Page 4

Even at thirty thousand feet, crammed inside a metal box like sardines with a hundred and fifty strangers—including at least three screaming kids—surrounding us, Elliott Mitchell is the only thing I can focus on. Her long, chestnut brown hair is falling over her shoulder in loose waves that remind me of a photo she once showed me of the beautiful rock formations in Antelope Canyon, near the Arizona and Utah borders. With a loose white v-neck tee that teases a hint of her enticing cleavage, a tan jacket, a pair of designer black jeans that fit her long, lean legs like a second skin, and the pair of nude heels I’ve had one too many fantasies about, she looks like the epitome of a young professional woman.

What the world doesn’t see is the sensual, kind, loving, and teensy bit insecure Omega underneath it all—the one people seldom get a glimpse of unless you’re in her inner circle. West, Cadence, and I are the only ones who ever get those rare peeks at the real Elliott Mitchell, and I’m pretty sure even those are few and far between. The face she gives the world is one that has most men, especially Alphas, shying away from the sheer power she exudes. Most don’t understand that beneath that exterior strength is a special woman desperate for someone to see her potential more than just her designation.

But I do. I always have. Not that she has any idea, mind you.

Emerald green eyes slide up to meet mine, and for the millionth time, I’m caught staring.

“This is becoming a habit, Sy.”

Pushing my glasses up my nose, I fight the urge to fidget under her assessing look.

“What is?” I ask, praying the nerves strangling my vocal cords don’t give me away.

“That look on your face right now.”

I shake my head, searching for words that are locked behind the guilt I feel about my less-than-platonic feelings for my best friend. “Look? What look?”

“The one that clearly says you’re wishing you could tell me the truth.”

“Truth?” My voice squeaks, so I clear the panic rearing up my throat. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I know I didn’t give you much choice in this whole escort business, and I realize it’s too late now considering we’re close to our destination, but I shouldn’t have strong-armed you into coming. I’m sure you had a million other things to do. You need to learn to just tell me no.”

I let out the breath I’d trapped in my lungs, relief rushing through me. “Hey, don’t be silly. I’m more than happy to help my boss and, more importantly, my friend out when she needs me. You know that.”

She shifts in her seat, face turning away from me to stare out the small window beside her. “This is a ridiculous idea, anyway. This island isn’t a miracle cure for my serious lack of a romance gene. How’d I let West and Cadie talk me into this?”

“Don’t discount it before we’ve even arrived. Let’s go into this with a positive attitude and see if we can make the best of it, okay?”

Unsure eyes meet mine, but then the wall is back up and the confident, fearless woman makes a reappearance. “You’re right. At least we get a killer vacay out of the deal. Maybe we’ll both find hotties to scratch our itches while we’re at it.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to say that she’s the only one I want scratching my itch , preferably with those metaphorical claws of hers, but of course I don’t. That crosses the impossible-to-miss, clearly marked, friend-zone line that’s been the bane of my existence for the better part of a year. And honestly, if given the chance, I’m not sure I would take the risk anyway. She’s become important to me. The best part of my day. My last thought before I fall asleep. I’m not sure I’d ever want to do something that has the potential to destroy the little bit of happiness I glean from having her in my life, even if it’s not the way I’d prefer.

“Who knows, maybe.”

She hums, which has desire unfurling low in my belly, thinking of what that sound would feel like with her lips wrapped around my?—

“Attention, passengers, the pilot has asked that we inform everyone of a change in our flight plans. We will be diverting to Miami International Airport rather than continuing on to San Juan as Tropical Storm Berta is moving across the Caribbean, causing storm delays due to excessive wind gusts and rainy conditions. We expect to be grounded overnight with flights rebooked first thing tomorrow morning if the storm continues on its easterly trajectory. We apologize for the unexpected delay and will keep you updated on any new information as it becomes available.”

“Just fucking great,” Elle mutters under her breath.

“Need me to find us rooms for the night?”

“Already on it. Everything is fucking booked because it’s a Friday night in Miami. I’ll snatch the first rooms I can find, and we’ll just have to make it work.”

This isn’t a big deal. A quick little layover, then we’ll be on our way. Nothing to worry about.

