Swallow Me Whole: A Friends To Lovers Romance

by Gemma James

  “Maybe she’s jealous,” I shoot back, taking a guess.

  His silence confirms my suspicion. He fucked Darlene, too. His wife’s best friend. His business partner, for fuck’s sake.

  But I’m not much better. I slept with my boss. My fucking boss.

  I feel sick. Sick and small as I wonder how I ended up here. Cheating on my boyfriend, sleeping with a married man…I don’t do shit like this!

  “You’ve gotta go,” I say, pushing him out of the kitchen and toward the front entrance.

  He twists the doorknob, his jaw rigid. “I think it’s best if you resign.”

  Of course he does.

  “I guess I fucked myself in that hotel room, right?”

  With a long-suffering sigh that could rival my mom’s, he steps onto the front stoop. “I didn’t want it to come to this. You’re great at your job. You’ll have a new one in no time. I’ll give you a good recommendation.”

  I gape at him, floored by his attitude. By noon today all eleven hundred people in Whiskey Flats will hear of my transgression.

  They’ll call me a slut.

  The pearl clutchers will stone my reputation to a bloody pulp.

  But Perry? Well, he’s a man, and everyone knows how men are. They’ll look the other way when it comes to him, but not me. Hell no. Nobody will dare hire me until long after this scandal simmers down.

  “Be realistic,” he says, obviously taking my silence for resistance. “My wife won’t have you working for me.”

  “Then I guess you have nothing to worry about. Consider this my resignation.” I slam the door in his face, and a few seconds later my ringtone goes off in the bedroom. The chorus of “It’s the End of the World As We Know It” by R.E.M. filters down the hall.

  Great. My mother.

  I stomp back to the bedroom, most definitely not feeling fine.

  In fact, as that song loops its emotional destruction, Mom’s call going unanswered, I feel the walls close in. My chest grows tight with panic, because even though Chris is gone, his presence is inescapable.

  In the apartment we shared for three years. In the town where we grew up together. Suddenly, everything takes on new meaning, and I see memories through the acute haze of pain. I won’t be able to glance at the burger joint down the street without remembering all the times we hung out there, chomping away at the biggest fucking burgers you’ll ever find. And the sight of the old theater where we gorged on cheap movies as teens will slice me open to the bone, leaving me exposed and bleeding.

  Until Perry, Chris was my first. My one and only.

  How did we lose our way? In the midst of arguments, tears, and too many “breaks” to count, we somehow drifted apart.

  My cell falls silent, and I stand frozen as a feeling I’ve never experienced before rises inside me. I know I won’t be able to escape that, either.

  For the first time in twenty-two years, I want to runaway.

  No, I need to.

  I pick up my cell and dial Lesley in Seattle.

  2. You Poleaxed Me at Hello

  Cash

  I’d recognize the small of that back anywhere. If the familiar curves of her tight little body doesn’t clue me in, the tramp stamp at the base of her spine sure as hell does. It’s a simple inscription of the word “love” inked into her skin with sprawling strokes. She got the tattoo when she was sixteen to spite her father.

  I still remember when I saw that ink for the first time. She’d worn a skimpy bikini that day on her sweet sixteen, no doubt displaying her rebellion for her father to see. He noticed it, all right. Saw her as nothing but a disobedient young girl.

  Not me. She’d stepped out of her family’s pool, water dripping down tanned skin as those tiny pieces of red material emphasized curves too sexy to belong to a young girl, and that was the moment I saw her as more than the daughter of my father’s best friend.

  The memory rips through me, and no matter how many times I tell myself to stop torturing my eyes, I can’t stop staring at the photo on my phone. I have no idea who sent it to me, but the visual makes me want to burn the image to ashes. She’s straddling some faceless guy’s lap, obviously naked, and he has his arms snaked around her. Anyone with two eyes can see they’re fucking. I can’t make out his face, which just pisses me off more.

  A text message flashes across the screen, and I ignore it as a monotone voice comes through the speaker overhead, announcing final boarding for flight 291 to Seattle. Instead of heading for the gate, I battle with myself in the men’s room. My palms are a sweaty mess at the thought of getting on that plane while this relentless rage courses through me.

