Page 42

Chapter Two

A urora

Take a breath.

“Hey,” he says, his tone entirely too sexy for a random Friday afternoon on an airplane.

“Hey.”

His mischievous grin tugs at the corners of my mouth as I smile wider.

He sits, sliding his bag onto the floor. It gives me a moment to take him in—and get myself together.

A white shirt loosely hugs his torso, giving a delicious hint of the hard pecs and washboard abs that I’m sure lie beneath it. One wrist is adorned with a heavy-looking watch, and his waist is wrapped with a brown leather belt. It ties into the golden-brown blazer, highlighting his broad shoulders.

His warm, creamy cologne kisses the air as he settles into his seat.

He sits with his knees slightly apart, and they almost touch mine.

His fingers slide down his thick thighs clad in dark navy pants.

I hold myself back from letting my leg “accidentally” bump his to feel the spark I’m sure would race through my blood from the contact.

“This is the moment when I say something clever and you laugh,” he says, his gaze dancing with amusement. “But I have completely lost my train of thought.”

“Why?”

“Because I expected to sit next to someone much older and much less attractive than you.”

“ Oh okay ,” I say, my cheeks growing warm. “That’s smooth.”

“I’m glad I haven’t lost my touch.” He lets his smile linger for a long moment, and its heat curls through my veins. “I’m Tate.”

And I’m screwed—and not in the way I’d like to be right now.

“I’m Kelly,” I say, uninterested in giving this twentysomething hottie my real name—just in case. Red flags aren’t always apparent in the first two minutes. Besides, so far, he seems too good to be true. “Kelly Kapowski.”

“Kelly Kapowski, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The pilot’s voice comes through the overhead speakers, interrupting our exchange.

Tate watches me expectantly, as if he thinks I’ll be eager to reengage with him as soon as the takeoff instructions have been delivered.

While I’m not adverse to flirting with a handsome stranger, I am uninterested in sitting beside him and frothing at the mouth.

Been there, done that, and have two divorces to prove it.

I open my book and find where I left off this morning, pointedly ignoring my seatmate.

But no matter how many times I re-read the first line of the chapter, I can’t forget Tate is beside me.

I can’t let the story overtake him. Every tap of his foot and wiggle of his fingers stokes a fire in my belly—one I’m desperate to ignore.

He clears his throat, but I don’t look up. I can feel his gaze on my face, almost as if he’s willing me to lift my chin. The longer I don’t make eye contact or give him attention, the more he shifts in his seat like the silence is killing him.

“What are you reading?” he asks once we’re at cruising altitude.

“A book,” I say without looking up.

“What kind of a book? Thriller? Biography? Nonfiction?”

“It’s a romance novel.”

“What’s it about? And don’t say romance.”

I hide a smile and finally raise my gaze to his, only to catch his eyes sparkling. Good God.

“It’s about what every romance novel is about—a happy ending,” I say.

Seconds go by as my words sink into his brain. His brows lift, and a slow, sexy smile slips across his lips.

“Is that an innuendo?” he asks.

“Maybe.”

“Now I’m curious.” He glances at the book cover. “What’s the plot? Or is it just … happy endings ?”

“There are enough of both to be satisfying.”

I lift my book and try to focus on the first line once again. But I don’t get past the fifth word before he speaks.

“What are you doing?” he asks, sliding his large hands down his thighs.

Is he serious? “Reading.”

“What am I supposed to do if you’re reading?”

Oh my God . I sigh and look at him. “I don’t know. Didn’t you bring a book or work or something?”

“Sure. But I’d rather talk to you.” He smiles broadly, as if this angle of attack usually works. “So are you going home to Columbus or visiting?”

I contemplate not answering him and sticking my nose back in my book. But he will poke at me until I cave … and I will cave. Being flirted with by him is a bit of an ego boost, whether he’s seriously flirting with me or not.

“I’m going for work,” I say, closing my novel.

He folds his hands on his lap, looking far too pleased with himself. Cheeky fucker.

“Same,” he says. “What do you do for work?”

“I just started a new job. We’re crafting a new marketing position, so there isn’t an official title yet. What about you?”

