by Virna DePaul
I’m flabbergasted by what just happened, my mind still reeling, when the plane shakes slightly. Pulled back to reality, I barely stifle a moan of horror.
“What’s your name?” he asks me in a voice that’s just as dreamy as the rest of him.
I want to tell him we’re not at a networking event, but I’m already so embarrassed by my rudeness that I say, “Heather.”
“Ah. Not what I was expecting. From your behavior just now, ‘Brat’ seems more fitting.”
Eyes wide, I stare at him. Did he just—?
I focus my gaze on the seat in front of me.
Why did the hottest and yet most arrogant guy I’ve seen in ages have to sit next to me on the flight from hell? I almost shake my fist at the ceiling. What did I do to deserve this day?
“So, I’m just wondering. What kind of a woman says no to switching seats so a family can sit together?”
I glare at him even as his voice makes my body heat. I desperately tell myself it’s because my body is out of whack from my fear of flying and not because my propensity to be attracted to bad boys is rearing its ugly head again.
“Don’t get your feathers ruffled, Brat. I’m just wondering.”
“Don’t call me a brat.” I grind out the words. One second I’m drooling, the next I want to slap him.
He leans closer to me. “The moniker seems fitting for someone who obviously thinks way too highly of themselves. I’d say you need a good spanking, but something tells me you might enjoy it too much.”
I can’t speak. I inhale, but my heart’s pounding like I’ve run a marathon. I don’t know if I’m more turned on or pissed off. Actually, I think I’m both, but I won’t admit that to him.
“You, you…” I’m stuttering. I’ve been rendered an idiot. Could this day get any worse?
He laughs. “Like I said, don’t get your feathers ruffled. Even if they’re damn fine feathers.” He glances at my sliver of cleavage, his eyes heating.
My nipples, damn them, harden, and I know he sees it.
After slamming down the arm rest between us, I turn away, refusing to look at him anymore. But that doesn’t stop him from talking.
“You didn’t answer my question. What kind of a woman refuses to switch seats? Do you just hate people being together?”
I grind my teeth. “It’s none of your business.”
“Considering I’m the one who ended up switching seats, I think it is. Come on, I’m trying to understand how brats like you think.”
“Probably quite similar to how assholes think, so you should already know.”
He laughs, and the sound sends a shiver through me. “The brat has claws. I’m impressed.” He crowds me, and I realize with a start that he’s put the armrest up. His arm is touching my side. “Do you use those claws regularly? Because I find a little scratching always makes already enjoyable activities all the more enjoyable.”
I can’t help the images that come to mind: his hands skimming up my legs, touching me where I’m already hot and wet. His muscular back marked with scratch marks I put there.
I’m practically panting at this point. I studiously ignore him, though, and look out the window.
This time I can’t stifle my moan of fear when all I see are clouds.
2
Caleb
When I sit down next to the woman who refused to switch seats, I’m not surprised by what I see: she’s wearing what’s clearly a designer outfit, the purse at her feet is similarly expensive, and her hair has been highlighted to perfection. She looks like a total snob, and I’m surprised she’s flying coach rather than first class.
What kind of a bitch says no to a woman and child wanting to sit with her husband?
Despite her behavior, she’s totally gorgeous. Blond hair, creamy skin, and even though she’s sitting down, I can tell she has curves for days. Her breasts are lush, almost straining against her top.
She squeaked when I moved to squeeze by her. Laughing, I sat right down next to her, just to make her sweat. Besides, I never give up the opportunity to sit next to a beautiful woman. Hell, I make my living studying and accentuating the female form.
When I boarded this flight, I expected the usual: boring, long, with stale pretzels for a snack and not much else. But now part of me is intrigued by this woman who was so rude, while the other part is disgusted. She’s just like the kind of people I think of when I think of LA: self-absorbed and thoughtless, full of nothing much but Botox and way too much money.
I turn her name over in my mouth like a piece of candy. Heather. It suits her. Heather the Brat.
