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The baby would be no chaperone at all. Her presence might occasionally serve as a distraction, but according to Shandy’s now-famous binder, Ayla went to bed every night at seven thirty sharp and slept until morning.
What would Felicity do with all those hours?
When she closed her eyes and pretended to doze, all she could see were images of a mostly naked Wynn running into her in the hall.
In the wee hours of the morning, a man and a woman with a past could make all sorts of mistakes.
And then there was the terrifying truth.
Felicity still wanted Wynn Oliver. Physically. Her body recognized his and demanded attention. How was she going to conceal her desire, her urgent, not-so-inexplicable visceral need?
She was thirty-three years old. There had been a handful of men in her bed. Nice men. Decent men. But none of them long-term and none who made her feel like Wynn had when he’d made love to her.
The engines roared. Felicity settled back and tried to relax as the plane took off. The flight to New York was less than two hours. Though she remained seated with her belt fastened—and couldn’t see over the seats in front of her—she knew the baby must have fallen asleep, because after thirty minutes, she could see Wynn working on his computer.
Her stomach was jumpy and queasy...filled with equal parts dread and excitement. She would miss her friends and coworkers. Still, this challenge—though fraught with pitfalls—had energized her.
As she gazed at the fluffy clouds outside her small window, she remembered one of the last times she had seen Wynn before his sister’s funeral. Felicity had been assigned to the first-class cabin on the Atlanta-to-Heathrow route. Wynn had walked onto that plane and stolen every iota of her professional poise.
After the initial meal, when he lowered his seat all the way flat and pulled the comforter over himself, tucking his head on a down pillow, Felicity had asked to swap aisles with her teammate.
It had required a clunky explanation, but Felicity wouldn’t have survived the night if she’d had to walk past a sleeping Wynn for six hours. Even from the other side of the plane, she had still been able to see him.
In slumber, he looked vulnerable and approachable. She knew that was a lie. When she had brought him his dinner tray earlier, he looked right through her as if he had never seen her before.
His reaction hurt. A lot.
When she thought back to that London trip, the memory still ached. She remembered thinking the overnight flight would never end. The following morning when breakfast was served, Felicity watched, pained, as Wynn smiled at the flight attendant who should have been Felicity.
Only once, just before landing, had Wynn glanced Felicity’s way. Their gazes met. Something passed between them, and she knew suddenly that he had absolutely been as aware of her as she had been of him.
That was a year and a half ago. She hadn’t seen him since...not until the terrible day of Shandy’s funeral.
Felicity barely noticed when the plane hit turbulence. Her thoughts were occupied with Wynn and Ayla, much like they had been since that bitterly cold day at the cemetery.
She learned her lesson at the funeral. Today she wore comfortable black knit pants with a royal blue silk shell and a matching black jacket. It was warm in the cabin. Her blazer was folded on the seat beside her. The low-heeled black pumps sat under the seat in front of her while she flexed her feet.
Why hadn’t she asked Wynn more questions?
She knew the answer. After that day at his house, she had been desperate to get home and shore up her weakening defenses. No more contact that wasn’t strictly necessary.
She leaned out into the aisle and peeked toward the front of the aircraft. The baby must still be sleeping. Wynn was hard at work. She wondered when he slept. She had a feeling his phone never left his reach.
All she could see of him was one shoulder and the top of his head. But she remembered her first glimpse that morning. The same black wool overcoat. Underneath, another expensive suit, this one dark navy. He’d even worn a tie, which seemed a tad over-the-top, but what did Felicity know about the current Wynn Oliver? Maybe he wore those elegant silk ties to bed.
Thinking about Wynn and ties and bed in the same breath was not wise. She was already anxious about the upcoming living arrangements.
She knew he lived in an expensive co-op apartment one block off Park Avenue. He’d promised her it was plenty big for the three of them. And that Felicity would have her own space and her own time away from him and the baby. But that was the funny thing about promises. Sometimes they were just words used as bargaining chips.
Landing at LaGuardia and deplaning with a wealthy, well-known New Yorker was a far different proposition than struggling at baggage claim with the hoi polloi who flew coach. A private car and three employees stood ready to load Wynn’s entourage and whisk them away with minimum fuss.
Wynn had spent a great deal of his career working with airlines and FAA officials. He knew most of the people at the airport on sight, even the ground crew. Though his success could have made him dismissive of underlings, Wynn was courteous and kind, probably because he remembered his own humble beginnings.
At the car, Felicity was stunned to see Wynn change the baby’s diaper and then take the car seat and install it himself. When she said as much, he shot her a wry look. “Ayla is mine now. I won’t cut corners when it comes to her safety and well-being.”
“Do you trust me?” she asked, still not sure of his answer.
He tightened the last strap and backed out of the car. His gaze sharpened. “You wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