“On paper, I’m the director of operations for an investment firm. But I’m really the guy who cleans up messes my boss isn’t good enough to fix.”

“There are worse things you could do for a paycheck. At least he sends you first class, right?”

“I suppose that’s true,” he says, smiling as if there’s a joke I don’t understand. “He’s just a prick and sends me everywhere he doesn’t want to go himself.”

“No offense, but I think that’s just what bosses do.”

“Whose side are you on, Kelly Kapowski?”

I fight a giggle at the name and his obliviousness to it. “I’m not on anyone’s side. I’m just the casual, neutral observer. But if he’s such a prick, have you considered looking for another job?”

“I can’t. It’s complicated.”

What’s that supposed to mean? “What about asking him for a transfer? Tell him you feel stagnant, and your creative juices could be used better in a new position. Anyone in management should appreciate your honesty. Besides, you perform best when doing something you want to do.”

His eyes sweep the length of my body. “You’re right. When I do what I want, my performance is unbeatable.”

Oh my God. My heart flutters wildly as I absorb the heat in his gaze. That line has several solid comebacks, but for the life of me, I can’t think of one.

“On a serious note,” he says, “if I tell anyone I can use my creative juices in a new position , it won’t be my boss.”

I laugh. “Okay, maybe you shouldn’t use that phrase at all. Juices aren’t very sexy.”

“That’s a matter of opinion.”

“I’d challenge you to use juices in a sentence and make it sexy, but now probably isn’t the right time.” I glance up at the flight attendant, waiting for our drink order. “Another water for me, please.”

“Me, too. Thank you.” Tate throws her for a loop with his smile before returning to me. “I’ll take up that challenge when we have more privacy. But, for now, back to romance novels. Do you always read them, or is this a one-off?”

“A one-off?” I gasp in faux horror. “I’m firmly in my romance era, thank you very much.”

“Aren’t women always in their romance era?”

“All of the ones who want a happy ending,” I say with a wink.

“There are places besides romance novels to get those, you know.”

“Yes, and half of the places that advertise them lie.”

He lifts a brow and smirks. “There are still half who deliver beyond expectations.”

“And they always believe their product is the best on the market, so it costs too much to be worth the risk.”

He leans toward me, his eyes shifting from blue to green so wildly that it’s impossible to look away. “I happen to know of a happy ending free trial going on this weekend.”

I burst out laughing, pulling away from him.

I take my new drink from the flight attendant and hand her my original water glass, making a concerted effort not to touch Tate.

Although I’m sure he’s just playing with me, this back-and-forth is just what I need.

I haven’t admitted it to Jamie or anyone, for that matter, but I’ve been a little scared about the whole dating thing.

It’s been so long since I’ve done it, and my experience is so little to begin with.

It’s only been a few weeks since the official end of my marriage, and I’ve felt a little frozen.

But this conversation with Tate? The ice is melting away.

“I didn’t see a wedding ring,” he says. “Does that mean there’s no Mr. Kapowski?”

I laugh. “Is that your slick way of asking if I’m married?”

He takes a drink, watching me over the rim. “I just want to know if I have any competition.”

“Competition? For what?”

“For you.”

This charming bastard. “You are so full of shit.”

“Am I?”

I take a long drink, giving my heart a chance to stop pounding against my ribs.

“Think about it,” he says. “You’re in your romance era. I’m in my bored era. We’re both just people looking for happy endings.”

“Your bored era ?” I snort-laugh. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means I’m bored. Dating has lost its luster. It’s the same routine over and over, and I’m tired of it. I’m ready for something real.”

My heart swells at his response even though I’m not entirely convinced it’s an honest answer.

Maybe I’m cynical, but it’s hard to believe that a man like him wants to settle down.

He’s gorgeous, young, and undoubtedly has his pick of women.

He can’t make me believe he’s looking to settle down. I call bullshit.

I narrow my eyes skeptically.

“My friends are all married and having kids,” he says. “I’m quickly becoming the fun uncle who shows up on birthdays and holidays with loud, messy presents.”

I laugh. “I feel your pain on that one. My friends are having children now, and I’m the fun auntie.”

“Do you want kids?”