  I don’t like flying.

  Truth is, I despise giving up that kind of control—the kind that leaves one vulnerable to other people’s errors. But since I stepped up as CEO of MontBlake, hopping on a plane several times a month has become the norm. I’m a hands-on guy, detail-oriented, and no way in hell was I prepared to trust anyone else to see the Denver project through to the end. CEO or not, my first love will always be architecture.

  Too bad I didn’t account for my wife turning into a cheating bitch. A pang of guilt knifes through me at thinking of her in such derogatory terms, but it’s short-lived. Maybe if I’d seen her betrayal coming, I’d be more equipped to handle the anger boiling in my gut.

  All I want to do now is smash my fist through a wall. Any wall will do, even the grimy one in this bathroom. Hell, the grime on the tile doesn’t even bother me, nor does the thought of broken and bleeding knuckles. My hands curl into fists at my sides, and only the fact that I’m standing in an airport bathroom stops me. This day will surely go down in history as the shittiest day of my life, and I’m not up for going to jail on top of it.

  Besides, I refuse to give her the satisfaction.

  At this late hour, the restroom isn’t overly crowded. A few men come and go, shooting me sideway glances, but I’m too busy pacing as I imagine the upcoming confrontation with Monica to pay them much attention. However, the reflection of the crazed man in the mirror gives me pause. This stranger looks like me, with familiar gray eyes and dark hair. Rage, hurt, and betrayal play across his face, and I shouldn’t be taken aback, but I am. This guy looks like a tool, ragged around the edges and older than twenty-nine.

  I’m disgusted with myself, because deep in my gut I sensed something like this going down for a while. I push my left hand through my hair, and the sight of my wedding band smacks me in the face. What a farce that piece of jewelry is. I work the gold band from my finger and pocket it.

  Then I inhale a deep breath.

  A late flight is the only thing standing between me and the confrontation I crave. Turnabout is fair play, and now she’s the one who won’t see me coming. In fact, she’s probably fucking him right now in our bed, secure in the belief that her secret is safe and she has until tomorrow night before her idiot of a husband returns home.

  Despite the distance she’s put between us these past few months, I resist letting go of the hope that my marriage isn’t a total sham, and that some part of the woman I married loves me too. It slices me too deep when I dwell on how quickly things changed, of how she morphed into a frigid version of the woman I thought I’d known. Thought I loved.

  Goddamn it…still love.

  A man in a business suit joins me at the sinks, and I catch the questioning glance he aims in my direction. I’m a disaster, no doubt about it. The photo of her with another man came through just as I’d stepped out of the shower back at the hotel. I’d thrown on a pair of slacks and the first shirt I found before tossing my scattered belongings into a carry-on. Peeking at the watch on my left wrist, I grimace. If I don’t get my ass moving, I’ll miss my flight.

  Taking a few deep breaths to calm the hurricane roiling inside me, I grab the handle of my carry-on and leave the restroom. My cell dings again as I rush toward Gate 47. Sidestepping a woman who appears as rushed as I feel, I pull my phone out and glance down at the screen with a frown.
>
  Monica: Why aren’t you answering my texts?

  Oh, she is pissed. Her words alone don’t hint at her anger, but I can hear her tone in my head as I stride through the airport. Before I give in to temptation and forward her the incriminating photo I found in my inbox, I set my phone to vibrate and stuff it back into my pocket. She’ll get no warning from me.

  I reach the gate with three minutes to spare. As I swipe my boarding pass, a vibration goes off in my back pocket. Probably another text from her, but it could easily be about work too, even at this late hour. Cursing under my breath, I fish for my cell again as I cross the jet bridge.

  Kaden: How did the grand opening go?

  Boarding the plane, I return the flight attendant’s greeting with a quick nod as I shoot off a reply to my brother.

  Me: Went off without a hitch.

