My stomach flips.
Roman looks down at me, and for once, I cannot read him. “What do you think we’re doing?”
I press my lips together. They’re still tingling. “I was repaying a debt.”
His eyes drop to my mouth. Only for a second, but enough to make my pulse trip. “That was not repayment,” he says, and then sighs. “You need to rest.”
I purse my lips, almost argue, but then tip my head back and give into the urge to close my eyes.
I wake to the smell of butter.
And for a few seconds, I have no idea where I am.
The world is dim and golden around me, humming softly beneath my body. My seat is no longer a seat. It has been turnedinto something wide and soft, almost a bed, with a blanket tucked over my legs and a pillow behind my head. The little lamp beside me glows warm against polished wood. Beyond the oval window, there is only darkness and clouds, the wing light blinking red in the distance.
We are flying. I’m in the air.
For one horrifying second, my stomach drops.
Then I remember the vodka. The lounge. The kiss. Roman crouched between my knees, fastening my seatbelt. Roman’s mouth on mine.
My face heats so fast I almost pull the blanket over my head, but instead, I turn.
He’s sitting beside me, reading something on a tablet, one ankle crossed over the other, shirtsleeves rolled back beneath his jacket. Calm. Severe. Beautiful in a way that feels unfair at this hour.
A tray table is open in front of me.
And it’s covered in food. Not airplane snacks. Actual food.
There is warm bread in a linen basket. Butter curled into tiny roses. A bowl of berries. Smoked salmon arranged beside lemon and capers. A small plate of pasta glazed in cream. Roasted vegetables. A chocolate dessert in a glass cup. A silver pot of tea. Juice. Water. A little dish of nuts.
I stare at it.
Roman glances over. “You’re awake.”
“I think I died and became rich.”
His mouth does not quite smile. “Eat.”
I look at the food again, and suddenly I’m starving.
The nerves, the humiliation, the running away, the alcohol, all of it has left a hollow ache in my stomach. I sit up too quickly and regret it immediately.
Roman reaches for my water before I ask. “Slowly.”
“I’m fine.”
His eyes lift.
I take the glass. “Fine-ish.”
“That’s closer to the truth.”
I drink half the water, then reach for the bread.
It’s warm. Actually warm.
I make a small sound before I can stop myself.