Do I want kids? Startled, I take another drink. That question is very personal and not fully straightforward. I’m not willing to discuss it with a random man on a plane.

“I’ll just say that I spent more time at home working on my cozy-girl persona than I do trying to pick up a man to make babies with,” I say.

“Like you have a hard time picking up men. Come on.”

I pull my sweater onto my shoulders before snuggling into the seat. “Picking up a man and picking up a man I’d have children with are two very different things.”

He nods as he processes that. “Fair. Now, what’s a cozy-girl persona?”

“Why are you asking so many questions?”

“How else do I get to know you?”

“You don’t.”

“Why not?”

I laugh, amused. “Because it doesn’t matter. We’re going to land in a bit, and you’ll never see me again, so why bother trying to get to know the nuts and bolts of my life?”

“Women typically love to tell me all about themselves,” he says curiously. “I’m not sure what the problem is here.”

I lean against the console separating us, holding his gaze. “I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that most of the women you’re referring to are about your age.”

He shrugs noncommittally.

“And that would be the problem,” I say.

“I don’t understand.”

I smile. “The women you typically engage with are at one stage of life, and I am at another. They’re in their twenties and have energy to toss around.

On the other hand, I’m just looking forward to getting to my hotel and having dinner at this cute little restaurant called Ruma inside the hotel, if I can get in, before going to my room, lighting a candle, and taking a hot bath. ” I shrug. “We aren’t the same.”

“But you still want to have dinner with me tonight, right?”

I laugh, sitting back again as the pilot’s voice crackles through the speakers. He welcomes us to Columbus and gives us the time and temperature. The flight attendant walks by, ensuring we’re buckled, and takes our drinks and napkins.

“You didn’t answer me,” he says.

My stomach swirls, and I make a concerted effort to breathe smoothly. His question—so direct and pointed—catches me off guard. Does he really want to see me tonight?

He watches me closely, making it clear that he’s dead serious. There’s no laugh, no smirk. He doesn’t flinch. He simply waits for my response.

I shift in my seat as my mind races. His offer is a nice boost to my confidence, which I appreciate. But as I notice every woman in our vicinity keeps stealing glances at him and soak in just how handsome he is, reality settles in.

Nothing good can come out of this.

At best, I see him for dinner. At worst, I give him my number, and he never calls. Either way, I don’t want to be in my hotel room tonight wondering if the phone will ring.

It took me eighteen months to end that kind of situation the last time, and I have no interest in repeating it anytime soon—or ever. Besides, this weekend is about work. I need to focus on that.

“I don’t typically set up dinner dates with men I’ve only just met on planes,” I say. “Sorry.”

“What are the requirements then?”

Huh? “What do you mean?”

“Tell me what I need to do to see you tonight.”

His features change, morphing into the serious businessman who boarded the plane. The glimmer in his eyes is intense. The lines on his forehead pull together as if he’s closing a deal. Only … I’m the deal this time.

The plane descends from the sky and lands smoothly onto the runway. I grip the armrests and hold tight until we come to a crawl. The roar of the engines blocks any opportunity to chat, and I’m grateful for that. It’ll end the conversation organically.

The plane comes to a standstill, and the lights flicker on. Passengers stand and gather their things. But Tate? He remains sitting and facing me.

“I really want to see you again, Kelly.”

My stomach flutters. His determination is sexy, and being the object of his attention is heady. If this were another time and place … But it’s not.

I drag my eyes across his stubbled jaw, over those kissable lips, and along the length of his body.

“I don’t have time,” I say although that’s not entirely true. “I have dinner plans tonight, work all day tomorrow, and then I’m back on a flight home. Thank you, though. You’re good for my ego.”

He holds my gaze for a long moment. Then he stands and lifts his bag off the floor before turning to me. “Until we meet again, Miss Kapowski.”

He flashes me one final cocky smile that I feel in my core before disappearing into the throng of people shuffling off the plane. I watch him as he goes, both elated at the attention and frustrated all the same.

Turning down what might be the hottest man I’ve ever seen in the flesh while living in a state of sexual deprivation deserves a gold medal.

“I really want to see you again, Kelly.”

I giggle, shoving my book in my bag.

At least I still got it. Or, at least, Kelly does.