Suddenly, this flight has gotten way more interesting. Taking Heather in, making her blush and look like she could happily slap me? I haven’t been this entertained in a while.
I wonder if she’d bite me if I tried to kiss her. Or more. I want to lick her skin, make her shudder and moan underneath me. I want to run my hands through her hair. Maybe grab it as I fuck her from behind. Despite how she’s practically shaking with outrage right now, I wonder if she’d be passionate in bed. For some reason, I have a feeling she would be and I desperately want to find out for myself.
“I’m Caleb, by the way.” I glance at the bag at her feet. “And since you never answered any of my questions, I’ll make some guesses about what kind of woman you are. Sound good?”
She whips her head to stare at me, a scowl on her pretty face. “You just won’t give up, will you?”
“It’s one of my best traits.”
“Who told you that? Your mother? I hate to break it to you, but she lied.”
I just smile as I begin. “You grew up in Los Angeles. Probably Pasadena or Glendale. You went to a fancy prep school, and you were one of the most popular girls. You never had to do your own laundry, or cook a meal, and you got a brand-new car on your sixteenth birthday. Your daddy let his little princess do whatever she wanted if you just made puppy-dog eyes at him.”
When she doesn’t deny any of it, I smirk. “Well?”
“I grew up in Orange County,” she says with a sniff.
“Close enough. You would have flown first class but, like me, you waited too long to make your reservation and first class sold out.” At her expression, I grin. “Looking at your face, I see that I’m right. And now you’re going back to LA to continue your life while thinking that everyone else is beneath you, including that mom sitting next to you.”
She’s red in the face now. “You are the most arrogant, cocky asshole—”
“I’m aware, sweetheart. But you like it, don’t you? No one ever talks to you like this, and it’s turning you on.”
“I—I—” She closes her eyes and inhales, and when she opens them, her eyes are glassy, her mouth parted. I was actually half-joking about my asshole-ways turning her on, mostly because I was enjoying the hell out of her bristling, but she looks so fuckable I suck in a breath, inhaling her perfume and what I like to think is the heated scent of her arousal. I’m getting hard, and I would bet every cent in my considerable bank account that she’s wet. What I wouldn’t give to haul her into the tiny bathroom and take us both to the Mile High Club with a quick, dirty fuck.
“I don’t want you,” she sniffs. “I—”
The plane jolts beneath us. Her eyes widen, and the color in her cheeks drains away when the plane bucks through some nasty turbulence. We bounce in our seats, like someone’s shaking the plane, and I hear a low moan.
I realize it’s Heather. And it’s not a moan of pleasure.
It’s one of fear.
3
Heather
All of the banter and arguing and sexual tension with the man next to me—Caleb—disappears the second we hit turbulence. Logically, I know it’s just a storm causing the sensation like some giant has taken the plane in its fist and is having a bit of fun jostling us, but that doesn’t stop the flood of panic that takes over my body.
I grip the armrest until my hands and arms hurt. I hear someone whine, and I wonder if it’
s the child behind us. But no, I realize with a start, it’s me. I sound like some wounded animal.
That’s when the plane really starts shaking, and I’m not sure if I’m going to puke, cry, or faint. I rather hope it’s the third option. At least then I’d be unconscious for a while.
But I don’t faint. I’m just gasping for breath, like I’m drowning, and that’s when I feel a warm hand on my back. Caleb’s rubbing between my shoulder blades.
“Put your head between your knees. That’s it. Now breathe in deep…hold it…and then breathe out. Yes, keep doing just that. Breathe in…”
His voice soothes me, even though I’d wanted to slap him just moments earlier. I concentrate solely on his words, doing as he says. My breath becomes less of a gasp, and my heart slows somewhat as well. He keeps rubbing my back in firm circles. If I weren’t so freaked out, I’d be embarrassed this man—this arrogant asshole—is comforting me. But right this second, I’m just glad Caleb’s here.
