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Paige

N Y socialite Paige D’Angelo spotted at JFK airport. Sources say she’s on the run, but if they know why, they’re not talking.

If running away from your problems was a crime then I’d say… Lock. Me. Up. I’m as guilty as they come. But it’s okay, because I look damn good in orange.

Luckily, I also look good in my comfy travel pants and sneakers that I specifically put on because I thought I was being stealthy, sneaking into the airport unnoticed.

I was dead wrong. I’ve already found four different photos of myself online, all with similar headlines.

It’s only now that I’m settled in the lounge that I can relax. I hope . You never know who’s lurking around the corner, waiting for their chance to make a dollar.

Taking a deep breath, I pull out my book and make myself comfortable, tapping my foot as though it’ll speed up time.

I’m early.

And I’m never early. I’m that friend you give a fake start time to, an hour ahead of schedule, knowing I’m always late. But I’m here now, two hours before my flight, because I’m desperate to get out of this state. Hell, if I could leave the country for a while, I’d do it. If I didn’t think my mom would cut me off. She already threatened to write me out of her will simply because I was moving to California.

Not that it would matter. Much .

I may have been born with a silver spoon in my mouth, but I’ve always worked hard for my money. From a young age, my parents were sure to instill the value of every dollar. Dad came from a modest income family and worked his ass off to build his business. Mom came from one of New York City’s wealthiest families and yet she always had a job and made my dad pay back every cent she ever loaned him. Which wasn’t much to begin with. My brother and I used to joke that Mom and her family were only wealthy because they Scrooged their money away. That was until we were old enough to realize we never went without. We were always dressed in the latest fashion, always had the most up-to-date technology. Whatever we wanted we got. But the second we started acting like the spoiled brats that we were, the money disappeared.

And because of that, I made sure to forge my own path. I may not be a self-made billionaire. Or even a millionaire for that matter. But if my family wealth was to suddenly dry up, I’d get by. Comfortably. And I’m proud of that notion.

When I’m almost certain no one is watching me, I relax into my latest read, and after I’ve been reading for an hour, my phone buzzes with a text from my dad, making me smile.

Daddio: You know I trust you completely, but please put your old man at ease and let me know you’re on your way to the airport. Your flight leaves in a little over an hour

He thinks he knows me so well, but I’m a changed woman.

I had to be.

Paige: I’m in the lounge with a coffee and a book. If you need photo evidence, I’m sure the Internet will provide

I’d laugh at my own joke, only I’m not sure that it is one. But it will make my dad smile. He’s been making headlines almost as much as I have lately.

Daddio: I’ll have a car waiting for you when you land. Love you, Kid

I don’t respond because I’m not big on “love yous.” Not yet anyway. And he won’t be expecting a reply, so I’m safe.

Dad and I haven’t always gotten along. I wasn’t a huge fan of him putting work ahead of his family, and took Mom’s side when they divorced. But over the last few years, things have been better, and now—after a few months of him asking me—I’m moving across the country to live with him.

It’s going to be interesting to say the least, but the timing feels right. I’m ready for a new adventure, and I’m ready to take a break from my New York City life.

It’s time to give California a go.

I toss my phone on top of my bag, and it lights up again with another text.

Airline Announcements: Your flight has been delayed. Your revised flight departure time is 11:05

Goddammit . Another hour to wait. If I’d been late as usual, I wouldn’t be stuck here for as long.

Blowing out a breath, I stretch my arms out in front of me and scrunch my nose. I’m about to start reading again when an attendant stops to collect my empty glass and I smile. “Don’t suppose you know any way I can kill a couple of hours? My flight’s been delayed.”

I roll my shoulders as I speak and her eyes zero in on it.

“You could go for a massage,” she says, pointing to where I’ve just grabbed my neck, making me pause as my eyes light up in anticipation.

“You wonderful human, you. Thank you. That’s perfect. May you always be blessed with green lights when you’re running late.”

