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f hair from my face and tucks it behind my ear. “Thank you.”
We overhear on the loudspeaker that our flight will be boarding soon, so Tate pays for the drink, and we move toward the gate. I feel the champagne coursing through my bloodstream, and as we’re walking, I take Tate’s hand in mine. He willingly interlocks his fingers with mine and keeps me close. I can’t help but look down at the rock on my finger and wish it were really mine, and so was he. It’s all too good to be true.
We’re flying first class, which is something that I’ve never done before. Once we’re on the plane and seated, Tate turns and looks at me. My hand is still in his, and it feels right.
“Are you comfortable?” Tate asks as I’m served another glass of champagne. I already feel more than tipsy, but I willingly take the drink of liquid courage.
“As long as you’re by my side,” I say, meeting his eyes.
He gives me a side grin, and for the first time, I notice he has one dimple in his cheek. Oh my God, this man is going to be the end of me.
The flight from Montana to Chicago is only about two hours, so Tate and I enjoy pleasant conversation all the while. His thumb brushes across the top of mine as we’re entirely engulfed in conversation and eye contact. I love the feeling of it. There’s something protective and territorial about my hand being in his.
“I have to be honest with you about something,” Tate says.
“What’s that?”
“It’s going to be hard for me to keep my hands off of you this week,” he explains. “Especially since people will hear we’re engaged.”
I nod, welcoming his touch, but I don’t say as much.
“If at any time I go too far, tell me.” His tone becomes serious.
“I promise,” I whisper.
“Good,” Tate says, as though his conscience has been appeased.
“And I want you to speak up,” I say, turning the tables. “If I ever do anything that violates your space in any way.”
Tate starts laughing, and I do the same. Before I can control myself, I lean over and place my lips upon his. It’s a tender and soft kiss, but I’ve been dying to do since in the airport. His lips part and I feel him almost sigh. Tate places his hand behind my neck and deepens the kiss. We’re lost in each other, and I think I could kiss him until the plane lands. Before things get too heated, I pull back and meet his eyes.
“Did that violate your space?” I ask.
Tate’s eyes are closed like he is relishing in the memory of it.
“That was the best violation I’ve ever experienced.”
“More champagne?” a flight attendant asks.
“No,” I say.
“Yes,” Tate says.
“Oh my God, you’re trying to get me drunk.” I laugh.
More champagne arrives, and Tate starts downing it. Even though the physical chemistry between us is blossoming, I can sense Tate’s growing tension, like he’s trying to medicate himself before dealing with his family. I wish I could do something to help, but I don’t know what that would be.
“We’re making our final descent toward Chicago,” a voice over the loudspeaker says.
“Here we go,” I say and wraps his arm around me. I explained how much I hate flying and as I’m in his arms, smelling his cologne, I can’t think of anything but him.
“You might have to carry me off this plane,” I admit, the alcohol streaming through my body.
“I will,” he tells me, and a Cheshire grin crosses his Tate’s face, and I can tell that he’s been emboldened in some way. Just as soon as the plane lands and the passengers begin to retrieve their bags from the overhead compartments, Tate takes it upon himself to literally pick me up in his strong arms.
“Tate, you can’t be serious,” I say.
“This is all your fault,” he says. “You asked for it!”