I’m vaguely aware of the fact that the turbulence has stopped. I hear Caleb ask a flight attendant for some ginger ale, then he’s pressing the plastic glass into my hand.
“Here, drink this.” He has me lift my head slowly before instructing me to drink. I feel rather like a small child doing what he says without protest, but it calms me. For some reason, knowing that Caleb is in control keeps me from feeling like I’m losing control.
I sip the ginger ale until the glass is empty. He plucks it from my fingers when I’m done.
“Doing okay?”
I nod jerkily before letting out a breath and saying in a shaky voice, “God, I’m sorry about that. I don’t know what came over me.”
Suddenly I’m all too aware of how close he is to me, how his scent is enveloping me. My desire from earlier roars back. His scent is woodsy and masculine and enticing, and I want to bury my nose in the crook of his shoulder. I can feel my nipples peaking once again. Now the blood that had rushed from my head rushes to other parts of my body, and he’s not even touching me anymore.
I clear my throat. “I’m okay,” I say, even though I’m anything but okay.
“Are you sure? You still look like shit. You want more ginger ale?”
I decide to let him think I’m still freaked out by the turbulence. Easier than admitting I basically want to lick him like an ice cream cone right here in aisle twenty-five, even though he’s insulted me and tried to rile me like no other man I’ve ever met. “I’m fine.”
“So I guess you don’t fly a whole lot?”
I laugh. “You could say that. I haven’t flown since I was a kid.”
“Is that why you didn’t move earlier?”
I bite my lip and tears of humiliation flood my eyes and I refuse to answer, afraid if I do that I’ll start sobbing. I’m so weak. Why am I so weak? I hate feeling this way. Hate that the family behind me and this man thought I was—
“You know what used to scare the shit out of me? Alf, from that TV show.”
I blink then stare at him, wondering if he’s joking, but he seems completely serious. “You were terrified of a puppet from an old ’80s show? Why?”
“Have you ever looked at Alf? That nose? He’s creepy. I watched an episode as a kid and I had nightmares for days. Kept imagining that Alf was going to come to my room and eat me.”
I snort out a laugh, and he smiles at me when I do. “That show was way before my time, but I saw a few reruns. He wouldn’t have eaten you. He only ate cats.”
“Aha! But you know what I mean. Besides, I bet he ate little children. He seemed like the type of puppet to eat kids.”
I shush him, hoping the family behind us isn’t listening to us talk about children-eating puppets.
“I really did have nightmares. I told my mom Alf was under my bed and she told me to go to sleep. I couldn’t, though. Not for hours.”
“You poor thing,” Something that sounds perilously close to a giggle escapes me.
His gorgeous lips tilt into a smile that sets my heart pounding. “And now you’re laughing at me.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh. Childhood fears of puppets are very real issues.”
“Now that I’ve been thoroughly embarrassed, you have to tell me what happened when you flew when you were a kid. Maybe it’ll help you feel better now.”
I’m not so sure, but for some reason, talking about it feels like a good way to stay distracted. “I was just scared of the plane crashing, and when I got on the plane, I puked. Then I started hyperventilating and crying. One of the flight attendants had to give me a paper bag to breathe into. I can’t say it helped.”
“And so you haven’t flown since then.”
“Not until today.” I narrow my eyes at him. “Have you watched an episode of Alf recently?”
He shudders. “No, and I have no intention of doing so.”
At the moment, I can’t help but think that Caleb is so handsome and charming that I could listen to him talk about paint drying for hours. I stare at him as he talks about taking photographs at a wedding and I must admit, I barely hear a word he says. I’m looking at how his hair is slightly too long and curls onto his shirt collar, and think how I want to run my fingers through it. And when he smiles! Not only does he have perfectly straight teeth, but he has dimples. I want to kiss those dimples. Hell, I’d kiss his entire face if he’d let me.
When he sees that I’m not really listening to him, his eyelids lower. “Your turn,” he murmurs.
