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“Oh, come on.” She grabs me by the elbow. “I’m sure he won’t find out about one drink.”
“You say that because you don’t know my father.” I let her lead me up the stairs anyway. “He could find a fly in the Atlantic Ocean if he puts his mind to it. Jer inherited that trait, you know, and sometimes, I feel left out of the cool Volkov club.”
Cecily stiffens and I pause in the middle of the stairs. “What’s up?”
“Uh, nothing.”
“You went all rigid at the mention of my father and brother. Considering you never met Papa, and all the strategic disappearing you do when my brother is around, I guess this is about Jer?”
“Nooo.” She laughs awkwardly.
“That didn’t sound convincing.”
“You know your brother is scary.”
“Didn’t scare you that time you defended me at the fight club.”
“Maybe I should’ve been scared,” she mutters under her breath.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing, nothing.” She leads me up the stairs and we sit down opposite each other on the luxurious velvet seats.
A flight attendant brings us two flutes of champagne and we make a toast before we drink.
Or I drink.
Cecily watches me the whole time with a downward expression.
“This looks oddly familiar, as if I’m the one who’s going on a flight.” I grin, then pause. “Is it just me or do I sound drunk after just one glass of champagne?”
Cecily stands up. “I’ll be right back.”
I try to follow her with my gaze but even my body feels drunk.
Papa will kill me.
Unless I convince Mom and Yan to smuggle me inside.
I stand up and the plane sways off its axis.
Shit.
I’m thrown backward and I hit a wall.
No. Not a wall.Muscles.
A very familiar scent fills my nostrils, confiscates my breathing, and leaves me floundering and gasping for air. My body heats and my heartbeat picks up in recognition of this touch.
The same touch I fell asleep with countless of times.
I think I’m dreaming. Again.
Like those tortuous nights where I imagine myself snuggled in these solid arms. Where everything is back to before my world was ruined.
But his deep, rich voice sounds absolutely real when he whispers, “Did you think it was over, little purple?”
Yes, I want to say, but my tongue is too heavy. Too big. Toounnatural.
