The Stopover

by Swan, T L

  OTHER TITLES BY T L SWAN

  Stanton Adore

  Stanton Unconditional

  Stanton Completely

  Stanton Bliss

  Marx Girl

  Gym Junkie

  Dr Stanton

  Dr Stantons: The Epilogue

  Find Me Alastar

  Play Along

  Mr Masters

  Mr Spencer

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2019 by T L Swan

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542015875

  ISBN-10: 1542015871

  Cover design by @blacksheep-uk.com

  I would like to dedicate this book to the alphabet,

  for those twenty-six letters have changed my life.

  Within those twenty-six letters I found myself,

  and now I live my dream.

  Next time you say the alphabet,

  remember its power.

  I do every day.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Preview: The Takeover

  Preview: Mr. Masters

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Chapter 1

  “Can you move?” a voice behind me growls.

  Startled, I turn toward the man behind me in the line. “I’m sorry?” I say in a fluster. “Did you want to get past?”

  “No. I want these fucking idiots at the desk to hurry up. I’m going to miss my damn plane.” He sneers, and I smell the alcohol wafting off him. “They make me sick.”

  I turn back to the front. Great, a drunk in the check-in line. Just what I need.

  Heathrow Airport is bustling. Bad weather has delayed most of the flights, and to be honest, I wish they would delay mine. Then I could turn around and go back to the hotel and sleep for a week.

  I am not in the mood for this shit.

  I hear the man turn and complain to the people behind him, and I roll my eyes. Why are people so damn rude?

  For another ten minutes, I listen to him bitch, sigh, and moan until I can take it no longer. I turn to him. “They are working as fast as they can. There’s no need to be rude,” I snap.

  “What?” he yells as he turns his anger on me.

  “Manners are free,” I mutter under my breath.

  “Manners are free?” he cries. “What are you, a schoolteacher? Or just a raving bitch?”

  I glare at him. Oh, I dare all right. I’ve just spent the last forty-eight hours in hell. I flew across the world to go to a wedding, only to watch my ex-boyfriend drape himself over his new girlfriend. I’m in the mood to cut somebody today.

  Don’t mess with me.

  I turn back to the front as my fury begins to boil.

  He kicks my suitcase at my feet, and I turn. “Stop it,” I snap.

  He gets right up in my face, and I wince at the smell of his breath. “I’ll do whatever I fucking like.”

  I see security come through the lounge as they watch him. The staff have seen what’s going on here and called for backup. I fake a smile. “Please don’t kick my bag, sir,” I say sweetly.

  “I’ll kick whatever I fucking like.” He picks up my suitcase and throws it across the airport.

  “What the hell?” I screech.

  “Hey,” the man behind us cries. “Don’t touch her stuff. Security!” he says.

  Mr. Drunk and Disorderly throws a punch at my savior, and a scuffle breaks out.

  Security comes running in from everywhere, and I am pushed back as he throws punches and screams obscenities. Oh hell, I do not need this today.

  Eventually they get him under control, and he is taken away in handcuffs. The kind security guard picks up my bag. “Sorry about that,” he apologizes. “Come with me,” he says as he unhooks the rope on the line.

  “Thank you.” I smile awkwardly at everyone else in the line. I hate jumping the queue, but at this point, I just don’t care. “Great.” I sheepishly follow him, and he takes me to a young man’s counter. He looks up and smiles broadly. “Hello.”

  “Hi.”

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”

  “Look after her,” the security guard tells the ticket man, and he gives us both a wink and disappears through the crowd.

  “Identification, please?” the man asks.

  I scramble through my purse and dig out my passport and pass it over; he smiles as he looks at the photo. Oh man, that’s the worst photo in all of history. “Did you see me on Most Wanted?” I ask.

  “Possibly. That photo: Is it even you?” He laughs.

  I smile, embarrassed. “I hope not. I’m in trouble if it is.”

  He types in my details. “Okay, so we have you flying to New York today with a . . .” He stops typing and reads.

  “Uh-huh. Preferably not next to that man.”

  “He won’t be going anywhere today,” he replies as he continues to type at a ridiculous speed. “Other than the lockup.”

  “Why would you get drunk before coming to the airport?” I ask. “He hasn’t even been inside to the airport bars yet.”

  “You would be surprised by what goes on around here,” he sighs.

  I smile; this guy is nice.

  He prints off my tickets. “I’ve upgraded you.”

  “What?”

  “First class, as an apology for him mishandling your bag.”

  My eyes widen. “Oh, that’s not necessary . . . really,” I stammer.

  He hands the tickets over and smiles broadly. “Enjoy your flight.”

  “Thank you so much,” I gush.

  He gives me a wink, and I could just reach over and hug him. But of course I won’t. I’ll pretend that cool things like this happen to me every day.

  “Thanks again.” I smile.

