Page 5

My cheeks flush at the idea of reading a book like this in public on my own. Right now, Tate is still holding the book, so I could shift away, turn my gaze to my phone or anywhere else and pretend like it has nothing to do with me. But it’s just so interesting, so I don’t do that.

“Why do you travel with books like this anyway?” I ask him. “It doesn’t seem like you need the distraction as much as I did.”

He shrugs a shoulder. “I just like to read them. And being on a plane is one of the only times I get stretches of mostly uninterrupted reading time. I’m not going to get a book I’m not interested in just so people don’t see me reading ‘this kind’ of book.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” I say. “It’s not like I think less of you for reading it or anything. It’s just surprising.”

“Guys are allowed to like romance novels too,” Tate says.

“You’re right. There’s no reason why they shouldn’t read them too.”

He doesn’t seem upset, in fact, he leans in a little closer to me, and when he speaks again, there’s a new tone in his voice. It’s lower, more resonant, like he’s infusing deliberate heat into the words. “Actually, reading books like this has taught me a lot.”

“Yeah? About what?”

“About what women want. In bed, specifically. There’s a reason why women flock to these books, and I think a lot of men are sleeping on using them as a learning tool. Not me. I never let an opportunity pass me by.”

The air between us shifts immediately. The tension thickens, and I feel my heart rate kick up a notch at the implication there. I swallow hard, looking away as warmth spreads through me. And this time it has nothing to do with embarrassment.

Tate shifts back to his side of the seat before I can say or do anything else, his normal charming smile back on his face.

“So,” he says, moving the conversation along like he didn’t just say that to me on a plane full of people. “Business or pleasure?”

I blink, trying to force my brain back on track. “What do you mean?”

“Are you traveling for business or pleasure?”

I know he recognizes me, so he must know that Atlanta is where I live. “Neither, really,” I tell him, making a face.

He nods. “Ah, so it’s the third reason people always leave out of that question. Family obligation.”

“Yup. Which I guess should technically fall under pleasure, but…”

“But with most people’s families, that’s never how it really goes?”

“Exactly. What about you?”

“I guess pleasure sums it up,” he says. “I’m meeting up with some friends once we land.”

“So, you’re on vacation?”

“I guess you could say that.”

I flash him a smile, trying very hard not to think of him all tanned and toned in skimpy swim trunks on a beach somewhere. Considering he’s flying into Minnesota in winter, there probably won’t be much of that happening at all.

Our conversation stays light, just easy banter about the things we like about the Atlanta airport—me, nothing; him, a little breakfast spot that makes a very good sausage, egg, and cheese sandwich—and the various movies we’ve seen recently.

One thing that stands out is how easy it is to talk to him. Tate is genuinely charming and funny and has a warmth that’s all sincerity. None of it is forced, and it doesn’t feel like an act to get close to me or make me let my guard down. It does relax me more than I anticipated, and before too long, all of the tension that I usually feel when flying has dissipated, leaving only warm laughter and a kind of comfort that I didn’t ever expect to feel this high in the sky.

I like him. That much is undeniable by now. It’s not every day that I can just have a conversation with someone with no expectations and little pressure, and it’s nice. It’s simple. It’s inconvenient.

If Tate thinks it’s also inconvenient, he doesn’t show any indications of it. He asks me questions that aren’t too probing and smiles or laughs at my answers. He’s an amazing conversationalist, and I get the feeling he knows that, but not in a conceited way.

But then all of a sudden the plane jerks hard in the air, and whatever I was just about to say flies out of my head as I take a sudden sharp breath. The plane lurches, and passengers around us gasp, everyone scrambling to hold on to something.

My hand flies to Tate’s arm instinctively, and before I have a chance to be embarrassed about it, he covers my hand with his, giving it a soft squeeze. The plane dips then, just a little, just enough that the feeling of my stomach swooping out of me comes back, and I let out a soft noise of distress.

Tate’s hand comes down to grip my leg, offering a steady, reassuring pressure that does at least help my breathing stop shuddering.