“Are you being punished?” She seems appalled and possibly guilt-stricken at the idea.
“Not at all. My aunt likes to cause drama, as does my cousin, so I’m avoiding it.” I add a packet of sugar to my coffee. “Anyway, this trip is necessary regardless, and the timing happens to be good for avoiding additional conflict, so I’m taking a break from New York. Don’t feel too bad for me, I get to spend the next several weeks in a luxury hotel.”
I’m rewarded with a sweet little laugh. It’s pretty, but I can hear the note of bitterness tainting the sound. Amalie finishes her first glass of champagne and pours herself another. Thankfully her food arrives.
She acts as if someone dropped a dead body in front her when the waiter tries to set the plate down. “No, no, no. That’s not for me. That’s for him.”
I let the server know it’s fine. “I’ve already eaten.”
Amalie leans as far back in her chair as she can and gestures to the plate, absolutely horror-stricken. “I can’t eat this.”
“Do you have food allergies?” I hadn’t considered that as a possibility.
“No.”
“You don’t like eggs?”
“No. I mean yes, I like eggs.” She starts playing with her hair, twisting the end around her finger.
“But not hollandaise sauce?”
“Well yes, I like that, too.” She drops her hands and clasps them together.
“Are you a vegetarian? You can’t eat ham?” They served filet mignon at the wedding, so I’m doubtful this is the case.
“I can eat ham.” Her gaze drops to the meal in front of her, longing reflected in her eyes. The kind I’d like to see directed at me, in a similar scenario to the one I experienced recently, but not resulting from desperation.
“So, what’s the problem?”
“It’s not on my diet.”
I have to strain to catch her whispery voice, so I assume I’ve heard her incorrectly. “Did you say diet?”
She shrinks back, maybe because of my tone. I don’t mean to sound harsh, but seriously, Amalie has a rocking body. She’s likely the star of many male fantasies, and as much as she shouldn’t be, she’s had occasion to be the star of mine.
“Maybe diet is the wrong word.”
I slide my chair closer to hers and separate the linen napkin from the silverware. “There is no conceivable reason for you to be watching what you eat.”
“I needed to be able to fit into my dress,” she mumbles, “and I wanted to look nice out of it.”
I drape the linen over her lap. I’m right in her space. I should back off. She’s had a rough few days, I’m sure, and me flirting with her isn’t likely to make it better, but my mouth and my brain aren’t working in sync, so I say the thing I shouldn’t anyway. “I think you’re forgetting I’ve seen you out of that dress, and I stand by my original statement. There’s absolutely no need for you to watch what you eat.”
“I thought we agreed not to talk about that.” Her eyes are fixed on where I’m cutting a square out of her breakfast.
“It’s an indirect reference with the intention of making a point. Open, please.” I raise the fork, getting within an inch of her mouth before she grabs it from me.
“I can feed myself, thanks.” She glares while she chews, but her disgruntled expression doesn’t last long. Her eyes close as she swallows and moans, “Oh my God.”
“Good, isn’t it?”
“Amazing.” She plows through the rest quickly, which is good, especially if she’s planning to drink the entire bottle of champagne. It seems rather likely as it’s already half gone and she’s decided to pour another glass. She holds the bottle up with a pithy grin. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like some of Armstrong’s liquefied money? It’s delicious, tastes like dollar bills sliding down my throat.”
I’ve had far too much half-flat champagne recently; however, if it reduces the amount she consumes before she boards her flight, I’ll bite the bullet. She almost knocks over my glass in her attempt to pour, so I take the bottle and manage the task on my own.
There’s a lull in the conversation and she spins the flute between her fingers. “I really am sor—”
Before she can finish issuing another apology, the PA system crackles to life. “Flight six-nine-one-four to Bora Bora now boarding first-class passengers at gate thirty-seven.” The message repeats one more time and we both raise our hands to signal the waiter. Amalie does this while chugging champagne.
She sets the flute down and wipes a dribble from her chin. Her cheeks flush, maybe because of the alcohol consumption, maybe because she’s just realized what I have.