The attendant laughs as I jump up and grab my bag. A massage. Why didn’t I think of that? I smile as I pass and walk toward the front doors, a bounce in my step until she calls out.

“Miss, wait.” I turn and she winces as she points behind her. “It’s that way.”

“Of course. Thank you.” I would probably know that if I wasn’t always running late for my flights. I never get time to use the facilities here. Which is a shame because then I would have known that everyone on my flight was going to have the same idea. By the time I arrive at the day spa, there are at least ten people in front of me. Not that I let it derail my happiness. I have time and I’m getting a massage.

How can I not? It’s the perfect way to begin my new life.

M y body may be well and truly relaxed, but I am not feeling the zen. I lost track of time as I waited for my massage, and when they called me in, I followed without question. I was beyond ready to rid myself of the built-up tension I’d been stockpiling over the past few weeks. And now, as if to remind me that I am still in fact the same Paige D’Angelo that I was yesterday, I’m late.

“Sorry.” I rush through the hall, expecting to be greeted by a bunch of angry expressions as I board the plane, but instead, I’m blessed with smiles.

“Welcome, Miss D’Angelo. Please take your seat and we’ll be with you shortly to offer some refreshments.”

I smile and nod, graciously thanking them as relief fills me. But the second I locate my seat—already occupied—the smile fades and I internally groan. If I ever needed proof that being early sucks, here’s exhibit A. If I was late, I wouldn’t have thought to get that damn massage.

I move slowly down the aisle and pause next to the first class seat assigned to me.

The man who’s laid claim to my sanctuary for the next seven hours doesn’t look up as I loom over him, his bald head reflecting the cabin lights into my eyes.

Tapping my foot, I clear my throat, but he continues his laser focused stare on the screen of his phone, reading what looks to be emails.

My eyes flicker to the man seated by the window seat beside him, but he too is ignoring me. I blow out an audible breath just as the window seat guy flexes his hand, drawing my attention to the veins in his forearms, and… Hello, hottie . My gaze momentarily shifts to his face shadowed by his baseball cap, pulled low, to see his rigid jaw tighten as his lips purse. Like the bald guy beside him, he has his eyes on his phone, and it’s safe to assume that he’s not happy about whatever he just read.

But I’m choosing to pretend he’s angry on my behalf, and it makes my next move easier.

“Excuse me.” I gently tap the bald man's shoulder. “I’m really sorry, but you’re in my seat.”

I sense the window-seat hottie glancing up, but before I get the chance to look his way, he huffs and goes back to his phone. Meanwhile, I don’t even get an eye roll from the guy whose attention I actually seek.

“I know it’s annoying,” I continue, taking a sympathetic approach. “I’m not sure what happened, but my ticket says—”

“All the seats are the same, Miss ,” he snaps, finally looking up at me. “Just sit somewhere else .” He waves a hand before wriggling to make himself comfortable, hitting me with a patronizing smirk.

Oh-kay.

I make a show of searching the cabin, but he couldn’t be more wrong. “The only free seat is a window and I purposely booked an aisle.” And as an added bonus, I happen to be very partial to attractive forearms, so this seat is a must. There’s no way I’m moving.

I toss him a sarcastic smirk of my own, but he doesn’t even flinch.

“Look, Miss. I—”

“Hey man, I get it,” window-seat hottie cuts in, and I frown. “You’re settled and comfortable,” he adds while the guy in my seat widens his smirk, only for it to drop from his face in an instant as the man beside him continues, “but be a goddamn gentleman and get the hell out of the lady’s seat.”

His eyes widen along with mine, but instead of arguing, he undoes his belt and makes a show of grabbing his things, muttering something about famous people.

He stands, and while I’ve left plenty of room to let him past, he purposely knocks into me, grunting as though it’s my fault.

“Ex—”

“Hey asshole.” Window guy snaps, his body half out of his seat, ready to get up. “What the fuck are you doing?”

