Page 3

Thankfully, it’s not too much longer until boarding starts.

They call up first class and business class passengers, and all the other various groups that get priority boarding, and I start gathering my things together, checking once more that everything is where it should be. I’m boarding with everyone else in economy, which I know a lot of people would find strange. But it’s just easier. Business class has too many eyes on me, too many people who might recognize me and make an already stressful situation even worse. In economy, everybody has their heads down, just trying to get from point A to point B with as little fanfare as possible.

Plus it’s familiar to me, and the routine is always the same. Line up, scan my boarding pass on my phone, file into the jetway with everyone else.

The flight attendant smiles at me, but doesn’t seem to notice who I am, and I breathe a sigh of relief at that. The last thing I want to do is hold up the line with someone asking for an autograph or something. Just the thought of people piling up behind me, angry and impatient, makes my skin crawl.

I stow my bag in the overhead bin and settle into my seat, and then immediately get hit with the thought that I left the stove on at home.

Shit, did I? I didn’t use it last night, but there’s a chance I bumped one of the knobs on my way out this morning. Or that my purse strap snagged on it and managed to turn it on. Even if the flame didn’t catch, that could mean there’s gas pouring in, waiting to be lit by a passing spark or something.

And I can’t remember if I unplugged the electric kettle either. I definitely used it to make a cup of tea last night before bed.

Did I even remember to lock the door on my way out? I think back, trying to find the memory of fitting my key into the lock and feeling the click of it sliding into place, but it’s not there. Or if it is, it’s overlaid with the memory of me doing it hundreds of other times, so I can’t be sure that I did it this time.

Maybe the door is unlocked. Maybe my automatic lights will fail, or the internet will go out, and the fact that the place is dark will tempt thieves into coming in, looking for valuables in an empty home. Maybe they’ll have a cigarette, and the spark from that will set off the gas that could be filling the kitchen right now. Maybe⁠—

My chest gets tight, and I realize my breathing is shallow. The spiral of all the things that could go wrong is never-ending and hard to break out of, but I make myself take a deep breath and then another.

I start counting in my head, timing the numbers to the beat of the last song I wrote, letting each count follow the last. I pull out my phone and flip through the video I took before I left. The stove, off. All the knobs in the off position. The kettle unplugged, and the kettle taken off the base for good measure. The door locked, the deadbolt done as well.

Ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight…

Gradually the tightness in my chest eases up, and I close my eyes, tipping my head back against the back of the seat. Everything’s okay. Everything is fine.

Movement at the end of the row makes me open my eyes and look up.

A man dressed in black jeans and a rich green sweater is pushing his bag and a black coat into the overhead bin. He smiles at the passing flight attendant and then sits down next to me. I get a whiff of his cologne, a warm, slightly spicy smell like a well spiced cup of tea. He’s attractive, that much I can tell just from his side profile.

His hair is sandy blonde and looks like he’s been running his hands through it, but it works for him. There are lines at the corner of his eyes, but the kind that look like they come from smiling a lot, not aging badly. He turns that warm, easy smile on me as he gets settled, and I smile back, glancing away so it’s not weird.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him settle a laptop bag under the seat in front of him and then pull out a book. When I glance at the cover, I see it’s definitely a romance novel, and judging from the woman on the cover, dressed in the sheerest nightgown I’ve ever seen, it’s a spicy one at that.

I look away quickly, heat climbing up my neck to my cheeks, and then a few seconds later, I give in to the temptation to look back.

The guy has the book open now, reading a page somewhere in the middle. Before I register meaning to do it, my eyes start following the words on the page.

Alanna doesn’t mean to be here. In fact, she’s meant to be anywhere else but here for the last month. But something about Dominic’s conviction gets her every time. He looks at her with those dark, heated eyes, his lips still red from their kisses, his shirt still open where her own hands ripped into it, scattering buttons all over the room. He looks at her, and she feels desire burn all the way to her core, even though she can still feel where he was just inside her.

“See you next time,” he always says, and she wants to tell him no, but every time she just nods and rushes out.

This time, Dominic doesn’t even let her get to the door. Alanna reaches for the handle, but he grabs her wrist and pulls her around to face him instead.

His eyes are intense, boring into hers like he can read every thought that’s flashing across her mind right now.

“Stay,” he says, his voice low and gravelly. “Stay the night.”

“Dom—” Alanna shakes her head, trying to ignore the pull in her chest. “I can’t. You know I can’t.”

“Bullshit.” He snarls it, pressing her back against the door. She’s trapped between it and the seductive warmth of his body, and her heart hammers in her chest. “You can,” he says, dipping his head, brushing his lips to hers. “You want to. I know you want to.”

“Dom…” It comes out breathless, half a whimper as he drags his lip down to her neck.

She should be immune to this by now. They just fucked. She shouldn’t be getting wet again. Shouldn’t be arching her body into his, gasping when his teeth sink into the junction of her neck and shoulder. Her hands have minds of their own when she reaches for him, and the way he sighs her name against her skin sets her on fire with wanting him all over again.

“You want this,” Dominic growls. “Tell me you want this. Tell me you’ll stay. Tell me… tell me you’re mine.”

“I—