by Sarah Smith
Slowly, I lift my head up and away from him. He responds with a soft moan, then it’s back to that gentle hum of air going in and out. It rings like a soft purr in my ear.
I shake my head and scoot closer to the window, wondering how the hell I felt comfortable enough to fall asleep on him. It’s a struggle to process through the sleep-fog, but I get there.
Our breakthrough conversation. It’s the fact that through the Question Game, we revealed intimate personal truths about ourselves. The fact that flirting with him was surprisingly fun. The fact that we went from rivals to friendly flight companions to something else in a matter of hours. It’s the fact that his shoulder feels better than any pillow I’ve ever fallen asleep on. Despite how glorious it all feels, it seems entirely inappropriate to use Callum as a human pillow in this moment. Dozing off with your head on someone’s shoulder is a decidedly couple-y thing to do. And Callum and I sure as hell are not a couple.
I steal another glance at Callum. Peaceful, slumbering, delicious Callum. He hasn’t budged an inch since I jolted away from him. Maybe he’s one of those people who sleeps so deeply that not even an earthquake can rouse him. If that’s the case, maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if I were to lay my cheek back against his shoulder and see if I can fall asleep again.
Gently, I rest my head against him. He still doesn’t move. The rhythm of his breathing stays the same, which is an immediate relaxer for me. All of my limbs loosen, and my eyelids grow heavy once more. An internal switch has flipped—I’m sleepy again. His body is like my own personal tension reliever. If I were a ballsy woman, I’d snake my arm around his and nuzzle my nose into his neck. I’d take deep breaths of his sandalwood cologne and let that soothing aroma lull me to sleep.
But that would cross every line imaginable, and already I’m pushing it. Right now, his shoulder will have to do. Before I know it, I’m out.
A loud, muffled voice speaking a string of unintelligible words is my wake-up call. Eyes still shut, I groan. Do they train all airline crews to speak as quickly as possible so no one can understand them? Then a cheery flight attendant hops on to announce that we’re thirty minutes from landing at Heathrow. My eyes spring open. It’s then that I realize I’m still propped against Callum’s shoulder.
“Sorry,” I mumble and pull away from him while wiping the side of my face. Please, please don’t let there be any of my drool on him.
Sunlight bathes the interior of the cabin, and I do a quick scan of Callum. No drool marks on his shirt or pants. I let loose a relieved sigh.
He twists to me, sleepy grin on his face. “Sleep well?”
He tugs at his hair, which is matted in the back where he was leaning against the headrest. The front is only slightly mussed. It’s decided. Callum James has the most adorably sexy bed head in the universe.
Nodding, I turn away and run my tongue along my teeth. My breath must reek.
I swipe two sticks of gum from my pocket and shove them in my mouth. “Sorry, I um . . . I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”
A slight wrinkle appears on his forehead, but it quickly fades. “It was rather nice actually.”
“Really?”
The plane makes a sudden drop, and we clutch our armrests in unison. A minute later, all is calm once more.
He looks at me, and his smile reads tender, sincere. “I quite liked you sleeping on me, Nikki.”
Saying nothing, I let his words float in the air. Now that comment from Callum is something else entirely. Is that a last-hurrah type of comment since our truce is set to expire the moment we touch land? Or is it an invitation to see if our current something else can turn into something more?
A full minute of turbulence has us bouncing up and down. As we begin our descent, I contemplate staying silent, holding back. Only ten more minutes of our time-out. When the seat belt sign dings, everyone will file off the plane and we’ll be back to our hostile status quo.
He peers over at me, pointed look on his face. “How was it for you?”
“I liked a lot of things about this flight actually,” I say. It doesn’t come off as desperate as I thought it would while mulling over the words in my head. In my growly early-morning rasp, I almost sound smooth.
“So maybe we could—”
The wheels hitting the ground cut Callum off. The two of us bump around in our seats until the plane comes to an abrupt stop.
I wonder if he’ll finish his sentence while we taxi. I bite my lip to keep from saying anything. But minutes pass and he says nothing.
My heart falls to my stomach. He’s lost his nerve. Or maybe I misheard what he said in the first place, and he wasn’t going to say anything at all.
The seat belt sign dings. Almost everyone around us stands up and cracks open the overhead bins.
I stand up to that awkward hunched-over position I assume at the end of long-haul flights so I can stretch my arms and legs without hitting my head on the ceiling.
Be cool, my inner monologue commands. Aloof. Carefree. It was just a time-out, a way to avoid killing each other during this flight. Don’t push your luck. It means less than nothing.
I flash what I hope is an easy, relaxed smile while typing the passcode into my phone and fumbling with a random app. “I think this marks the end of our time-out. It was fun.”
Fun? Birthday parties are fun. Pub trivia is fun. Falling asleep on Callum’s muscled shoulder during a transatlantic flight? That’s a new form of bliss I didn’t know existed until last night.
Callum’s frown returns. “Is that all you want, Nikki? One time-out and nothing else?”
