The door closes. The message is pretty clear. Instant regret.
I stand there in the hallway staring at her closed door, my heart hammering against my ribs, the ghost of her kiss burning like a brand on my lips.
CHAPTER 14
LARK
The plane touches down in Miami with a jolt that makes my stomach swoop unpleasantly. Flying isn’t my favorite thing in the world, never has been. Though the complimentary champagne in first class helped. As did keeping my eyes glued to the in-flight entertainment system for six straight hours, watching three movies back-to-back like my life depended on it.
Anything to avoid talking to Jack. Anything to avoid having to acknowledge what happened last night. Because every time I look at him, all I can think about is kissing him in my hallway. And then running away like a complete idiot.
I don’t know what came over me. It’s like I finally couldn’t fight it anymore, like every moment we’d spent together over the past month just built up until I kissed him before remembering all the reasons why making a move on him is a terrible idea.
He lives in Europe. Insane job that keeps him gone half the year. Serial dater who’s allergic to commitment. I’m already in too deep as it is and a broken heart is practically guaranteed. Plus I have my own shit to focus on—my music, my career,building something that’s mine instead of falling for someone who’ll be onto their next conquest before I can blink.
But the kiss keeps replaying in my mind anyway because, damn, the man cankiss. But now the movies are over and we’re on the ground and I need to fill the silence with something. Anything.
“You know, flying like this is going to ruin me for all future travel,” I tell Jack, stretching my legs in the actually-human-sized legroom. “Going back to coach after this will be like going from a spa day to medieval torture.”
Good. Casual airplane conversation. Nothing awkward about that.
Jack grins as he unbuckles his seatbelt. “Just one of many advantages of fake dating a racing driver. Free drinks and actual legroom at 30,000 feet.”
Right. Fake. A good reminder that I definitely need right now. I clear my throat.
“Bold of you to assume I didn’t fake date you specifically for the airline perks,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “But honestly, if I’d known these were the benefits, I would’ve started fake dating celebrities years ago. I’ve been doing this all wrong.”
He’s been completely normal all morning. Greeting me at the airport like nothing happened, making easy conversation during boarding, offering me the window seat without any weird tension. Meanwhile I’ve been avoiding eye contact for six hours straight.
The flight attendant wishes us a pleasant visit as we deplane into the terminal. Jack pulls a baseball cap low over his eyes and slips on sunglasses, but it doesn’t do much to hide him. Three separate airport employees do double-takes as we walk past, and a group of teenagers whispers excitedly, phones already out and recording. He acknowledges them with a friendly nod butkeeps moving, his hand lightly guiding me through the crowded terminal.
“Does this happen everywhere you go?” I whisper as we navigate toward baggage claim, weaving through clusters of travelers.
“Pretty much,” he says with a shrug, like it’s no big deal. “You get used to it.”
I’m not sure I would ever get used to strangers taking my photo while I’m just trying to walk through an airport, but Jack handles it all with ease. He stops to sign a couple autographs for kids who approach, crouching down to their level and asking their names, and then we’re back on our way.
“Ready for your introduction to Miami summer?” Jack asks as we approach the exit doors.
“How bad can it be? I visit my parents in Southern California pretty regularly,” I reply with a confident shrug. “I can handle a little heat.”
The answer hits me the moment we step outside. This is nothing—NOTHING—like California. It’s like walking face-first into a hot, wet blanket that immediately wraps itself around you and refuses to let go. I swear I can feel the humidity immediately making my hair start to expand to twice its normal size, each strand rebelling against my careful styling, and sweat beading at my hairline within seconds.
“Oh my god,” I say, “Okay I take it back. I take it all back, this is insane.”
Jack laughs, looking completely unfazed. “Welcome to Miami.”
“It’s been ten seconds and I already feel like I’m drowning in it.” I fan myself uselessly with my hand as we make our way through the pickup area. “I should have packed scuba gear. Or gills.”
We walk along the sidewalk for a few minutes and I try not to whine like a complete baby, but after a six-hour flight from Seattle and me having made the catastrophically stupid decision to wear a cardigan, the heat is making me regret every life choice that led to this moment. I fear I have about three more minutes before I turn into the Wicked Witch of the West, melting in a puddle of bad decisions and misplaced confidence.
“Uh, how much further is it?” I ask, feeling my makeup actively sliding off my face with each step.
Jack looks down at me and laughs, his eyes crinkling. “Just right down there. I can see Carlos. You alright over there?”
“Oh I’m good,” I wave it off as though I’m not dissolving into a human puddle. “Just getting my Miami glow on.”
A middle-aged man with brown skin and distinguished salt and pepper hair greets us with a “Midnight” sign next to a sleek black car.