  “You have access to the VIP lounge, which is located on level one. Lunch and drinks are on the house in there. Have a safe flight.” With one last smile, he looks back to the line. “Next, please.”

  I walk through the baggage checks with a huge goofy grin on my face.

  First class—just what the doctor ordered.

  Three hours later, I walk onto the plane like a rock star. I didn’t end up going into the VIP lounge because, well . . . I look like crap. My long dark hair is up in a high ponytail, and I’m wearing black leggings, a baggy pink sweater, and tennis shoes, but I did fix my makeup a little, so that’s something.
If I had known I was going to be upgraded, I would have at least tried to look the part and worn something swanky instead of looking like a homeless person. But anyway . . . who cares? It’s not like I’m going to see anyone I know.

  I hand my ticket over to the flight attendant. “Just through the left aisle and to the right.”

  “Thanks.” I look at my ticket and walk through the plane and see my number.

  1B.

  Damn it, I don’t have a window. I get to my seat, and a man sitting next to the window turns to me. Big blue eyes greet me, and he smiles. “Hello.”

  “Hi,” I say.

  Oh no . . . I’m sitting next to God’s gift to women . . . only he’s hotter.

  I look like shit. Fuck it.

  I open the overhead, and he stands. “Here, let me.” He takes my bag from me and carefully places it up. He’s tall and built and wearing blue jeans and a white T-shirt; he smells like the best aftershave in history.

  “Thanks,” I murmur as I pull my hand through my ponytail, trying to smooth out the knots. I mentally kick myself for not wearing something better.

  “Do you want the window seat?” he asks.

  I stare at him as my brain misfires.

  He gestures to the seat beside the window.

  “You don’t mind?” I frown.

  “Not at all.” He smiles. “I fly all the time. You can have it.”

  I force a smile. “Thanks.” That was code for “I know you got upgraded, you poor homeless person, and I feel sorry for you.” I sit down in my seat and look nervously out the window, with my hands clasped in front of me on my lap.

  “Are you going home?” he asks.

  I turn to him. Oh, please don’t talk to me. You make me nervous just sitting there. “No, I’ve been at a wedding, and I have a job interview in New York on the way home. I’m only there for the day, and then I fly out again to LA. I live there.”

  “Ah.” He smiles. “I see.”

  I stare at him for a moment; I should ask him a question now. “Are . . . you going home?” I say.

  “Yes.”

  I nod, unsure what to say next, so I choose the lame option and stare back out the window.

  The attendant walks around with a bottle of champagne and glasses.

  Glasses. Since when do airlines give you a real glass?

  Oh right, first class. I knew that.

  “Would you like some champagne to take off with, sir?” the flight attendant asks him. I notice that her name tag says JESSICA.

  “That would be lovely.” He smiles and turns to me. “Make that two, please.”

  I frown as she pours two glasses of champagne and passes one to him and one to me. “Thank you.” I smile.

  I wait for Jessica to move out of earshot. “Do you always order drinks for other people?” I ask.

  He looks surprised by my statement. “Did it bother you?”

  “Not at all,” I huff. Damn this Mr. Fancy Pants for thinking he can order for me. “I do like to order my own drinks, though.”

  He smiles. “Well, you can order the next ones, then.” He raises his glass to me and smirks; then he takes a sip. He seems amused by my annoyance.

  I stare at him deadpan. This could be victim number two of my cutting today. I am not in the mood for some rich old bastard to boss me around. I sip my champagne as I look out the window. Well, he’s not really old. Maybe mid- to late thirties. I mean, old compared to me; I’m twenty-five. But whatever.

  “I’m Jim,” he says as he holds his hand out to shake mine.

  Oh God, now I have to be polite. I shake his hand. “Hi, Jim. I’m Emily.”

  His eyes dance with mischief. “Hello, Emily.”

  His eyes are big, bright blue, and dreamy, the kind I could get lost in. But why is he looking at me like that?

  The plane begins to travel slowly down the runway, and I look between the earphones and armrest. Where do these plug in? They’re high tech, the kind that overconfident YouTubers use. They don’t even have a cord. I look around. Well, this is stupid. How do I plug them in?

  “They’re Bluetooth,” Jim interrupts me.

  “Oh,” I mutter, feeling stupid. Of course they are. “Right.”

  “You haven’t flown first class before?” he asks.

  “No. I got an upgrade. Some weirdo threw my bag across the airport when he was drunk. I think the guy at the desk felt sorry for me.” I give him a lopsided smile.

  He rolls his lips as if amused and sips his champagne; his eyes linger on my face as if he has something on his mind.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Perhaps the guy at the desk thought you were gorgeous and upgraded you to try to impress you.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.” I sip my champagne as I try to hide my smile. That’s an odd thing to say. “Is that what you would do?” I ask. “If you were at the desk, would you upgrade women to impress them?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I smirk.