The bald guy holds his hands above his head and scoffs, showing no remorse. “Leave it alone. It was an accident.”

My eyes bounce between the two of them in a standoff as my heart races. I’m about to change my mind and walk away when a flight attendant joins us. “Everything okay here? We need you to take your seats.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do,” bald guy curses under his breath before walking the three steps it takes to get him to what was presumably his assigned row, knocking the person next to him as he pushes past to the window.

I smile at the flight attendant as she walks away, shoving my bag into the overhead locker before sitting down.

“Thank you for that.” I turn to look at the guy beside me. “I really appreciate your help.” Armed with a smile that’s clearly fake, he glances my way and holy shit… His forearms are merely an appetizer for the delicious meal that this man is. If looks could kill then I would happily take my last breath for the panty-melting blue gaze that's staring back at me.

And his beard. My God. I’ve always focused my energy on clean-cut suit guys, and I fear I’ve been missing out.

“What?” he grunts, snapping me out of my ogling as I straighten uncomfortably in my seat.

“I was thanking you.” I smile again, but it does nothing to melt his icy stare.

“Don’t mention it.” He looks away and I pout at the loss of my view, but when I’m offered a white wine, all is good in the world again.

Until the plane taxis on the runway and my body tenses.

No matter how many times I fly, I will never be comfortable with it. I wouldn’t say it’s a fear, but my nervous system does not like it. At all.

Curling my fingers over the end of the armrests, I grip tightly but try to remain calm. Taking a deep breath, I lock my legs so they don’t bounce, but the second we speed up, I lose control, gritting my teeth in annoyance.

“Are you okay?” I hear from beside me and freeze, assuming I imagined it. Though sure enough, when I chance a sidewards glance, window-seat hottie is staring back at me.

“Oh. Yep,” I lie. “I’m good, thanks.” But you’re going to regret asking me that because you just became my distraction. “How about you?”

“I’m fine.” He frowns but before he has the chance to turn away again, I rush out another question.

“Are you on your way somewhere or on your way home?”

He pauses as though my question confuses him, or perhaps he’s deciding whether or not to engage in my chitchat. Either way, after the longest beat, he sighs. “Home.”

“Nice. Me too. Sort of.” It’s about to become my home. “Business or pleasure?” I ask next and he sighs even louder.

“You don’t have to do that.” He stares at me blankly with a slight shake of his head. “In fact, I’d prefer that you didn’t.”

“Do what?”

“Make small talk because I helped you. You don’t owe me anything.”

I frown until a small laugh escapes me. “That’s not what this is.”

“Ohh-kay.”

“It’s not. I promise.” I laugh again and grimace. “I talk a lot when I’m nervous, and flying always makes me nervous. Add to that I’m moving away from New York for the first time and I’m a ball of stress. A stress ball. But not the useful kind that you can squeeze to make yourself feel better. Nooo. This stress ball will only make you feel worse when I slap you in the face for inappropriate touching.”

“The fuck .”

“Sorry.” I shrug, not really sorry at all. “It’s—”

“The nerves. I get it. Do you know what helps with my nerves?”

I smile and a giddy feeling wells up inside me. He wants to help. “No. What?”

“Talking to myself. In my head. In silence.”

“Really? That—” I cut myself off, briefly closing my eyes as I snort. He’s joking. Actually, he’s not joking. He’s telling me to shut the hell up. “Noted. I’ll give it a try.”

I bite back a smile and turn to face the front of the plane, grabbing the airline magazine from the pocket, mindlessly flicking through the pages.

I try hard to stay still, but before long, my legs are bouncing while I tap my fingers on my knees, and barely a minute passes before my window-seat hottie groans.

“Okay. Fine. I’ll bite.”

“What?”

“Are you traveling for business or pleasure?”

Huh ? My brows furrow, but with his arresting gaze boring into mine, waiting for a response, I don’t question him again. “ Neither . I’m moving to California for…a change of scenery. What about you?”

