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No was the very last thing I wanted to say to you.
I shake my head and reach for my carry-on. Unfortunately, little sleep and almost an entire bottle of champagne renders me inebriated, even with the breakfast I stuffed in my face. I miss the handle and stumble forward.
“Whoa.” Lexington’s wide palms wrap around my waist, preventing me from face-planting into the floor.
Crap. I need to get it together. I’m embarrassing myself in front of him yet again. He pulls out a chair, turns me around, and forces me to sit down.
“Drink this, please.” He hands me the glass of orange juice I ignored up until now.
“It has too much sugar in it.” I realize it’s a ridiculous excuse, and one I don’t need to use anymore since fitting into a dress is no longer a priority.
He laughs, then grows serious. Grabbing the chair by both arms, he leans in close. It’s intimate and dominating, the way he has me penned in. Energy crackles between us and I can’t decide if it’s in my head, or maybe because I’m slightly intoxicated, but for a very protracted moment I want to be alone with him. Naked and alone. I want to forget the mess my life is.
He keeps his eyes on mine, his voice low, reserved. “You just polished off most of a bottle of champagne and you’re worried about your sugar consumption? You need liquid that is not alcohol in your system if you want to get on that plane.”
And I’m no longer thinking about him naked. They won’t allow me to board if I’m shit-faced. If I don’t get on that plane now I’ll be stuck here, dealing with the aftermath of my failure of a relationship. I chug the glass and he trades it for the tumbler of water, which I also drain. Lexington pulls a pack of gum from inside his breast pocket. It crinkles as he pushes a square free of the packaging and pops it into his mouth. Repeating the action, he holds the square up to my mouth. Instead of using my fingers, like I should, I part my lips and take what he’s offering.
“Good girl.” His barely audible whisper sends a shiver down my spine.
Our flight number is called again for boarding, this time first class along with zones one and two.
He straightens, holding out a hand. “Shall we?”
I regard his wide palm and long fingers, then lift my gaze to meet his. “Why’re you being so nice to me?”
“Because I want to. Because you don’t deserve what’s happened to you.” His smile is more than sad, some emotion I can’t quite pin down lingering in his gaze. “Come. Let’s get you on that plane.”
I place my fingers on his palm and let him help me out of the chair. The water and juice have dulled the effects of the alcohol marginally, but I accept his assistance when he threads his arm through mine and takes my carry-on in his free hand.
Since we’re seated in first class, we don’t have to wait. Lex keeps a protective hand on my back as we walk down the ramp to the plane. He allows me to go first. As soon as I’m in the cabin I make note of one very important detail: There are only two empty seats in first class and they’re next to each other. Of course we’re sitting together.
I glance at him, then at the seats. “Do you have the window or aisle?”
“I’m fine with either, so you take the one you want the most.” His fingertips press into my spine, urging me forward.
Usually when I traveled with Armstrong I had to take the aisle because he hates it when his elbow gets bumped by the flight attendant’s cart. I selfishly take the window seat.
“Do you need anything from here before I stow this?” Lexington taps the side of my carry-on, a devilish smile pulling up the corner of his mouth.
I resist the urge to flip him off, especially since he just bought me expensive champagne and saved me from being denied access to the plane. I smile cheekily instead and bat my lashes. “I should be fine, thanks, though.”
That smirk of his stays firmly in place as he lifts the bag over his head, securing it in the overhead bin. He moves out of the aisle to allow passengers to pass. I busy myself with the contents of my purse while Lexington shrugs out of his jacket. He’s precise about folding it before he lays it across the arm of his seat. Dropping down beside me, he unfastens his cuff links and rolls his sleeves halfway up his forearms, exposing the colorful artwork on the arm closest to me.
I try not to stare, but it’s so very pretty, and his forearm is so . . . defined. Thickly muscled. All of his muscles are thick. Even the one in his pants. Oh God. I’ve felt his penis.
My cheeks flush and I avert my gaze, focusing on the luggage carts moving across the tarmac outside.
I close my eyes, suddenly exhausted. My brain isn’t even working right. I’ve hardly slept since the wedding and I’m a little drunk. Maybe more than a little. Karmic intervention has nothing to do with us ending up on this plane together. It’s just a strange coincidence.
The feel of my purse being lifted from my lap startles me awake. I reflexively grab it. Strong, warm hands cover mine. “It’s okay, Amalie, it’s just me. I’m not stealing your purse.”
I blink blearily and look around. Right. I’m on a plane. With Lex. Not my husband. Or non-husband. “What’re you doing?” It comes out all slurry.
“We’re taking off. We have to stow this under the seat.”
His use of we makes my heart hurt because I’m just a me now, and my we status lasted less than twelve hours. “Oh. Right.” I relinquish my hold.
Lex leans forward, his shoulder brushing my knee as he carefully places my purse under the seat in front of me. The contact is brief. “You can go back to sleep,” he whispers, squeezing my hand.
I let my eyes fall closed again. I want to thank him, but everything feels too heavy and blackness is so much more alluring than life. So I let consciousness melt away.
Awareness returns with a vengeance. I need to use the bathroom. Badly. Also, my neck is sore. As I adjust my position, it becomes clear that Lex has been functioning as my pillow. I don’t really have time to be embarrassed—yet again—because my bladder is literally screaming at me. Also, Lex is asleep, so maybe he didn’t notice my snuggling with his arm.
I fight with my seatbelt, groaning when I don’t get it on first try. I have to kegel like crazy as I finally manage to unbuckle myself. At least I’m not drunk anymore. Or as drunk. Standing only makes it worse and my knees nearly buckle. Lex’s legs are spread wide, hands clasped in his lap. He looks so put together even while sleeping, and with all that five o’clock shadow covering his jaw. I try to shuffle around him, but my foot gets caught on my purse strap and I stumble, falling right top of him. I brace a hand on each of his shoulders so I don’t smother him with my boobs.
He startles awake. “What the fu—” His hands go to my hips. Low on my hips. Fingertips pressing into the fleshy part of my ass. I’m straddling one of his legs and my skirt is hiked up, the lace band of my thigh-highs barely visible. This is the most impractical outfit to fly in. I should’ve just worn my yoga pants, T-shirt, and flats. Who cares if someone saw me. I could’ve bought a pair of sweats or something in the airport instead of crying in the bathroom, but now I’m stuck in this until we land.
Lex’s confused gaze falls on my chest, which is right in front of his face, and then moves down to where his hands are, and then lower.
“So sorry. Need to pee.” My heel is still caught in my purse strap, though, so I can’t escape. I try to bend to get it, but I can’t reach and I’m making this situation worse with the way my chest bumps his face. I can barely think around my need to pee.