But positive thinking can only get you so far. I realize the futility of it all two hours later when we stand in the doorway of the single hotel room Elle managed to find. Which would be fine…if there were two beds. But the Gods couldn’t be that kind to me. Instead, they offered up a single room with a queen-sized bed, not even a king, and said, Good luck, sucker.

Elle’s stare is penetrating through my alarm, so I risk a glance at her. Her face is unnaturally blank, and part of me wants to shake her to see if she’s freaking out inside as much as I am.

“At least it’s clean,” she says, her voice carefully neutral.

“And there’s a sofa.”

We stare at the piece of furniture, realizing at the same time that it’s closer to an oversized chair.

“No fucking way you’ll fit on that thing.”

“If I curl up into a ball, maybe I can?—”

Her exaggerated sigh echoes through the silent room at the same time a heavy hint of vanilla hits my nose, which is something I’ve never detected from her before. What does that mean? “We’re adults. We can share the bed. It’s only one night.”

One night. Sleeping next to the woman I’m half in love with. The one I dream about nightly before waking up with a tent in my boxers and precum wetting the cotton.

Right. No problem at all.

I nod, completely unable to find my voice. It’s already late, after nine o’clock. We’ve been traveling most of the day, neither of us have eaten, and I sure as hell could use a drink right about now.

“Want me to order us some food and drinks? Then we can call it a night and pray tomorrow is a better day?”

“Sure. I’m going to sneak a quick shower and wash off the travel ick.”

The circuits in my brain malfunction, and I ignore the urge to tap the side of my head to get them to stop fritzing.

“Got it. Go…do… that …and I’ll take care of it.”

She shoots me a narrowed-eyed glare. “What’s going on with you?”

Running my hands down my face, I exhale. “Nothing. Just tired. Go get your shower on. Food should be here by the time you’re done.”

She grabs her toiletry kit from her suitcase, along with some clothing that I pray is an oversized muumuu or full-coverage flannel pajama set, and heads through the door, closing it behind her. I stand rooted to the spot, vividly imagining what’s happening on the other side of the thin piece of wood. Her slipping out of her jacket, peeling the white shirt over her head, unbuttoning her jeans until they drop to the floor, leaving her in a lacy nude bra and panties.

The shower kicks on, startling me out of the risque fantasy involving a woman I have no business picturing naked. I force myself to swallow down the rush of desire as the scent of her—oranges with a hint of vanilla—fills the room, and I'm grateful for the distraction of my phone. Thank god for room service. Opening the hotel app, I browse the menu and place an order for more food than either of us could eat, along with a bottle of wine.

With that task out of the way, I dive into my suitcase and pull out my pair of flannel pajama pants and a worn Rolling Stones t-shirt, changing out of my dress pants and navy button down. Ignoring the sounds coming from the bathroom, I settle into the stiff chair and check boring work emails to try to get my mind off smooth skin, perky breasts, and a tight ass.

It doesn’t work.

The knock at the door startles me, and I nearly drop my phone.

Get it together, Sy.

I get up and walk toward the door, not missing the fact that the water has turned off. With practiced efficiency, the busboy wheels in the cart, setting up the trays on the tiny table next to the chair. What doesn’t fit gets placed on the bed runner, and I’m suddenly realizing I might’ve gone a bit overboard. Blame it on my hunger…albeit not the kind satisfied by food.

Slipping a tip into the young man’s hand, he heads out just as the bathroom door opens. Elle steps out, damp hair running over her bare right shoulder. I shouldn’t be staring, but how could I not? The lavender silk camisole shows off the tops of perfectly rounded breasts while the ridiculously short matching bottoms give me an impressive view of long, lean legs. Her feet are bare, her toes painted a soft pink, but it’s the little white hearts that catch my eye. I’m not sure why, but that nearly pushes me over the edge.

“Looks like you ordered enough for a small army,” she says, forcing my attention back to her face. It’s sans makeup and flushed from the heat of the shower.

She’s never looked more gorgeous.

“I couldn’t decide what I wanted, so I ordered a little bit of everything.”

