Page 13

maggie

W HOOSH!

Startling awake, I’m propelled upwards too fast to be enjoyable, my seatbelt the only thing keeping me in place. The hum of the engines and the overly dry, recycled air serve as a reminder of where I am. My heart settles as a muffled voice comes over the speakers.

“Folks, this is your Captain up here in the flight deck. We’re hitting a patch of turbulence. Should clear up shortly, but we are going to ask you to stay seated with your seatbelts on, until we hit some smoother air.”

My stomach churns, and I shut my eyes so tight I’m not sure I can ever open them again.

I am not a huge fan of flying to begin with.

I love to vacation, but that doesn’t mean I like to fly.

Just the thought of being in a giant metal tube hurtling through the air where one wrong move could cause us all to…

My shoulders fall, my body curling in on itself.

Let’s not go there. Especially since we’re having fucking turbulence .

Goddammit, I hate this. What was it Kennedy said?

You’re more likely to go in a car crash than a plane?

Great. Neither of those thoughts is exactly calming.

My body relaxes a little thinking of my sweet friend, but I hear rustling next to me and all the tension returns.

I can’t bear to peek at the mountain sitting next to me.

At the one person I hate more than anything.

Without looking, I’m sure he’s sitting there calm and cool as a cucumber, like nothing ever happened between us.

I grit my teeth. Fuck him. I can’t believe we’re sitting next to each other on this damn flight.

Hayes and Olivia have some major explaining to do.

And dammit Liv knows I can’t be pissed at her because it’s her wedding.

I stifle my groan, trying to focus on something, anything , other than the fear and annoyance of my current situation.

Why didn’t I just move my meeting and fly with everyone else?

If it wasn’t a potential side-gig that could help me get out of Lakeshore Creative, I would have cancelled.

If I’m honest, I’m glad I kept it because it went amazingly well.

It was with a local craft beer company that’s wanting to rebrand.

They started out small and did their own marketing using graphics they pulled from a ‘create your own logo’ website.

But their beer has become so popular they are opening a new location and need a more professional look to their branding.

Surprisingly, Bougie recommended they talk to me about helping them with their graphics.

Apparently, he loves their beer and is investing in their business.

God, to be independently wealthy. A spark in my gut whispers this might actually work.

This could be the start of owning my own business .

All it takes is one client to spread the word, and to get in with a company at this stage could be a real game changer.

But I’m still stuck sitting next to a giant asshole for hours. How much longer until we land? I don’t even know what time it is. How long did I doze off for? I should probably check my phone.

Peeling my eyes open just the slightest bit, I notice my tray table is pulled down and a drink with a lime sits on it, as well as a little bistro box full of snacks. Shit, are those gummy bears? My stomach grumbles. Yes!

Wait…how did this get here? Glancing at my handsome, jackass of a seatmate, he’s got his earbuds in, eyes closed and is moving his foot to the rhythm of whatever he’s listening to.

And of course, he has a short sleeved shirt on and his sexy tattoos are on display.

Memories of that night flood my mind, my legs pressing together at the thought of those inked arms pinning me down while he devoured me.

Goddammit, why does that get me so worked up?

Tapping his arm to get his attention, he takes out his earbud, his head tilting as he shifts his focus fully on me.

“What is this?” I snark, pointing to my tray table.

“Snacks and a drink,” he says stoically, as if he’s simply stating a fact.

“Yeah, I know they are. How did they get there?”

“You asked, so I got them for you. You were sleeping, snoring in fact. I figured you needed the rest, so I got what you asked for. The proper thing to say, I believe, is…how do you say this in English…oh, right. Thank you, Vladi.”

I roll my eyes, knowing he probably speaks better English than half of the American population. “‘Eat shit and die’ was more what I was thinking.”

“If you don’t want the snacks, I’ll happily take them back.”

“NO,” I say, grabbing the box and clutching it to my chest. I clear my throat, gritting my teeth as I force words I never thought I’d say after everything, “Thank you for the snacks.”

