“What? You don’t ask, you don’t get! The plane isn’t even fully booked!” he protests, pointing to the two remaining unoccupied business-class seats as I shove him down the aisle towardeconomy. I glance over my shoulder, shooting an apologetic look at the line of disgruntled passengers waiting behind us.
The flight attendants tuck carry-on bags into the overhead lockers as the low hum of the airplane provides a meditative background noise. My chest deflates as I relax into my cramped seat; at least after the chaos of the past three days, I can use this time to go over the plan for Paris.
“Welcome, folks, to the British Airways flight 796 from Rome to London City Airport. I’ll be your captain, John, and we have Patricia and Jasper on board as your flight attendants for this relatively short flight from Rome. There may be a small amount of turbulence due to some heavy cloud coverage, so please make sure to keep your seat belts fastened whenever you are in your seats. For our passengers in business class, we have a selection of...”
Movement among the air stewards catches my attention, and all the noise in the cabin goes quiet as Dominic Odericco steps onto the plane. He doesn’t make eye contact with anyone while gliding through the cabin. He is swiftly followed by his assistant, a tall, handsome, tousled brunette whom I last saw almost naked last night.
Eyes wide, I slump down in my seat, praying to the aeronautical gods that they aren’t seated anywhere near us. Watching them through the gap between blue patterned chairs in front, I quickly realize that, of course, they are seated up front in business class.
“Why is your face so red?” I hear Spencer’s voice permeate the radio silence in my brain.
I turn to face my brother. “It’s not.”
“You’re beet red,” he says so loud a woman across the aisle looks over to inspect me too, turning my face even hotter.
Spencer finally spots the source of my discomfort. “Oh, look, it’s Dominic. We should go say hi.” He stands up, trying to squeeze past me.
I pull him back down into his seat with a thud. “If you make us known to them, I will throw you out of this plane at peak altitude.”
“Them?” He looks at me with a sly smile. “Oh.” The occasional twin telepathy thing kicks in when I need it least. “What did you do?”
“I didn’t doanything.” I crack open my complimentary bottle of water to try and bring my internal mortification-ometer down. “Okay, fine, I may have ended up in that guy’s room last night.” I take a nonchalant sip.
Spencer gives me the look, the same look Dad gave both of us after we’d smoked cigarettes for the first time at a party and came home stinking of it.
“Are you serious?” He smacks me with a rolled-up sky magazine. “Who?”
I subtly point at Oliver, who is setting up his laptop for the flight. “That guy.” Oliver turns to talk to Dominic, accentuating his dark tousled hair and soft lips. The butterflies in my stomach take flight as I remember that mouth on me.
“Ohhhhh, the hot assistant? Nice,” he says loudly, causing several more people to turn around in their seats. “When did you have time to shag him?”
I widen my eyes at Spencer, creeping farther down in my seat and smiling politely at the elderly woman opposite me. “Screaming baboons have more tact than you. We didn’tactuallyhave sex, but it doesn’t matter because it’s never happening again.”
Spencer arches a brow. “Why? Was it bad?”
I swallow the dryness in my throat from either a light hangover or pure humiliation. “It definitely wasn’t bad...” My thoughts briefly drift back to my hands gripping his hair in the shower, and my legs turn to jelly. “But it can’t happen again because I’m a professional, and even just a casual situation would be way too complicated to take on right now.” I throw my hands out and away from each other to emphasize my point.
He shifts in his seat to face me. “Yeah, but if he fancies you, and you fancy him, how is that complicated?”
“He’s Dominic’s assistant. He’s a conflict of interest.”
“Forbidden fruit, some might say.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me as he slides on his headphones. “Hard to resist a ripe, juicy plum.” He pops his lips on thep.
“Ew.” I roll my eyes and put my headphones on too, clicking play on the most recent Dr. Bernie podcast episode.
We sit in silence for half an hour as the plane takes off, the seat belt signs go dark, and the stewards have brought a glass of orange juice and a snack to all the passengers. Eventually, Spencer starts poking me in the arm.
He blinks at me, eyes wide in hope. “Can I have your pretzels?”
“No.” The packet crinkles as I pick them up and move them away from his grabby hands.
He tilts his head and blinks. “But I always have your pretzels?”
I scrunch my face, mouth taut in a line. “What do you mean youalways have my pretzels?”
“When we went on holiday!” he says, his mouth agape as though how could I not remember.
“This is not ‘on holiday,’ and the only reason you got them is because you used to cry and cry and cry until Mummademe give them to you to shut you up.”
