I stare at her and her smile beams even bigger. “Hi!” She points at the empty seat next to me. “This is me. I’m seat 2B.”
Wonderful. I start to reach for my seatbelt, but before I have a chance to unfasten it and get out of her way, she steps in front of me, navigating awkwardly around my legs as she squeezes past me. As annoyed as I am, I’m also a man, and it’s impossible not to appreciate the eyeful of perky cleavage she gives me as she awkwardly makes her way into her own seat.
The enormous straw beach tote bag she’s carrying bangs into my knee and then knocks my shoulder while she gets situated next to me. She smells incredible—not the calculated assault of expensive perfume, but something warm and natural that makes me think of tropical beaches and lazy Sunday mornings. Things I don’t do and places I don’t go, but suddenly find myself wanting to experience.
I clear my throat and try to ignore her. Fat chance.
“Barbados, here I come!” she announces to no one in particular, apparently under the impression that everyone on this plane gives a damn about her travel plans. “I still can’t believe I’m actually doing this.”
I glance over and find her looking at me, her smile still beaming. Damn, she’s pretty. She’s got tousled dark hair that looks like she just rolled out of bed in the best possible way, and light blue eyes that are currently sparkling with enoughenthusiasm to power a small city. Everything about her screams sunshine and rainbows and other shit that makes my teeth hurt.
I point to my earbuds with the kind of deliberate gesture that usually gets the message across. Most civilized people understand this universal symbol for “shut the hell up and leave me alone. “This woman is apparently not most people.
“Oh wow, you’re already listening to music! Are you getting pumped up for vacation too?” She digs through the tote bag that looks like it could house a small family, pulling out magazines and snacks enough to fuel someone for a month. “I made the most epic playlist for this trip—everything from Bob Marley to Beyoncé. Because if you can’t get excited about paradise, what’s the point of being alive, right? So, what are you listening to?”
I’m supposed to be unwinding on this flight, but apparently, we’re doing this instead. “It’s a meditation app,” I say flatly, hoping the word ‘meditation’ will penetrate whatever force field of enthusiasm she’s operating under. “I’m trying to relax.”
“Oh! Are you afraid to fly?”
“No. I fly all the time. The app is for something else.”
She nods, pursing her lips in a way that shouldn’t seem so adorable when I’ve never met someone so persistently aggravating. “I should totally try meditation. Is it working? You look pretty tense to me.”
Jesus Christ. It’s like someone weaponized optimism and aimed it directly at my nervous system. I give her a tight smile and point once more to my earbuds. For good measure, I release a heavy sigh before closing my eyes and settling back into my uncomfortable seat.
I mean, I hate to be an asshole, but if I let this conversation continue—one-sided or not—I’ll likely be dead on arrival from the very stress-related heart event that Dr. Vaughn is trying to help me avoid with this trip.
I try to focus on the meditation app again, but it’s like trying to meditate during a toddler’s birthday party. She’s not talking anymore, but her presence beside me is impossible to ignore. She’s just sitting there, but she radiates energy like a human disco ball, even when she’s silent and still.
I peel one eye open—just a crack—and watch her gaze out the little window with a child’s sense of wonder as the plane taxis down the runway then lifts off. She seems transfixed on the view as we soar into the clouds. Once we’re airborne for a few minutes, she starts fumbling around her seat, clearly trying to figure out the controls.
“How do you make this thing recline?” she asks, leaning across the armrest toward me to get a better angle at the seat adjustment buttons. Her shoulder brushes against mine as she reaches for the button that controls my seat. “Oh, sorry. That’s you, not me.”
The contact is brief but electric. I’m suddenly hyperaware of the warmth radiating from her skin through the thin fabric of her sundress. And when she glances up at my scowling face, those electric blue eyes of hers collide with my gaze and for a moment I can’t breathe for the sudden current of awareness that arrows straight for my cock.
Fuck. This is not happening.
She finally adjusts in her seat and turns toward me, and I make the mistake of glancing down just as she shifts closer. The neckline of her dress moves with the motion, offering another glimpse of curves that makes my brain temporarily short-circuit.
She’s not at all my type, if I even have one anymore. And as annoying as I find her bubbly personality and lack of respect for someone else’s personal space, there’s no denying the woman is a knockout.
“Is this your first time going to Barbados?” she asks, apparently interpreting my open eyes as an invitation for twentymore questions. “Personally, I’ve been dreaming about this forever. Well, not forever-forever, but a long time. I can’t wait to be surrounded by white sand, blue water, those tropical drinks with the tiny umbrellas...”
She trails off, and for a blessed moment I think she’s finally picked up on my signals. Then I feel her looking at me—actually studying me like I’m some sort of puzzle she needs to solve.
“I’m Ella, by the way. Ella Manning.”
I give her my close-lipped smile again, along with a polite nod.
She laughs. “This is where you’re supposed to tell me your name. We are going to be seatmates for the next four and a half hours, after all.”
Four-plus hours? It already feels like I’ve been sitting under the full blast of the sun for half a day.
“I’m Alec,” I tell her, deliberately avoiding giving her my last name. It’s not as if Alec Beckett is a household name, despite my status as one of the wealthiest American tech CEOs under thirty-five, but I’d rather not take any chances.
“Nice to meet you, Alec.” She reaches her hand out, waiting for me to shake it. I oblige, taken aback by the strength in her grip. For a petite, soft-looking woman, she’s anything but weak.
“So, do you live in Miami?”