  Can’t say the same for my personal life. I shove Monica’s betrayal to the back of my mind, determined to keep it there until I’m able to drop my anger into her lap. After what she’s done, she deserves an in-person verbal lashing.

  I make my way to my assigned row in first class, distracted by Kaden’s text, and push my carry-on into the storage bin above. Letting my computer bag slide off my shoulder, I stow it under the seat in front of me before sliding in next to a blonde whose attention is glued to the small window at our right.

  My palm vibrates with another text.

  Kaden: Glad to hear it. Got any plans tonight?

  I swallow a groan, already knowing where he’s going with this, and I’m in no mood to explain my early flight home on top of it.

  Me: Nope, just bed.

  Kaden: Too much work and not enough play makes you cranky as fuck. You gotta live some of the time, little brother.

  Little brother. He loves throwing that in my face, even though he’s only six minutes older.

  Me: I’m beat. Talk to you tomorrow.

  I switch the phone to airplane mode and slip it back into my pocket. That’s when a hot tingle travels through me. Even before I turn my attention to my flight companion, the power of her stare sends electric shocks through my system, beginning in my arms and firing off in my legs.

  Jesus. Those eyes.

  They’re large and round and outlined by thick, long lashes. Something about them draws me in, and for a crazy second, I swear I see myself in her gaze. Her bottomless pits of seductive chocolate overflow with the same kind of pain rioting through me. She’s a complete mess, going by the red rimming those mesmerizing eyes.

  In my entire life, I’ve never had such a strong reaction to a complete stranger. But as the seconds pass, matching the thudding beats of my heart, I’m paralyzed. The last thing I expected when I boarded this plane was to fall headfirst into another poleaxing moment.

  Fuck me.

  Consider me poleaxed.

  3. Fate's Connection

  Jules

  This day has been nothing short of a disaster. I’ve come to the conclusion that fate is playing a wicked joke on me. The short flight to Denver was delayed, and that led to me missing the connecting flight to Seattle. So I ended up roaming the airport for hours, mostly fighting tears. I’m not used to being on my own, and now that I am all I want to do is go back and crawl into bed forever.

  But I can’t.

  Returning home will surely hurt more than pushing forward. Once I reach Seattle, things will be all right, and this crushing weight on my heart will ease up.

  At least I got a consolation prize for the hours I waited stuck between the past I’m leaving behind and the future I hope to find; the airline upgraded me to first class. Letting out a long sigh of relief, I sink into the comfortable leather seat. I’m more than ready to put this hellish day behind me, even if hurtling through the air at five-hundred miles per hour isn’t my idea of fun.

  Most of the passengers in first class have already settled into their seats and are waiting for takeoff, but a few clutter the aisle as they stow carry-on luggage. I avert my attention to the small window at my right, my nerves over flying already kicking in, and watch two men load luggage into the baggage compartment. From the corner of my eye, I notice the movement of bodies as more people board the plane and head toward the back. The seat next to me remains empty, and I’m beginning to hope I’ll get the row to myself.

  Of course, that’s when he slides in next to me.

  He’s tall enough that even first class doesn’t accommodate his legs comfortably. I can’t help but ogle his forearms. I have a thing for forearms, and my mind immediately goes to Chris and the definition of his muscles.

  Don’t go there. Don’t think about his arms or anything else about him.

  With a mental shove, I send Chris spiraling to the back of my mind. That’s a good place for him right now, especially since I have no intention of having a meltdown on this plane. I go back to studying the stranger beside me. He’s wearing charcoal slacks and a navy button-up shirt, left untucked with the cuffs rolled up. A guy doesn’t need an eight-pack or bulging biceps to catch my eye. He just has to have sexy-as-fuck forearms, and this man does.

  His entire body exudes masculinity, making these first-class seats seem small. Mr. Sexy Stranger owns the space, texting single-handedly as he pushes his fingers through thick dark hair, disrupting the longer length on top. The gesture is quick and rigid, as if something is irritating him. I’m openly staring now, my gaze drifting over the stubble along his strong jawline. Good God, he’s a fine specimen of a man.

