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To die in a plane crash is a statistically rare occurrence. It’s considered a one in a billion event, though it does happen. I remember a story a few years ago where a plane disappeared over the South Pacific. All 280 passengers disappeared, and they never found the wreckage. I suppose we were luckier than they were. Or perhaps we weren’t since they all died on impact, which would have been much more merciful.

Once the presentation ends, the celebration of life begins, and dinner is served—a six-course meal, which is still an overwhelming thought for me. The salad is served first, and the urge to devour it takes over. A low rumble develops in my belly as my mouth waters, and I have to remind myself to breathe.

All this food… All this waste.

I smile sweetly as cameras flash in my face, and I take a careful but small bite of food.

There is a different section in the program for Maison and Ollie. It’s an unspoken understanding among all who are present. There is no photo or honor for Nigel.

The picture of Maison brings an unexpected twinge to my gut. He’s with Micah, and they are fishing, of course. He looks happy; he always looks so happy. Except… I don’t know which one is which because they are both smiling.

After course three, I can’t take it anymore and excuse myself.

I drift outside to get a breath of fresh air just as I remember all the reporters hanging outside. I stop to hide in a dark corner before anyone notices me. My eyes dart to the ladies’ bathroom, but not before powerful hands cover my mouth, and before I know it, I am being pulled into the shadows.

I recognize his smell, his hands, and his gripping fingers, which tickle the curves of my hips and pull me in close.

I close my eyes. “Micah,” I whisper, “what are you doing?”

“Shh, sweetheart, be quiet. They’ll hear you.”

Sweetheart.

I’m surprised they can’t hear my heart beating out of my chest.

I inhale his scent, which still reminds me of the Arctic—smoky, rustic, and woody. I part my lips to speak when a blonde reporter from the news emerges from the bathroom, muttering to herself about finding him, fully aware that he’s here.

He tightens his grip, moving his hands around my waist, his body enveloping mine. My reaction is a mix of pure joy and extreme terror, and I flinch.

He softens his grip and rubs his knuckles up my arm, and I decide not to let Nigel ruin this moment for me. I enjoy the feeling of him—his safe hands, hard body, and muscled abs.

Fuck, I’ve missed him.

The reporter’s heels click down the marble floor and eventually fade into the distance.

I’m shaking as he leans his mouth toward my ear. “You look fucking incredible,” he whispers, his breath grazing my cheek.

I whip around, my eyes adjusting to the dimly lit hallway. He’s wearing a black hoodie and jeans, shadows covering his face.

“Is it really you?” I whisper, nearly choking on the cry that escapes my lips. I can’t help it; I run my fingers along his face. He shaved but kept his facial hair. His chestnut eyes blaze down on me.

With Micah’s parents in jail, he is now the sole heir of the Matei fortune, and here he is, dressed like nothing more than a common criminal lurking in the shadows. I reach my hand up and pull his hood down so I can see him properly.

I can’t help but gasp as he clasps his hands around my lower back, pulling me into him as a couple more reporters walk by, the blonde taking the lead. We stand curled into each other, hiding in plain sight.

When I look up at him, he’s grinning at me. He’s actually smiling. His hair is trimmed, too, back to the way it was when I first met him.

He still looks just as sexy—so incredibly dark and sexy.

“What are you doing out here, Micah?” I say when I’m certain we are alone.

He chews on his lip, his intense eyes on my cleavage. He’s not even pretending he doesn’t want to ravish me. “I came to get you out of here.”

His voice. His voice is what dreams are made of.

My lips twitch into a small smile, my heart still beating against his. “Take me where?”

Where could we possibly go?