He cups his ear, leaning over the armrest. “What was that? These planes are so loud, I didn’t quite hear that.”

This motherfucker. “You heard me just fine, asshole.”

“I certainly heard asshole if that’s something you’d like to reminisce about,” he murmurs with a wink .

I can actually feel my nose flaring. Is that a thing? Pretty sure I could fit this entire snack box up there right now.

“Thank you for the snacks… Vladi …but let’s go back to not talking, okay? Let me eat these pretzels and gummy bears in peace.”

THUD!

The plane jumps up and down and my stomach does the same.

I instinctively grab the armrest, only it’s not the armrest I grab.

It’s Vladi’s hand. Fuck, I want to hold it.

I look back and forth between our hands and his face.

He flips his hand over, his palm grabbing mine, shifting his body toward me.

“We don’t have to talk, but I know you’re frightened. Hold my hand. Squeeze the ever-loving shit out of it. Dig your nails in deep. Whatever you need. Use me, lisichka I can take it. Then we’ll go back to pretending to be strangers.”

Use me? Goddammit. Why does he have to say shit like that? Especially in that sexy-as-fuck Russian accent.

I swallow and slowly nod, immediately looking out the window as he holds my hand.

Tears well, and I force them back. What is happening?

I hate him. I want him. But I’m scared as hell of this damn turbulence.

Just breathe , Maggie. It’ll be over so— The plane jerks again, and I do as he said, squeezing the shit out of his hand.

His rough, calloused hand that seems to be the perfect size to cradle mine.

A shiver runs down my spine as his thumb gently rubs along my skin, reassuring me that he’s got me.

Goddammit. He can’t do this shit. He doesn’t want a relationship, but this is very relationshipy.

No, don’t go there. Pull it together, bitch.

In this moment, he is just a random person helping you deal with your fear of flying.

Forget about the other things he can do to you with that hand.

Forget about the pleasure that hand, and the rest of him, can bring you.

Focus on the pain of waking up to an empty apartment because this jackass couldn’t deal with saying goodbye.

Focus on the fact that you have to spend a goddamn week with him, and you have to play nice.

The plane lurches again and I dig my nails into his hand. I hear him grunt just a bit, but he doesn’t move. Good. He needs to carry some of the pain he’s forced on me for months. And this is a perfect example of me putting forth a pleasant outwardly front while still torturing him.

A sliver of excitement breaks through the blanket of fear. Maybe this week will be more fun than I thought.

As soon as we get off the plane, I bolt as fast as possible away from Vladi.

The sound of a live steel drum band playing in the concourse provides a relaxing soundtrack for most of the travelers, but it’s a comically stark contrast to my chaotic weaving through the crowd and darting around corners to try and lose him in the sea of people.

But the flurry of activity does nothing to calm the pit still in my stomach from whatever the fuck happened on the plane.

He’s somehow keeping up with me and my attempted power walk through the airport.

Probably because I’m only walking fast-ish in my wedge sandals, and he’s ridiculously tall .

His 6’4”, 215 pound extremely fit frame glides through the airport like he’s on his damn skates.

Not that I’ve researched his stats extensively or have any of them memorized.

Everyone knows his career save percentage is .

914, that he has the second most career shutouts in the league, and was the leading goalie in the NHL last season.

Okay, maybe I did a little research. But any Riders fan knows he’s down there talking to the ice like a friend during the game.

And that he has a snarling wolf riding a motorcycle and a tiny little crescent moon with a heart on his goalie mask.

I peek back. They know he has that tattooed on his chest as well, right?

Gritting my teeth, I dodge around an annoyingly amorous couple.

I’m not obsessed. I’m just…collecting intel to pass off to his enemies.

Tell the opposing teams all his weaknesses.

Yep. That’s it. It’s purely for evil, nefarious purposes.

Goddammit…it’s not. As much as I hate him, secretly, my heart wants him to have everything in the world. I just wish it included me.