My turn? For what? Kissing? My body heats, but then I realize he’s talking about…talking. “Oh, what do you want to know?”
“How about what you do?”
His questions remind me that soon after returning to LA and my boutique, Talina (that’s my middle name; Heather just sounded too ordinary for a high-end fashion boutique and label), Bella will be sending a team replete with models, makeup artists, set designers, and a world-class photographer to take pictures for the magazine spread. Immediately, nervousness zings through me. This is a huge opportunity, and if it doesn’t go well, it could completely screw me over. My boutique and fashion line have been making strides in the last year, and when I got the call that Bella was interested in my work, I couldn’t believe it. Although I didn’t get a personal call from Rebecca Harris herself, just knowing that she’s even remotely interested in my work is enough for now.
I rub suddenly damp palms on my pants. “I’m in retail,” I say, not wanting to talk about work or the shoot for fear of jinxing everything. “I was in New York on business. I—I took a train there.” I wince when he does. “I know. Only I didn’t have time to take it back. I thought I’d be okay, but I guess childhood fears die hard.” I sigh, but when I think of little Caleb afraid of Alf coming to eat him, I smile.
“Lots of people are afraid of flying. But…” His green eyes gleam at me. “You know what I bet would work wonders in getting you over that?”
For some reason, I’m almost afraid to hear his answer. His gaze flicks from my face to my breasts, and where normally I’d want to slap a guy for doing that, I’m turned on. When my nipples harden, he draws in a breath when he notices.
“What would work wonders?” I whisper.
He leans toward me, and his breath brushes against my ear as he replies, “Becoming a member of the Mile High Club.”
My entire body heats from those words. I can’t get the cascade of images out of my brain. Tucked into that tight space, pressed against each other, nothing but our tongues tangling and our hands all over each other, desperate for more. He’d set me onto the sink and as I unzipped my pants, he’d unbuckle his belt and before I could take in another breath, he’d thrust inside me.
I haven’t said anything but he doesn’t take this as a sign that I’m uninterested. He smirks at me, his gaze even more heated than before.
“You have personal experience with this?” I finally croak.
“Surprisingly, no. I’ve never gotten the opportunity. But belie
ve me when I say that I’d love to change that.”
I bet he would. I’d love to change that, too. I’ve always thought sex on a plane sounded cramped and awkward, but with Caleb, it’d be intense. Explosive. He’d give me no quarter. He’d cover my mouth with his hand to keep me from screaming. I don’t know how I know this, but I believe it, deep in my bones.
I lick my lips. He zeroes in on the movement.
“Caleb,” I murmur.
He’s about to reach for me, or maybe even kiss me, when we both hear someone clearing their throat.
“Would anyone like something else to drink?”
Caleb turns and we both stare at the flight attendant like she’s sprouted horns and maybe a forked tail. I’m not thirsty, but I find myself blurting, “A Coke, please.”
Caleb shrugs. “One for me, too.”
After the flight attendant gives us our drinks, I stare at my glass of Coke, rolling my eyes at myself inwardly. I don’t even drink Coke! Keep it cool, Heather, I think to myself. What is it about this man that gets me all tangled up?
Even my ex-boyfriend didn’t get me this riled, this turned on. Bo and I dated for four years, but by the end, he decided to dump me because I was “too into my career,” which was really code for not being there to make him dinner when he got home or wanting to do laundry when I had designs to take care of. Don’t get me wrong, Bo was a good boyfriend in many ways, but when he told me he was done because I was too committed to my career? It hurt.
Remembering Bo gives me a good reason not to get all hot and bothered over Caleb. I’m probably just horny, I tell myself. I haven’t had sex in months, not since my break-up, and my interest in Caleb is just that: sexual. Hoping for anything else would be completely stupid. Besides, Bo was right: I’m married to my career right now. No guy could fit into that.
Caleb sips his Coke. We listen as the pilot announces that we’ll be landing in the next half hour. I sigh in relief. I need to get on the ground and get my head on straight already.