Fuck. Can she hear the need in the hoarse timbre of my voice?

“Thank fuck you got wine. I could definitely use a drink.” She quickly walks past me, pours two glasses of cabernet, and offers one to me.

I’m now thinking alcohol might not be the best idea, but I accept the offered drink, watching her climb up onto the bed. The movement gives me a glimpse of one toned ass cheek before she settles in and crosses her legs. My dick starts to stir, but thankfully the clank of the metal lids has me shaking myself out of whatever fucking mess is happening in my head before there’s as unwanted tent in my pants.

Act normal, you fucking idiot!

In a matter of minutes, we’ve loaded our plates and settled into a sensible conversation about work and the column and what our first steps should be once we get to the island.

With a mouthful of french fry, she mutters, “They said there’s a mixer the first night where islanders go to mingle and meet the other sad souls that are taking part in this lame ass charade.”

My head tilts. “Why is it lame…or a charade for that matter? There are plenty of people out there who aren’t ready for a bond or even a commitment but want the intimacy that comes along with those things. I think it’s a smart, safe way to fulfill that need.”

She rolls her eyes. “What’s the big deal about intimacy ? Cuddles and nice words don’t satisfy the underlying biological need for sex.”

My mouth gapes. “Elliott Mitchell, I know you prefer your hook-ups to be wham, bam, thank you, ma’ams , but you can’t tell me you’ve never wanted to simply be held while someone whispers sweet words in your ear, or shivered when a man kisses your forehead, or wished you could cuddle into someone’s side and just exist in the same space until it feels so comfortable that a part of your soul sighs at the rightness of it all.”

Something flashes in her eyes, but it’s gone and replaced with a careless shrug before I can question it.

“Nope. I don’t see the need.”

I simply stare at the intelligent, independent, beautiful, and damned stubborn woman in front of me, surprised despite myself.

“I think you’re lying.”

The words are out of my mouth before I can rethink them. Anger flashes in her eyes, and I know, with startling clarity, that I’m in deep shit.

“Why would I lie about that?”

I take a sip of my wine, debating how much I want to push her right now. Part of me thinks she needs to be challenged if this trip is going to be a success, but the other part is terrified she’ll shut me out and it will end up being a long, insufferable week.

Fuck it. In for a penny…

“Because it makes you feel vulnerable.”

Her hand pauses halfway to her lips, a fry with a dollop of ketchup dangling from her fingers.

Her voice is practically frigid when she says, “You sound as if you know me better than I know myself, Sy. Please, why don’t you tell me everything that’s wrong with who I am and the beliefs I’ve held my entire life.”

The drop of ketchup slips off the fry, landing on her bare thigh. Without hesitation, she swipes it off with her free hand, sticks the condiment-covered digit in her mouth, and sucks it clean.

I withhold my very inappropriate groan, trying to remember what the hell she just said.

Fuck. I need to get my head on straight for this conversation.

“There’s nothing wrong with you or your beliefs, Elle. I just think sometimes it’s easier for you to shut people out than to open up and give them a tiny piece of the woman I know exists beneath that tough exterior.”

“I don’t think you know what you’re talking about.”

Gulping down the last of my wine, I pour a little more, deciding liquid courage has gotten me this far. Maybe it will save me now.

“No? I know you hung out with Cadence and West at the farm because it was a place where you felt safe and loved. I know you like malted milk when you’ve had a particularly bad day because your adoptive mom used to give that to you when you first went to live with them. I know you volunteer at a local foster agency a few times a month and call it self-care appointments on your calendar to hide it. I know that you’ve been dodging that pack in Arizona ever since Cadence’s accident because, my guess is, they got a glimpse of the real Elliott Mitchell and it freaked you out.”

She’s staring at me with wide, glassy eyes, and I’m not sure whether I should get up and hug her or run for the door because she might take that butter knife and stab me through the heart with it.

“How do you know all of that?” she whispers, her voice shaky.

Taking a deep breath in, I exhale the nerves threatening to choke me. “Because I know you .”

What I hope she doesn’t realize is that beneath my words are a slew of others.

I like you. I admire you. I think the world of you. I might just love you.