My heart rate skyrockets as heat crawls up my neck.
Oh God.
But when I imagine seeinghimshirtless, my skin threatens to burn right through my sweater. His dress shirts do a terrible job at hiding his broad shoulders, sculpted biceps, and defined pecs. I know that when I see what lies beneath the thin layer of his clothes, I won’t be able to stifle my reaction.
I add two more suits to the cart before I can talk myself out of it. I hover over the checkout button while my bank account whimpers in the background.
Click.
A rush of adrenaline zips from my chest to my fingertips as I finalize the order.
Oh my God.
It’s happening.
I’m going on vacation with Owen freaking Brooks in a few weeks.
Three weeks feels like forever and no time at all. My brain races with all the things I need to do before then: laundry, find my passport, shave every inch of my body, find a dress for the wedding, pack, learn to keep a neutral face when someone asks if Owen and I are together, and practice not passing away from embarrassment when he blatantly tells people we’rejust friends.
Just as I’m coming down from my self-deprecating spiral, my phone buzzes on the coffee table. I lunge for my phone when I see Owen’s name flash on the screen.
Full name as it appears on your driver’s license? I already know your birthday. Updating the reservation right now.
Another text follows before I can even process that he knows my birthday by heart.
Also, window or aisle seat? Choose wisely. This says a lot about you as a person.
An involuntary smile stretches across my face.
Is that even a real question? Window all the way.
Makes sense. You seem like the type of person who gets emotionally invested in cloud shapes.
I roll my eyes.
It’s called imagination. You should try it sometime.
Can’t. Too busy booking your luxury flight experience.
I bite my lip, giddy that we’re even having this conversation. I know I agreed to go at the last minute, so it only makes sense that Owen’s covering everything. But still, he hasn’t asked me for a single dime. It shouldn't make me feel special, but it does.
At least let me buy you a drink on the flight.
The good kind?
Yes, the whiskey kind. Obviously.
Fine. Oh, and I’m calling dibs on the armrest.??
He adds a winky face emoji, letting me know he’s joking.
You’re insufferable.
And yet, you agreed to go on a seven-day trip with me.
If I were on a reality show, the world would be judging me as I sit here and giggle like a schoolgirl. Fawning over a man who has absolutely zero romantic feelings for me.
He sends another text, softer this time.
