Nate clears his throat and nudges me with his elbow, his eyes dancing with amusement. “You’re adorable when you blush, you know that?”
The compliment only intensifies the heat in my cheeks. “Nate, please, I’m already mortified,” I groan, covering my face with both hands as if I could physically hide from this situation.
“Why’s that?” He shifts in his seat, leaning close enough that I can feel his breath warm against my fingers.
I let out a frustrated sigh that comes from somewhere deep in my soul, the kind of sound that’s usually reserved for particularly aggravating political rhetoric I’m forced to rewrite. “It wasn’t supposed to happen,” I mumble through my fingers, hating how prima donna I sound. The Barlow women don’t lose composure, especially not over handsome strangers on airplanes.
“It wasn’t a problem. I slept well,” he gently attempts to pry my hands away from my face, his fingers warm and surprisingly gentle against my wrists. “I mean it, Isabel. I didn’t even realize I had you in my arms until this morning.”
I lower my hands enough to peer at him through narrowed eyes, unable to resist rolling them dramatically. “I may not know you, Nate, but now I know one thing about you.”
“Hmmmm, what, that I’m a great pillow?” His boyish grin transforms his entire face, softening the sharp angles of his jaw and lighting up his eyes in a way that makes my heart perform an unauthorized gymnastics routine. It’s unfair how charming he looks with sleep-tousled hair and the faint imprint of a wrinkle on his cheek.
I shake my head, fighting the smile tugging at my lips. “No, that you can’t lie.” The words come out more affectionate than accusatory.
He backs away slightly, eyebrows lifting in genuine surprise. Have I caught him off guard? This small victory feels disproportionately satisfying.
“All right! Look, you were so kind to cover me with the blanket, so I thought I should return the favor. I’ve slept many times in the position you were in, and often I had neck pains for days. I didn’t think it’d make you angry—or maybe yes, but just a little.”
His unexpected honesty disarms me completely, melting away the last of my embarrassment. I can’t help but smile, warmth of a different kind spreading through my chest. “That’s sweet, and, yes, I’ve never slept on such a comfortable human pillow.”
The admission escapes before my internal filter can catch it, and I immediately want to snatch the words back. The look that crosses his face—a mixture of surprise and unabashed pleasure—makes my stomach flip.
“Oh really? This is interesting,” his smile widens, crinkling the corners of his eyes in a way that’s unfairly appealing. “Maybe we can repeat the experience.”
The suggestion sends a surge of heat through me that has nothing to do with embarrassment. Even though part of me is seriously tempted to take him up on the offer—a part I’ve kept carefully dormant during my career-focused existence in Melbourne—I find his cockiness just a shade too reminiscent of the entitled men I’ve spent my life deflecting.
“Don’t you think you’re a bit too confident?” I arch an eyebrow, though I can’t keep the smile completely from my voice. The teasing lilt betrays my enjoyment of our verbal sparring, undermining my attempt at setting boundaries.
For a brief, disorienting moment, a sense of déjà vu washes over me—something about this exchange feels achingly familiar, like a melody heard long ago that I can’t quite place. I push the feeling aside, chalking it up to sleep deprivation and the artificial intimacy that long flights sometimes create between strangers.
Whatever this peculiar connection is, I have approximately six more hours to either explore it or shut it down completely. The sensible Isabel—the one who’s carefully managed every aspect of her life for the past decade—votes firmly for the latter. But as Nate’s eyes hold mine with that mixture of challenge and warmth, I’m startled to discover that, for once, sensible Isabel might not get her way.
I grab my bag from the overhead compartment with perhaps more force than necessary and head to the toilet, desperate to put some physical space between us—or fuck him to take him out of my system. The thought slams into me with such unexpected clarity that I nearly trip over the foot of a sleeping passenger. I shake my head vigorously, trying to banish the image of his hands on me, his mouth on my skin, but it clings with stubborn persistence.