  My face amps hotter by the second. I’ve never experienced such a strong gravitational pull toward a stranger, and after everything that’s gone down today, the fact that it’s happening now unsettles me.

  It’s the stress. It’s finally making me crack, making me turn into a total lunatic.

  He angles his head my way, and our eyes lock. My heart stops. Time suspends. Holy shit. I’m a deer caught in the high beams of a speeding car at midnight.

  Blind-sided.

  Paralyzed.

  His eyes are the color of steel, a shade so deep they resemble the most ominous of storms. He raises a dark brow, forehead crinkling in surprise, and I come back to myself with a mental jerk, realizing how stupid I must look right now. And how unkempt I am from all the crying I did as I wandered for hours through the airport. I pray to God the concealer I applied in the ladies’ room hides all traces of my epic breakdown.

  “Hi,” I manage to say, practically sighing the greeting. My face flushes, and I quickly look away, utterly mortified.

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  Maybe exhaustion stole my sanity. Or maybe it’s the situation. No names, no attachments, no disgraceful scandals. We’ll part ways as soon as the plane lands in Seattle, and I’ll never see this man again. The anonymity of the situation has to be the reason I’m reacting to the stranger next to me as if he’s a demigod.

  “Fear of flying?” the demigod says, his voice laden with a sexy timbre that sends chills through me.

  I return my attention to him and…fuck…those eyes. “I-I’m sorry?”

  A smile ghosts across his face, revealing a dimple in his right cheek.

  “You seem a bit…” He trails off, gesturing to my fingers, which have somehow found themselves wrapped around the armrest. “Terrified.”

  Terrified is an understatement, but I’ll take it since the alternatives don’t make a shred of sense. Letting out a breath, I loosen my grip and shoot Mr. Sexy Stranger a weak smile.

  “Maybe a little. Me and flying…we don’t have a great relationship.” I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve flown, and I’ll never be comfortable with putting my life in the hands of fate.

  Fate. There’s that word again.

  But the term fits because flying feels a bit like rolling the dice and hoping for the best. Statistically, I know traveling by air is safer than driving a car, but logic can be a funny thing when feelings are mixed into the equation.

  He buckles his seat belt. “There’s nothing
to it. If they didn’t make us wear these things,” he says, pulling the strap tight across his thighs, “I wouldn’t bother.” Dipping his head toward me as if he’s about to impart a great secret, he adds, “Between you and me, I don’t like flying either.”

  “Oh, well that makes me feel much better.” But I can’t stop a grin from teasing the edges of my mouth.

  He shrugs with the same partially hidden smile he graced me with a minute ago.

  The flight attendants begin their pre-flight check and go through the safety information I’m sure frequent fliers tire of hearing. As the plane starts to taxi, I settle into my seat and attempt to relax my hands in my lap.

  But after we hit the runway and tilt skyward, I grip the armrests as if they’re the only things stopping me from hurtling to certain death. Only three hours until we land in Seattle. Three more hours to a fresh start.

  A warm hand slides over mine, and my gaze crashes into his.

  “You’re doing great.” He leans closer, talking above the engines of the aircraft. “The takeoff and landing are the worst. Just a few more minutes and we’re home free.”

  My heartbeat is thundering in my ears way louder than the noise of this deathtrap of a plane. I’d blame it on anxiety from flying, but truth be told, it probably has more to do with his warm hand on mine. His fingers and knuckles are free of calluses, just like Perry’s.

  Except my boss never made my heart race this fast, and he never made me feel like he gave two shits about me. The difference is a stark slap in the face. This man doesn’t even know me, but I sense genuine kindness in him.

  Why didn’t I recognize Perry’s arrogance? Was I nothing more than a conquest to him? Why did he leave his group that night and sit next to me? I’ve never asked myself that last question until now, and it irks the fuck out of me that I can’t remember much about that night.

  “So, what’s taking you to Seattle?” he asks, and I wonder if he wants to know for real, or if he’s just making conversation. Or maybe he brought it up to distract me, since I still haven’t unfurled my fingers from the grip I have on the armrest.