  “Impressing a woman you’re attracted to is crucial,” he continues.

  I stare at him as I try to get my brain to keep up with the conversation. Why does that statement sound flirty? “And do tell . . . how would you impress a woman you’re attracted to?” I ask, fascinated.

  His eyes hold mine. “Offer her a window seat.”

  The air crackles between us, and I bite my lip to hide my goofy smile.

  “You’re trying to impress me?” I ask.

  He gives me a slow, sexy smile. “How am I doing?”

  I smirk, unsure what to say.

  “I’m simply saying that you’re attractive, nothing more and nothing less. Don’t read into it. It was a statement, not a question.”

  “Oh.” I stare at him, lost for words. What do I even say to that? Statement, not a question . . . huh? Don’t read into it. This guy is weird . . . and utterly gorgeous.

  The plane begins to take off with speed, and I hold on to my armrests and scrunch my eyes shut.

  “You don’t like takeoffs?” he asks.

  “Do I look like I like takeoffs?” I wince as I hang on for dear life.

  “I love them,” he replies casually. “I love the feeling of power as it surges forward. That g-force throwback.”

  Okay . . . why is everything coming out of his mouth sounding sexual?

  God, I need to get laid . . . stat.

  I exhale and stare out the window as we go higher and higher. I don’t have the energy for this guy to play cute today. I’m tired, I’m hungover, I look crappy, and my ex is a douche. I want to go to sleep and wake up next year.

  I decide I’ll watch a movie. I begin to flick through the choices on the screen in front of me.

  He leans over and says, “Great minds think alike. I’m watching a movie too.”

  I fake a smile. Just stop being all hot and in my space. You’re probably married to a vegan yoga nut who does meditation and shit.

  “Great,” I mutter deadpan. I should have flown coach; at least I wouldn’t have had to inhale the scent of beautiful man for eight long, sexless hours.

  I scroll through my screen and then narrow it down to my choices.

  How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days.

  Pride and Prejudice.

  The Heat.

  Jumanji . . . well, that has the Rock in it—it has to be good.

  Notting Hill.

  The Proposal.

  50 First Dates.

  Bridget Jones’s Diary.

  Pretty Woman.

  Sleepless in Seattle.

  Magic Mike XXL.

  I smile at the choices, all of my favorites lined in a row; this flight is going to be a dream. I haven’t seen the sequel to Magic Mike yet, so I might start with that one. I glance over to look at what Jim has picked, and I see the heading come up.

  Lincoln.

  Ugh . . . a political movie. Who watches that stuff for fun? I should have known he’d be boring.

  He reaches up and taps the screen, and I catch sight of his
watch. A chunky silver Rolex. Ugh, and he has money too.

  Typical.

  “What are you going to watch?” he asks.

  Oh no . . . I don’t want to appear ditzy. “I’m not sure yet,” I reply. Damn you . . . I want to watch men strip. “What are you watching?” I ask.

  “Lincoln. I’ve been meaning to see it for a long time.”

  “Sounds boring,” I say.

  He smiles at my answer. “I’ll let you know.” He puts his earphones on and begins to watch his movie, and I scroll through my choices again. I really want to watch Magic Mike XXL. Does it matter if he sees? No . . . that’s just embarrassing. It makes me look desperate.

  Who am I kidding? I am desperate. I haven’t seen a dick in over a year.

  I tap on The Proposal. I’ll swap one fantasy for another. I’ve always dreamed of having Ryan Reynolds as my personal assistant. The movie begins, and I smile at the screen. I love this movie. No matter how many times I watch it, I always laugh. Gammy is my favorite.

  “You’re watching a romance?” he asks.

  “A rom-com,” I reply. For God’s sake, this guy is nosy.

  He smirks as if he’s better than me.

  “More champagne?” the flight attendant asks.

  Blue Eyes looks over at me. “Here’s your chance to order for us.”

  I stare at him flatly; all right, he’s beginning to piss me off now. “We’ll have two, please.”

  “What do you like about rom-coms?” he asks as he keeps his eyes on the screen in front of him.

  “Men who don’t talk during movies,” I whisper into my champagne glass.

  He smiles broadly to himself.

  “What do you like about . . .” I pause because I don’t even know what Lincoln is about. “Political films?” I ask. “The fact that they’re boring as all hell?”

  “I just like true stories, regardless of what they are.”

  “So do I,” I reply. “That’s why I like romance. Love is true.”

  He chuckles into his glass as if amused.

  I glance over at him. “What does that mean?”

  “Rom-coms are as far from reality as you can get. I bet you’re the type who reads trashy romance novels too.”

  I stare at him flatly. I think I hate this man. “I am, actually . . . and if you must know, I’m watching Magic Mike XXL after this so I can watch gorgeous men take their clothes off.” I sip my champagne in annoyance. “And I’ll smile through the whole damn thing, regardless of your snooty judgment.”