The airplane lavatory is cramped and clinically lit, making my reflection in the tiny mirror look pallid and slightly desperate. I splash cold water on my face, the shock of it helping to clear my head momentarily. What is wrong with me? One handsome stranger with good arms and a teasing smile, and suddenly I’m fantasizing like a teenager?
I change methodically, each movement a deliberate reclaiming of control. The soft cotton of my traveling clothes is replaced by a crisp pencil skirt that falls just above the knee—professional but not prudish. I step into my heels, instantly gaining three inches of height and confidence. The silk shirt buttons up to a respectable height while still suggesting the curves beneath. I sweep my hair into a high, sleek ponytail, the tug against my scalp drawing me back into myself.
Being the Prime Minister’s daughter isn’t just genetics—it’s a full-time performance. My father doesn’t accept anything less than perfection in appearance, speech, and conduct. “You represent more than yourself, Isabel,” he reminded me since I could understand words. Sometimes I feel like a trained show dog, bred for pedigree, groomed for appearance, ready to perform on command. I apply mascara with practiced precision, a light blush, and a neutral lip—the uniform of respectability that’s become second nature.
We’ll land in four hours. Four. Very. Long. Hours. The voice in my head tries to sound stern, but there’s a mocking undercurrent to it. Don’t pretend you’re sorry. You have his perfume on your clothes. I lift the shirt I’ve just removed, bringing it to my nose and inhaling deeply. His scent clings to the fabric—that intoxicating blend of sandalwood and clean male skin that made sleeping against him feel dangerously right. I catch myself smiling at the mirror and quickly school my expression back to neutrality.
When I return to my seat, Nate’s reaction is immediate and unguarded. His eyes widen, traveling from my heels up to my face with such naked appreciation that I feel it like a physical caress. The professional attire that normally serves as armor suddenly feels like an invitation. And here we fucking go again. Men need one peek at some tits and legs and they’re ready to dive in between.
Well, I can’t deny I’d like to have him in between my legs. The unbidden thought sends a rush of heat through me, my body responding traitorously to the mere idea. I feel my panties getting damp at the impure images flooding my mind—his mouth on my neck, those strong hands gripping my thighs. The devil on my shoulder is practically cackling with delight at my discomfort, whispering suggestions that would make even Melbourne’s most liberated girlfriends blush.
“Is everything all right?” I ask, deliberately casual while he’s still shamelessly looking at me. The power of having his full attention is intoxicating in a way I refuse to fully acknowledge.
“Yeah, you look gorgeous.” His voice is rougher than before, and he rubs his neck while shifting in his seat. The slight adjustment tells me more than words could—I’m not the only one affected by this tension.
“Thanks,” I whisper, reaching up to stow my bag. I’m fully aware that the movement causes my shirt to strain slightly across my chest, but I don’t adjust my posture. Feeling his eyes on me like a tangible weight, I turn and stare back at him, fully expecting to catch him looking at my breasts like countless men before him. Instead, his eyes remain locked on mine, unwavering and intense, creating a moment of connection so unexpected that everything else—the airplane, the other passengers, our imminent arrival in London—seems to fade away. For a few seconds, I feel suspended in time, caught in the gravity of his gaze.
When I unconsciously lick my lips, his eyes drop to follow the movement, breaking our connection. I look away first, inexplicably flustered, and busy myself with extracting my laptop and headphones. My fingers tremble slightly as I power up the device, annoyed at my body’s betrayal.
“What are you listening to?” he asks, his voice closer than I expected. Without thinking, I hand him one of my earbuds, perhaps hoping that music might fill the charged silence between us. Or perhaps just to make him stop talking before I do something stupid like ask him if the airplane bathrooms are as cramped as they look. I turn up the volume while uploading the file containing my father’s half-finished speech.
I can feel his gaze on my profile like sunshine on skin—warm, persistent, impossible to ignore. “Nate, do you need anything?” I finally ask, not bothering to hide my exasperation.