We’re on the same flight.
Seven: Mile High
Amie
“You’re going to Bora Bora?” I’m trying not to show my shock. I’m sure I’m failing.
“I am. And, it appears, so are you.”
“That’s rather coincidental.” I don’t understand how this is possible. Why can’t my nightmare of humiliation just end?
His expression is carefully neutral. “It very much is. But rest assured I had no idea this was where you were going.”
Spending an hour in the airport with Lexington is not the same as coming to the realization that we’re heading for the same destination.
Bora Bora is small and he’s on hotel business. My honeymoon was booked in a Mills hotel. Because they’re the best. There’s a better than average chance we’re going to be in the same place at the same time during my three weeks on the island. I don’t like how excited my entire body seems to be about that. No was the very last thing I wanted to say to you.
I do not need to be thinking about what he said, or how desperately irrational I was during those inerasable minutes. Or how much I wanted that retribution and maybe still do. Except I’m not sure it would be retribution anymore. I might be past that point. I’m not sure how to feel about that, other than conflicted. I can certainly admit that I’m attracted to Lex and have been from the moment I met him. But acting on that attraction isn’t smart beyond the harmless flirting we’ve been doing. Except now we’re going to the same place, on the same plane. That’s bad. Very, very bad, because the Anarchy part of me thinks it’s very, very good.
I reach across the table with a trembling hand and pick up the nearly empty bottle of champagne. It’ll cost at least five hundred dollars, if not more. I’m looking forward to charging it to Armstrong’s credit card, and finishing what’s left.
Except when the bill comes, it hasn’t been separated and Lexington refuses to let me pay for my share.
“Please let me get this.” It’s a statement, not a question, and the lilt of his voice is both authoritative and gently persuasive.
“The whole point is to charge that bottle to Armstrong’s card,” I argue.
“It might be best to wait until you’re out of the country, don’t you think? You can rack up charges on the plane, on your whole damn holiday if you want.”
There are no charges to rack up on the plane since I’m in first class, and the honeymoon is all-inclusive. I relent, but only because he makes a good point. Spa services aren’t covered at the resort, so I can charge those, and any clothes or jewelry that catch my eye. I may need to do a lot of shopping, at least until Armstrong realizes I’m charging things to his card and cuts me off.
While Lexington pays for my extraordinarily expensive bottle of champagne, I gulp down what’s left in my glass. There’s still an inch in the bottle, and if it didn’t look extremely tacky, I’d drink that too. Instead, I gather my purse and coat, smooth out my skirt—yes, I’m wearing a skirt on an eighteen-hour flight. I wanted to at least look good should I run into anyone I know. So on the off chance it got back to Armstrong, I at least appear as if I’m unfazed by all of this. Unfortunately, the change of clothes I’d packed, yoga pants and a T-shirt, are safely stowed in the undercarriage of the plane, so I’m stuck in this.
The champagne hits me as I stand. I wobble, grabbing the cl
osest thing to steady me, which happens to be Lexington’s arm. His rock-hard arm. His rock-hard arm that I know is decorated in a very elaborate tattoo, hidden under his white dress shirt and navy jacket.
The Mills men like body art. Bancroft has a half sleeve, which runs from his shoulder to the middle of his bicep. Lexington’s spans his entire arm. I’ve seen the entire thing once. Although, at the time, I didn’t take the opportunity to admire it, as it was during a Halloween soirée last year. He was dressed as a gladiator. His costume was brilliant, and it showed off the incredible body currently hidden under his suit, which raised more than a hundred thousand dollars during our charity bachelor auction.
He gives me a knowing, dimpled smile. He really is very attractive and in exactly the opposite way Armstrong is. His hair is dark to Armstrong’s light. He’s built where Armstrong is lean. His features are chiseled as opposed to regally pretty. Lexington is polished, but beneath that smooth exterior is the kind of bad boy I’ve always found myself hopelessly attracted to.