“I was visiting a friend.” He’s quick to answer, and it’s safe to say that small talk is not his thing.

“Visiting a friend,” I repeat. “In New York? I wonder if I know them.” He stares at me deadpan as if to say “seriously” and I laugh. “What? It’s possible.”

“I was in Scotland. This is my connecting flight.”

He speaks with no emotion while my eyes light up. “Scotland? Wow . I’ve never been but I hear it’s beautiful.” I smile and picture the vast green landscape I’ve seen in movies, until a shiver runs through me when I think of the weather. “It's cold, right? Was it cold?”

“It was fine.”

“Fine?”

“If it was cold, I didn’t notice.” Interesting response.

“What sights did you see? Anything you’d recommend?”

Window hottie tenses and the frustration is clear in his posture, but he releases a breath and continues amusing me. “I spent the week breaking shit.”

“Breaking shit?” My voice rises, giving away my excitement at that prospect. I would love to break shit right now.

“Yep. It was needed.”

“In Scotland?”

“Yep,” he repeats, popping the p , and I find myself watching his lips until they purse, snapping me out of it. Again.

“You know you can do that here, right?” I know that because I’ve done it. Maybe it’s time to do it again.

“Break shit? I do. My ex does it all the time.”

His ex what? Oooh. I laugh out loud though I’m not sure he meant that to be funny. “I meant you could break shit for a release. Assuming that’s what you were doing. You know… You could crush a truck, smash a glass, destroy dinnerware.”

“Destroy dinnerware?” He raises an eyebrow and frowns. “Like a plate?”

“Sure. Or a bowl.” I shrug and I think I see the hint of a smile, but I don’t draw attention to it, though a small part of me makes it my mission to see a full-on grin before we land.

“As I said…my ex was good at that.”

“ Wait . I thought you meant that metaphorically. Like she breaks hearts or promises.”

My new friend huffs out the smallest of laughs—if you could even call it that—and folds his arms over his chest, leaning back into his seat to create some distance between us.

“Nope.” He gives me nothing else, so I quickly move on.

“I find it’s better to do it in a controlled environment,” I say though I’m not sure he cares.

“That’s definitely a wiser move,” he humors me by answering. “Tell me. Have you ever destroyed dinnerware?”

“No.”

“I see.”

“I smashed a truck,” I deadpan, staring into his eyes, trying not to smile.

My response catches him off guard, and I hold my breath as his lips curl into a genuine smile. Yes . I knew I could do it. Biting back my victorious laugh, I raise a brow and wait for his response.

“A truck? Was that in a controlled environment? Or did you take a baseball bat to an ex’s pride and joy?”

I burst out laughing until the image of that works its way into my mind and my happiness fades. If only.

“I wish it was option B. God knows he deserves it. But alas,”—I put on a grin—“it was option A. And let me tell you, it’s incredibly satisfying. But I guess you know that already. What did you destroy? Do you have any photos?”

“Photos?”

“Of your wake of destruction?”

“Ah. No. I’m not really a photo guy. Do you have photos?”

“Of the truck? Definitely. Loads of them. Sometimes I look at them to remember that high. It’s only second to…” I trail off. While it doesn’t seem like the gorgeous man beside me has any idea who I am, I’d prefer not to get too personal. Instead, my gaze moves to the food cart as it makes its way toward us. “Thank God. I’m starving. What about you? I’ll bet, being the big guy that you are, you’re always hungry. Am I right?” He stares at me like I’m crazy, and I’m confused until I replay what I said, barking out a laugh. “Never mind. I didn’t mean that as a negative—”

“It’s fine.” He reaches out toward me but then seemingly changes his mind. “I didn’t take it the wrong way. And you’re right. I’m often hungry.”

“Good. How about I grab us lunch?” I joke, bouncing my eyebrows, hoping for another smile. But instead, I get a quasi-nod snort huff thing which I think might be a suppressed laugh. Either way, I take it as a win.