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DARLA JAMES STOOD IN THE WINDING security line at JFK airport trying not to think about the moment the plane would take off with her inside it. That moment when the massive steel cage, otherwise known as “the plane,” would lift into the air with nothing she perceived as logical to keep it from falling to the ground. She pressed her hand to her throat, mentally reprimanding herself. She had to get past this fear of flying if she was going to travel to the various audition cities. Darla had been hired as the new judge on season two of the smash hit Stepping Up. The studio was even allowing her to film her morning show on the road, despite it being on a competing network. She wasn’t about to blow this opportunity over some dumb fear of flying. She would pass through the security gates. She would not turn away and run back to her car. This was too big an opportunity for her to mess up, even more so for her parents’ struggling ranch and animal shelter.
Darla blew a wayward strand of long blond hair from her face and noted the televisions hanging from the ceiling. A perky cooking channel goddess was muted, but it was clear that she was describing how to make a strawberry cake. Darla welcomed the distraction the show offered, telling herself that she might recreate that perfect masterpiece in her own kitchen. Although she was better known for burning a grilled cheese sandwich or two.
By the time Darla made it past the metal detectors, she was eager to double-check her stock of necessities for the flight. She should have a package of Hershey’s kisses, her favorite romance author’s latest book and her headphones. Anything not easily spotted per a quick inspection would be purchased at the gift shop. Those items represented her best hope that she wouldn’t embarrass herself on the plane. Anything to avoid wayward yelps during takeoff or panicked questions about the sounds the plane might make. She’d been there, done that, and received the dirty looks of those who were not afraid to fly. She hated those looks.
The plastic bin containing her things slid to a halt in front of her and with her plan in place and fifteen minutes to spare before boarding, Darla whirled toward departures. That was when she was hit with her first wave of turbulence. Coming face-to-face with Blake Nelson—her show nemesis—or rather, face-to-chest with him, considering the man was a good foot taller than her measly five foot two inches, was bad news. She swallowed hard, not having to look beyond the navy T-shirt stretching across an impressive chest to be convinced of Blake’s good looks. She already got his appeal thanks to another up-close-and-personal occasion she wished she could forget.
Darla tore her gaze from his impressive set of pecs. She wondered what her weakness for a man who had been downright mean to her a few months before said about her. Sadly, she concluded that her producer, Kayla—two years her senior at twenty-nine and happily married to a gorgeous veterinarian—was right. Darla must really have a secret, self-defeating mechanism when it came to relationships. She was attracted to all the wrong men.
Blake’s brilliant blue gaze captured hers and twinkled in a moment of mischief before he glanced down at her socked feet peeking beneath her blue jeans. He arched a dark brow. “I always seem to catch you with your shoes off.”
She grimaced at the reference to their “incident” as she thought of it, in which they’d been working a red carpet event, side by side, when her heel had broken off her shoe. She’d proceeded to stumble happily against that hard body of his. He’d reciprocated by catching her and flirting outrageously. Unfortunately, his camera crew had captured the entire embarrassing event on film.
“I’d have thought you’d gotten the shoe jokes out of your system when you made fun of me on your show the next morning,” she muttered, and then marched toward the line of chairs just past security and sat down.
He followed, stopping in front of her—or rather, towering over her. She refused to look up at him and instead, infuriatingly, noticed his powerful thighs flex beneath his jeans. Not that his muscles—or that sexy cleft in his chin mattered. He was not the man for her.
“My guest made fun of you,” he said, as if that gave him some form of defense. “Not me.”
Her gaze jerked to his, anger brought her back to her senses. “You played the footage of our exchange on your show. Your guest—Rick—was the host of Stepping Up not The Blake Nelson Show. He didn’t have the power to make that happen.”
“Rick plotted with my producer who was fishing for ratings. I told him off and my producer. And I called you to apologize.”