The kind of man with full-sleeve tattoos. The kind that suggests flying to Vegas to elope within two minutes of meeting me. The same kind of man who flashes an entire room at a Halloween soirée and gets away with it. Or at least he gave off the impression of being a bad boy. I’m not entirely sure that’s true anymore with the way he’s come to my rescue more than once. And most of what I’ve been told about him has come from Armstrong and highbrow gossip, the truth of which is always up for debate.
While I probably would’ve thrown myself at any available man at my farce of a wedding, all of these traits certainly made it a lot easier to do the other night.
He whispers, “Champagne hitting you harder than expected?”
I realize I’m holding on to him rather tightly, so I release his arm and attempt to find my balance. “I’m fine.”
His fingers press gently against the dip in my spine. “Aren’t you glad I insisted you eat?”
I brush his hand away, unnerved by the way the contact is heating me up from the inside and that I’d like more of it. Which is inappropriate. I can’t want this man. He’s my estranged husband’s cousin. He’s my best friend’s boyfriend’s brother. I’ll see him constantly at events. It’s bad enough that I’ve already thrown myself at him once and been rejected.
No was the very last thing I wanted to say to you.
I shake my head and reach for my carry-on. Unfortunately, little sleep and almost an entire bottle of champagne renders me inebriated, even with the breakfast I stuffed in my face. I miss the handle and stumble forward.
“Whoa.” Lexington’s wide palms wrap around my waist, preventing me from face-planting into the floor.
Crap. I need to get it together. I’m embarrassing myself in front of him yet again. He pulls out a chair, turns me around, and forces me to sit down.
“Drink this, please.” He hands me the glass of orange juice I ignored up until now.
“It has too much sugar in it.” I realize it’s a ridiculous excuse, and one I don’t need to use anymore since fitting into a dress is no longer a priority.
He laughs, then grows serious. Grabbing the chair by both arms, he leans in close. It’s intimate and dominating, the way he has me penned in. Energy crackles between us and I can’t decide if it’s in my head, or maybe because I’m slightly intoxicated, but for a very protracted moment I want to be alone with him. Naked and alone. I want to forget the mess my life is.
He keeps his eyes on mine, his voice low, reserved. “You just polished off most of a bottle of champagne and you’re worried about your sugar consumption? You need liquid that is not alcohol in your system if you want to get on that plane.”
And I’m no longer thinking about him naked. They won’t allow me to board if I’m shit-faced. If I don’t get on that plane now I’ll be stuck here, dealing with the aftermath of my failure of a relationship. I chug the glass and he trades it for the tumbler of water, which I also drain. Lexington pulls a pack of gum from inside his breast pocket. It crinkles as he pushes a square free of the packaging and pops it into his mouth. Repeating the action, he holds the square up to my mouth. Instead of using my fingers, like I should, I part my lips and take what he’s offering.
“Good girl.” His barely audible whisper sends a shiver down my spine.
Our flight number is called again for boarding, this time first class along with zones one and two.
He straightens, holding out a hand. “Shall we?”
I regard his wide palm and long fingers, then lift my gaze to meet his. “Why’re you being so nice to me?”
“Because I want to. Because you don’t deserve what’s happened to you.” His smile is more than sad, some emotion I can’t quite pin down lingering in his gaze. “Come. Let’s get you on that plane.”
I place my fingers on his palm and let him help me out of the chair. The water and juice have dulled the effects of the alcohol marginally, but I accept his assistance when he threads his arm through mine and takes my carry-on in his free hand.
Since we’re seated in first class, we don’t have to wait. Lex keeps a protective hand on my back as we walk down the ramp to the plane. He allows me to go first. As soon as I’m in the cabin I make note of one very important detail: There are only two empty seats in first class and they’re next to each other. Of course we’re sitting together.
I glance at him, then at the seats. “Do you have the window or aisle?”
“I’m fine with either, so you take the one you want the most.” His fingertips press into my spine, urging me forward.
Usually when I traveled with Armstrong I had to take the aisle because he hates it when his elbow gets bumped by the flight attendant’s cart. I selfishly take the window seat.
