I was not assured. “And what kind of plane is this again?”
“It’s a Cessna Skyhawk.”
“Indeed.”
I walked around the plane. But the more I looked, the less reassured I was. When Max had said private plane, maybe stupidly I’d not imagined something so small. It had a propeller. It had little wheel legs that looked as if they could be snapped in a strong breeze.
“I don’t think it’s going to fit all my luggage and gear in,” I said, changing my tune a little.
“You’ll be surprised how much she can take.” The pilot patted the plane affectionately and smiled at me. I did not smile back. I reached for the sunflower tattoo on my arm and rubbed it gently, trying to ease away the panic that was building inside me. I did this whenever I didn’t feel safe. I hated feeling unsafe.Hated it.And I did everything possible to avoid any kind of potentially dangerous situation. No one likes feeling unsafe, but I disliked it more than most, because of what had happened to me and my family. Because I know that life can simply just end. In a sudden, unexpected split second. One moment a person is sitting next to you, breathing and laughing, and the next second that person is gone forever. I looked down at the tattoo and took a deep breath.
“Okay! Okay!” I said out loud, psyching myself up. At least I wasn’t going to be alone on the plane. If I was going to die in this little flying tin box, then at least I would not be dying alone.
I heard a car and turned. Another transfer vehicle had arrived and this had to be Max. My stomach swelled in anticipation. I was dying to put a face to the man I’d been having some of the nicest conversations with, which had progressed into flagrant flirting with a possible cheese date to boot. The man that I’d decided to temporarily drop my detox for because I had this little voice in the back of my head whispering at me, and a flutter in my stomach that had been there for a while, every time I saw his name drop into my inbox.
The back door of the car opened, and he climbed out. First thing I noticed was his height—he was tall. Next was his physique. Broad shoulders, muscular-looking all over. He clearly worked out. It didn’t surprise me. Everyone who lived in Cape Town worked out. It was a prerequisite for living here, almost a clause in some silent contract you signed when you moved to the Cape. His hair was longer than I’d expected, though. For some reason, I’d imagined a clean, short cut. But it wasn’t. It was slightly shaggy and hung around his face. It was an ashy blond color and had the slightest wave to it. I’d also imagined him to be clean shaven, but he wasn’t. He was bearded. It wasnotone of those huge hipster beads, but it also wasn’t a five o’clock shadow—it was more a three-day shadow. He was still in profile, pulling his bag from the backseat, but then he turned. He was wearing dark glasses. Strands of hair fell into his face as he ran his hand through his hair, pushing it back with a smooth, self-assured sexiness that dripped off him like a wet sponge being squeezed between your hands.
Holy shit, he was hot!
His walk too. This was the walk of a man that knew where he was going—straight to the bedroom, maybe?He was wearing shorts, a T-shirt, Adidas sneakers, nothing like I’d imagined. For some reason in my befuddled mind, Maximillian Adam wore a suit and tie. He did not wear casual clothes that made him look as if he was walking down a beach on holiday and any second now about to peel his clothes off to dive into the sea . . . (or into someone’s bed). He got closer to me, still closer, and then something peculiar happened. He pulled his sunglasses off and I saw his eyes.
My breath stuck in my throat. I forgot how to breathe entirely for a moment as I locked eyes with him.
I stumbled backwards. “What the—the . . . what?” I’d lost all words.
The hair was totally different! His physique was nothing vaguely like it had been! The face had become more masculine, beard hiding the lines and shapes of the jaw, but those eyes. Those icy blue eyes. I would recognize those eyes anywhere, because I had stared into those eyes for years and those were the eyes that had made regular, and I must say very unwanted, appearances in my dreams too. He was still walking towards me. The boy, now turned very much man, who had broken my heart and sent me into a cursed downward sexual spiral, was walking towards me with those unmistakable eyes. I had no idea what was going on, what to make of it all, and what I was supposed to do, and then he was standing right in front of me. And if there had been the slightest doubt in my mind, it was all gone.
It was him.
I managed a garbled, “What the . . . fuck? Fuck!” before the unimaginable happened. The unimaginable that sent me right back in time fifteen years ago. I stepped backwards, trying to move away from Logan, but the general shock of the moment had me shaking and my knee simply buckled under me. I felt myself falling backwards, and in that slow-motion fall, I imagined how painful it would be to hit my head on the tarmac. As I was contemplating this, something tightened round my wrist. As if a time-machine had been turned on, I was in the corridor at school all over again, the new boy catching me as I almost fell to the floor. The cute new boy grabbing me by the wrist, hoisting me up until we were face to face, eyes locked and falling in love at first sight as we disappeared into each other’s gazes.
He pulled me up. The tarmac was getting further away, but he was getting closer.No, this was not happening. I refused to let this happen.Not this time.
I pulled my arm from his tight grip, yanking it free with such force that my whole body began to fall. And now it was my face that was rushing towards the tarmac.
This was really,reallygoing to hurt. But then I felt two big hands round my waist and my whole body stopped falling. My heart was thrashing inside my chest, adrenalin pumping so hard that it took me a few seconds to realize that I was now suspended, in a dangling position. My fingertips were touching the tarmac—it was all very reminiscent of a few nights ago, when I’d found myself dangling from a chair.
“Shit,” I hissed under my breath, and looked backwards over my shoulder. I knew exactly what kind of position I was in and what view I was currently presenting. It was all very doggy-style-esque, only this time the man whose groin was pressed into my ass was my ex-boyfriend. I stood up as fast as I could, my back smashing into what felt like a solid wall. It was his chest. I froze.
“You okay?” His mouth was so, so close to my ear. Too close. Our bodies were pressed up against each other in the most intimate way possible, his hands still on my waist. This was exactly what I’d been trying to avoid with all my stepping and pulling—and look where it had landed me. Right back to thirteen years ago.
Oh God, he smelled good.
“Ash, are you okay?” he asked again.
“L . . . L . . . Logan?” I heard myself say.
“Hello, Ash.”
I looked down at my waist. His hands had grown. His fingers wrapped round me so completely and I . . . I . . .
“Get your hands off me!” I pushed myself away and then swung round to face him. And this time I found the words.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
He smiled at me. And despite how much he’d changed in other ways, I recognized that smile. It was slightly obscured by the beard, but it was the same. That little lopsided smile I used to tease him playfully about. The one that gave him a deeper dimple in his left cheek than his right, which I’d thought was the cutest thing in the entire world. Those dimples had once made him cute and boyish, but now they were gone, covered by that beard and there was no longer anything cute and boyish about this man standing in front of me.
“What are you doing here?” I whipped my head around, frantically looking for Max. Where was he and why,oh why the hell, was my ex-boyfriend here?
