Me:You know, most people relax before work trips. Watch a show, drink some wine, go to bed early.
Madeline:I’ll relax when we’ve made it through this weekend and my mom finally leaves me alone.
Me: So never?
Madeline: Exactly.
I shake my head, smiling. The woman’s a walking contradiction. She’s cool as hell in meetings and confident in her work, but I can tell she worries too much. If I’m being honest, I like that she’s complicated. It makes me want to figure her out.
Me:For what it’s worth, I’m not planning to embarrass you.
Madeline:I’m pretty sure you could do it without any planning at all.
Me:Fine. I’ll be on my best behavior. Suit & tie, punctual, charming. The whole deal.
Madeline:Good. See you in the morning, Jesse.
Me: Night Mads. ;)
Madeline: It’s Madeline. Don’t make me put it on a sticky note.
I huff out a laugh, low and involuntary.God, she’s cute. And that’s the problem. Because nothing about this conversation should have my pulse picking up or my cock getting hard. But somehow, she’s managed to make a few simple texts feel like foreplay.
I stare at the screen longer than I should, my grin refusing to fade. Her name—Madeline—glows back at me, and for a second, I picture her typing it, hair pulled into that neat twist, probably rolling her eyes as she hit send.
“Madeline,” I murmur under my breath, testing the sound of it, even though I already know I’m never going to stop calling her Mads. It just fits her too damn well.
I toss the phone onto the nightstand and stretch out, one arm behind my head, the other resting across my stomach.
Tomorrow, we’ll be side by side again—on a plane, in a hotel, at some high-society gala she’s dreading. I should be focused on work, on the campaign, on anything else. But all I can think about is her voice, her sharp wit, the expression on her face when she’s trying not to smile.
This trip is going to be a problem. And I already can’t wait for it to start.
TWELVE
Jesse
I’m not a morning person. Never have been. But here I am, standing at the airport at 7:15 a.m., coffee in one hand, duffel bag in the other, doing my best impression of a functioning adult.
Madeline’s text said to meet her at the gate at 7:30 sharp and I already know her well enough to know that if she said 7:30 she’ll be here by 7:25. And I’ll be damned if I give her the satisfaction of having to wait around for me.
The terminal is buzzing with the kind of pre-flight chaos that makes me glad I usually travel private for work. Kids are crying, some guy is blowing his nose way too loud, and there’s a woman having a heated argument with the airline rep about seat upgrades. I had tried to convince Madeline to let me charter a jet, but she wasn’t having it.
“We’re flying commercial, Jesse,” she’d said in a tone that made it clear the discussion was over. I know when to pick my battles, so I let that one go. So, here I am in the midst of the airport madness, trying hard to tune it all out. But I snap right back to the present when I spot her. She’s in a fitted white blouse tucked intohigh-waisted pants, a soft gray sweater with the arms tied over her shoulders. Simple and effortless. Drop dead gorgeous.
“Morning.” Her tone is clipped. She adjusts the strap of her bag like she’s bracing for turbulence already.
I fall into step beside her as we walk toward the gate. “Checked in?”
“Of course,” she says, without looking up from her phone. “Seat 14C. I booked an aisle seat.”
“Why am I not surprised?” I ask. “That totally tracks.”
She finally looks at me, one brow arched. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I sip my coffee, fighting a grin. “Control issues, Mads. You leave nothing to chance.”
She lets out a sharp breath—half disbelief, half exasperation. “We haven’t even boarded the flight yet and you’re already giving me a hard time. Please tell me you booked yourself into first class so I can fly in peace.”