“Do you need anything from here before I stow this?” Lexington taps the side of my carry-on, a devilish smile pulling up the corner of his mouth.
I resist the urge to flip him off, especially since he just bought me expensive champagne and saved me from being denied access to the plane. I smile cheekily instead and bat my lashes. “I should be fine, thanks, though.”
That smirk of his stays firmly in place as he lifts the bag over his head, securing it in the overhead bin. He moves out of the aisle to allow passengers to pass. I busy myself with the contents of my purse while Lexington shrugs out of his jacket. He’s precise about folding it before he lays it across the arm of his seat. Dropping down beside me, he unfastens his cuff links and rolls his sleeves halfway up his forearms, exposing the colorful artwork on the arm closest to me.
I try not to stare, but it’s so very pretty, and his forearm is so . . . defined. Thickly muscled. All of his muscles are thick. Even the one in his pants. Oh God. I’ve felt his penis.
My cheeks flush and I avert my gaze, focusing on the luggage carts moving across the tarmac outside.
I close my eyes, suddenly exhausted. My brain isn’t even working right. I’ve hardly slept since the wedding and I’m a little drunk. Maybe more than a little. Karmic intervention has nothing to do with us ending up on this plane together. It’s just a strange coincidence.
The feel of my purse being lifted from my lap startles me awake. I reflexively grab it. Strong, warm hands cover mine. “It’s okay, Amalie, it’s just me. I’m not stealing your purse.”
I blink blearily and look around. Right. I’m on a plane. With Lex. Not my husband. Or non-husband. “What’re you doing?” It comes out all slurry.
“We’re taking off. We have to stow this under the seat.”
His use of we makes my heart hurt because I’m just a me now, and my we status lasted less than twelve hours. “Oh. Right.” I relinquish my hold.
Lex leans forward, his shoulder brushing my knee as he carefully places my purse under the seat in front of me. The contact is brief. “You can go back to sleep,” he whispers, squeezing my hand.
I let my eyes fall closed again. I want to thank him, but everything feels too heavy and blackness is so much more allur
ing than life. So I let consciousness melt away.
Awareness returns with a vengeance. I need to use the bathroom. Badly. Also, my neck is sore. As I adjust my position, it becomes clear that Lex has been functioning as my pillow. I don’t really have time to be embarrassed—yet again—because my bladder is literally screaming at me. Also, Lex is asleep, so maybe he didn’t notice my snuggling with his arm.
I fight with my seatbelt, groaning when I don’t get it on first try. I have to kegel like crazy as I finally manage to unbuckle myself. At least I’m not drunk anymore. Or as drunk. Standing only makes it worse and my knees nearly buckle. Lex’s legs are spread wide, hands clasped in his lap. He looks so put together even while sleeping, and with all that five o’clock shadow covering his jaw. I try to shuffle around him, but my foot gets caught on my purse strap and I stumble, falling right top of him. I brace a hand on each of his shoulders so I don’t smother him with my boobs.
He startles awake. “What the fu—” His hands go to my hips. Low on my hips. Fingertips pressing into the fleshy part of my ass. I’m straddling one of his legs and my skirt is hiked up, the lace band of my thigh-highs barely visible. This is the most impractical outfit to fly in. I should’ve just worn my yoga pants, T-shirt, and flats. Who cares if someone saw me. I could’ve bought a pair of sweats or something in the airport instead of crying in the bathroom, but now I’m stuck in this until we land.
Lex’s confused gaze falls on my chest, which is right in front of his face, and then moves down to where his hands are, and then lower.
“So sorry. Need to pee.” My heel is still caught in my purse strap, though, so I can’t escape. I try to bend to get it, but I can’t reach and I’m making this situation worse with the way my chest bumps his face. I can barely think around my need to pee.
“Hold on. Let me help.” Lex’s hand trails down the outside of my thigh. I grip his shoulder, unsure whether the aching throb between my legs is related to my bursting bladder, or if the feel of his hand skimming the entire length of my leg is creating a different kind of ache. He turns his face, his cheek pressed up against my hip as he wrestles with my tangled purse strap.
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