pull up to the cabin.

But it’s more than a cabin. It’s a glass-topped secret tucked into the woods, with tall black-framed windows.

Inside, the floors are heated. I slip off my boots and wiggle my toes, letting the warmth chase the cold from my bones.

My breath still fogs near the door, but the rest of me begins to thaw.

I pad barefoot across the soft rug while Alex carries our bags.