She leans in just a little more than necessary as she hands me the tray, the scent of her perfume wrapping around me, citrus and something soft I can’t place. Her fingers brush mine, light and fleeting, but enough to send a pulse straight through me.
“Enjoy your meal, Mr. Marketing,” she teases under her breath before moving to the next row.
I stare at the tray like an idiot, my heartbeat louder than the engine hum. Two years, and somehow she still knows how to disarm me with nothing more than a look and a touch.
There aren’t many people in first class five, maybe six, which is kind of the point of my journey. Planes aren’t just about getting from A to B. They’re about the lifestyle, comfort, ease, exclusivity. And if our next campaign is going to work, it has to showthat.
At least, that’s the excuse I gave myself for booking a seat up here instead of economy like usual.
My tray table still holds the remnants of my chicken salad, fork pushed aside, a few leaves left behind. It was good, or maybe I was too distracted by the flight attendant working the aisle to notice.
Brooke circles back with the drinks cart, stopping beside my row. A bottle of red wine glints in her hand. “Refill?” she asks, tipping it slightly toward my half-full glass.
“Sure,” I say, leaning back. “Though I should warn you, I’m here on official business. Market research.”
“Oh?” she says, arching an eyebrow as she pours. “And what’s the verdict so far?”
I let my gaze travel from the perfectly pressed uniform to the subtle swipe of lipstick and the easy confidence in the way she moves. “Service is… exceptional,” I say, grinning.
She rolls her eyes, but there’s the faintest flush in her cheeks. “I’ll make sure to pass that along to the crew.”
“Do,” I reply, taking a sip. “And let them know the flight attendant in 2A deserves a raise.”
“Flattery doesn’t work on me, Basen,” she teases, but she doesn’t step away either.
“Oh, I know,” I shoot back. “I was around for two years of younotlaughing at my jokes.”
Her lips twitch. “You’ve gotten better since then.”
“Or maybe,” I say, lowering my voice just a touch, “you’re just easier to impress these days.”
She leans in slightly, close enough that her perfume hits me again. “Don’t push your luck,” she murmurs, straightening up.
I smirk. “I know a thing or two about luck.”
“Do you now?” she asks, tilting her head, that familiar spark lighting up her eyes.
“Mm-hmm. And I have a feeling mine’s about to change.”
“Big talk for a guy still wearing half his lunch,” she quips, nodding at the stray piece of lettuce clinging to my sleeve.
I laugh, actually laugh as she disappears back down the aisle. But I don’t miss the way she glances over her shoulder once, twice.
Before I can even ask about dessert, another flight attendant, the one who did the safety demonstration earlier appears and leans in to say something to Brooke. She listens, nods once, and starts making her way down the aisle.
As she passes my seat, her fingers graze my forearm, a light, deliberate sweep that lingers just a second too long to be accidental. It’s nothing, really. But itfeelslike something. A whisper of touch, barely there, yet it leaves a trail of goosebumps across my skin long after she’s gone.
And then she’s gone, slipping behind the curtain into economy.
I keep waiting for her to come back. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Nothing.
I slump deeper into my seat, swirling the last of the wine in my glass.
Dammit,I think, staring at the empty aisle.I should’ve booked economy.
Chapter Two
Brooke
