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The five or so hours I flew from New York to Copeland when I first took my job as Chief Medical Examiner felt like an eternity. With turbulence that made my stomach roll and a snowstorm warring in the December cold. With a man who sat beside me, his hands toohandsy, and his cologne too smelly.
Those five hours dragged into forever.
But these five hours with Archer are like floating on a cloud. Like sinking into a bath filled with warm water and lounging against a man’s chest.
Theman’s.
My husband.
Which is the best chest of them all for lounging against.
“That might have been the most comfortable flight I’ve ever experienced in my life.” I should be bugging out of my skin. Missing my work and wondering what everyone is doing back at the George Stanley. I shoulddefinitelybe out of sorts and eagerto go home to my shitty apartment in a four-floor walk-up, to the annoying cat I never asked for, and the life that is just…hard.
Because hard is all I know, and so, I find comfort in familiarity.
But that’s not how I feel today. Champagne in mid-air and honeymoon sex act as drugs to me. Dopamine hits I can get nowhere else. I wear a strappy top to combat the heat outside and feel completely at ease with the amount of skin I show when, typically, I prefer more coverage.
Honeymoon meis relaxed, I guess. Content.
“You look a little stoned there, Chief.” Smirking, Archer looks across the small table as our plane taxis along the private airstrip somewhere on the coast of Florida. His eyes dance with happiness, and when he reaches across, his fingers draw intoxicating patterns against my already-sensitized skin. “You okay in there?”
“Shush.” I glance out the window and across the wingspan of an exceptionally fancy jet, spying hangars lining the strip and dozens of small to medium planes taking up residence side-by-side. “I had sex on a plane. And although science says altitude doesnotaffect alcohol tolerance any differently than normal, I feel like my champagne was a smidge…” I lift my hand to show him my thumb and finger, a half inch apart, “stronger.”
He chuckles, drawing my hand closer and pressing his lips to my wrist the way Gomez Addams devours Morticia’s on the regular. “You’re buzzed.”
“I’m happy,” I counter with a happy sigh. “And I think that’s probably an okay thing to be on one’s honeymoon.”
“It absolutely is. In fact,” he peers up from beneath naturally long lashes and gifts me with his emerald stare. “I intend to keep you buzzed from here until we land back in Copeland seven days from now. You ready to move on to the next stage?”
“How many stages are there, exactly?” Pleasure rolls in the back of my throat, my body barely aware that we’re moving. The slowing and starting that typically brings nausea to the forefront of my mind, nowhere to be found. Which is probably a compliment I should give the pilots. “And how long until we reach our destination?”
“You’re one of those ‘get there’ types, huh?” He kisses my wrist a second time. “Isn’t there beauty in the journey?”
“Not if you’re me. I prefer to get where we’re going, so when we arrive, I can finally relax.”
“Well…” He glances over his shoulder at the sucking release of the door at the front of the plane. “I guess you’re in luck, then. Because we’ll be arriving in about an hour.”
My pulse jumps faster, but I swing my gaze back out the windows to find… well, not a lot has changed, really. Except now we’ve stopped moving, and a shimmering black car waits for us outside. A man in a pressed black suit, black sunglasses, and a hat stands guard by the car door. And though I suppose I could just assume he’s a regular driver living a regular life, it’s impossible not to notice the gun strapped to his hip.
The tattoos that slink out from the sleeve of his shirt and down to cover his hand.
Slowly, I bring my focus back to Archer. “Armed guard? Do you think that’s entirely necessary?”
“Normally, the answer would be no.” He pushes up, extending to his full six feet, three inches in height. But then he carefully brings me up, too, his eyes boring into mine as I straighten out. He smells of home. Of comfort. Of masculine woodsy scents and everything I’ve come to expect wherever I go. “But since we’re flying private and landing at this airstrip, it’s important we have lookouts. People might mistake me for Felix.”
“And we all know everyone wants to hurt Felix,” I concede. I allow him to pull me under his arm and wrap himself over me, soour hands remain clasped, but his dangles over the front of my shoulder. Then I turn toward the front of the plane. Toward the hostess who for sure expected toserviceher passengers today.
We start forward, empty-handed except for the bag Archer sweeps up when we pass the next set of seats. He made sure to pack my meds. To keep them bagged and cold, so they remain stable and usable for our week away from home. And though he trusted the flight crew to stow the rest of our luggage, he was taking no chances with my Factor packs.
An unnecessary action, really. But so sweet and thoughtful, the love he shows makes my stomach fizz with anticipation.
“Will we be seeing Felix at any point over these next seven days?”
He snorts. “I fuckin’ hope not. It’s not a honeymoon if my brother tags along.” He dips his chin as we approach the door. “Thank you, Jacinta.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Malone.” She lowers her gaze in submission when our eyes meet. “I hope you enjoy the remainder of your vacation.” Carefully bringing her focus up, she smiles. “I’ll see you both in one week.”
“She’s nice.” I step out of the plane and onto the stairs that lead directly to the car at the bottom. Wind whips my hair in every direction, and the roar of other jets coming and going means I have to speak louder to be heard. “Too young to be mixed up with the mob,” I clarify. “Way too young to be banging Felix.”
