Demi
Condoms, I hope you packed them. And I better not find out you checked your work email. This weekend is for three things only: GREAT SEX! tequila shots and room service.
I text back that I’ve deleted my work email app (a lie) and set up an out-of-office reply (truth). She knows me too well to believe the first part. I glance at my watch, calculating the flight time to San Francisco. Something flutters in my chest at the thought of seeing Aaron waiting at the arrivals gate. I picture those airport scenes in movies—the tearful reunions, the handmade welcome signs. The image of Aaron holding up a heart-covered poster makes me snort. I’m thankful Aaron isn’t as sappy as the male leads in those movies.
“Now boarding flight 1422 to San Francisco.”
I shoulder my carry-on and join the line, handing my boarding pass to a gate agent who barely looks up from her scanner. Halfway down the jet bridge, my phone vibrates.
Aaron
Can’t wait to see you this afternoon. Already checked us in. King bed confirmed.
My fingers fly across the screen before airplane mode cuts me off.
Me
Boarding now. Try not to look too eager when I arrive. It’s unbecoming.
I add a smirking emoji, so he knows I’m only teasing.
Aaron
Too late. Been practicing my nonchalant pillar lean for an hour and failed miserably. Expect pouncing upon arrival.
A smile escapes me as I stow my phone and claim my window seat. The businessman next to me offers a curt nod before diving back into his spreadsheet. Thank God. No chitchat. I loathe forced conversation with strangers. The plane begins to move, and I inhale deliberately. Seventy-two hours away from New York. No depositions, no meetings, no William with those repulsive bow ties, no partnership anxiety.
Just Aaron and me, untangling whatever this is between us. The aircraft lurches skyward, and my fingers clench the armrests. Flying doesn’t usually unnerve me, but today my nerves crackle like live wires. This journey spans more than just geography—I’m crossing a line I’ve guarded since William. Before William and after college, Aaron, if I’m honest.
“First flight?” The businessman glances at my whitened knuckles.
“No,” I reply sharply, then relent. “Just preoccupied.”
He returns to his numbers without further interest. Below us, Manhattan diminishes—its familiar street grid shrinking to toy-size, then abstraction, before vanishing entirely behind a curtain of clouds.
Six hours in the air. Six hours to rehearse what I’ll say when I see him.
The businessman beside me sighs, snaps his laptop shut, and tugs an eye mask over his face. Just like that—disconnected. I pull out my tablet, my finger hovering over the case files folder before sliding to the Audible app instead. Aaron’s latest,Sinful Love, waits at the sixty-seven percent mark. His voice floods my AirPods—deeper than in our calls, more controlled. The cabindisappears as he narrates, his words painting images that make my cheeks flush hot. The fictional couple’s hands finally find each other’s bodies after eight chapters of longing glances and almost-touches.
Three hours over America’s heartland, I hit pause—my pulse thrums in my throat, my wrists, between my thighs. I close my eyes and exhale into the white noise of engines. This weekend will be filled with fun and relaxation. From the Napa vineyards under California sun, candlelight at that restaurant he couldn’t stop talking about, to his king-sized bed. The spark from a decade ago definitely hasn’t died, but I do hope I don’t indirectly mess this up.
My heart rateaccelerates as we begin our descent into San Francisco. The landscape below shifts from farmland to suburbs to the distinctive geography of the Bay Area. I check my reflection in my compact mirror, touching up my lipstick and smoothing my hair. I can’t believe this is really happening.
I’m one of the first to disembark the plane, striding quickly through the terminal, scanning faces as I near the security exit. Then I see him. Aaron stands out, taller than the others. His eyes scan the crowd until they meet mine. He’s dressed in dark blue jeans and a white T-shirt, and that dimpled smile of his—the one that never fails to make me catch my breath.
He doesn’t run to me or make a scene like in those movies. Instead, he waits, his eyes never leave mine as I close the distance between us. When I’m finally standing before him, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body, neither of us moves.
“Hi.” The single syllable nearly makes my knees buckle.
“Hi yourself,” I manage, suddenly shy despite everything we’ve shared and done to one another in the bedroom.
“You’re really here.” His eyes roam my face.
“I am.” I set down my carry-on and take a step closer, drawn to him like gravity. “In the flesh.”
His fingertips brush mine, a tentative touch that sends electricity racing up my arm. “I was starting to think I’d imagined how beautiful you are.”
“Careful.” I blush, fighting the urge to throw myself into his arms right here for everyone to see. I’m not a fan of public displays of affection, but if I’m being honest with myself, I would love a little PDA right now. “Your romance novelist is showing.”