His forward question ties my tongue in a knot. What I really want is to fall asleep spooned against him, this time on a king-size bed, without our pesky clothes in the way. But I can’t say that out loud. He’ll think I’m a sex-crazed deviant, and that would be bad.
Or maybe . . .
I notice a flash behind those killer eyes, like he can read the X-rated thoughts playing in my head. Interesting. I may not be alone in my naughty wishes.
He leans down to me until our faces are nearly touching. “Don’t tell me that after our conversation, after falling asleep on each other, a time-out is all you want.” The muscles in his sharp jaw twitch. “Because I certainly want more.”
“Oh.” The hot air in my lungs escapes as a slow hiss.
“Here.”
He grabs my hand, which still has my phone clutched in it. The firm yet gentle way his palm cradles the back of my hand makes it impossible to breathe. He somehow knows how to touch, how to hold, how to bring my heart to a complete standstill with five seconds of contact.
He types his name and number into my phone, then dials himself. Then he releases me, saves my number to his phone, and meets my gaze once more. There’s renewed intensity in his eyes. It’s eagerness, confidence, and some mystery emotion I haven’t quite worked out yet. I’ve never seen it in all the times that we’ve looked at each other.
“I’m here until Tuesday, and I’d very much like to see you outside of this plane,” he says. “Call me if you’re interested.”
He grabs his bag from the overhead compartment, then smooths the front of his shirt with his free hand.
I shove my hands in my pockets to keep from tearing at the fabric and exposing that perfect chest, that flawless highway of light skin, hard lines, and even harder muscle.
I lick my bottom lip, then shake my head. I’m surrounded by strangers, families, children. My feral behavior is beyond ridiculous. I’m in public and need to keep the eye-fucking down to an absolute minimum.
Must regain control. I inhale slowly, steadily. “You think that’s a good idea? Us meeting up?”
As much as my body wants it, it can’t be a good thing. Our respective livelihoods depend on us ruining each other. Getting involved with each other outside of work, no matte
r how hot, would blur the lines for sure.
Quarters are so close in this cramped row of seats that when he leans toward me, it’s practically a hug. I can feel the heat from his body skimming across my skin. We’re barely two inches apart and this is how he feels? How hot would he feel if we were naked, skin-to-skin, under bedsheets, his body on top of mine?
A moan tickles the back of my throat. I suppress it. Airplane. Families. Children. Public decency laws.
That foreign look in Callum’s eyes takes on a familiar sheen: dilated pupils that are also cloudy. I’ve seen it many times in many men. But this is the first time I’ve ever witnessed it in Callum’s. And it has a name: lust.
His chest heaves. He lowers his mouth to my ear. “No. It’s a bloody bad idea. But I’m keen on bad ideas if it involves you, Nikki.”
Callum steps out of our row and strolls down the aisle toward the exit, without a second glance at me. Turning the corner, he disappears.
I’m relieved. Because those words he whispered in that low rasp cause me to fall back into my seat, and I don’t want him to see the effect he has on me after just one transatlantic flight.
I’m going to need a minute to recover. Or ten.
I take a steadying breath, noticing the flirty flight attendant staring daggers at me from the front of the plane. She must have observed the exchange between Callum and me just now. There’s no mistaking our eye contact, the closeness of our bodies, the way he held my hand in his when he typed his number into my phone.
Callum just threw down the gauntlet. The only question: am I bold enough to be bad?
* * *
• • •
I trudge up Primrose Hill, Callum’s words from two days ago still fresh in my head.
I’m keen on bad ideas if it involves you, Nikki.
Even two days of sightseeing in central London and exploring the Camden Town neighborhood where my aunt and uncle live did little to distract me. His words have been at the back of my mind the entire time.
I still haven’t reached out to him. He hasn’t reached out to me, either, but that’s not a surprise. He left the ball in my court. It’s one hundred percent up to me where we go from here. And still I have no idea what to do.
Despite Callum’s very sexy distraction, visiting my aunt and uncle has been the recharge I didn’t know I needed. My first night here they treated me to an epic dinner at their favorite Indian food spot, and they’ve been hugging me nonstop since I arrived. Just sitting and catching up with them has helped take my mind off the stresses from back home. Spending time together is like a cuddle for my soul. I make a mental note not to let so much time pass until our next visit. Maybe next time, we’ll have enough money so that Mom can come visit too.
I reach the top of the hill and take in the view of lush green hills around me. In the distance, countless skyscrapers and the iconic London Eye mark the horizon. The half dozen people standing around me take photos and videos. I’m not the only one taking advantage of this mild and sunny spring day. Joggers and walkers scatter across the park. There are parents pushing strollers and dogs playing fetch with their owners.
I snap a few photos of the skyline, then take a selfie. I start to shove the phone back in my pocket, but an idea hits and I pause. What if I send it to Callum? A friendly text and a selfie is a harmless way to break the contact barrier without setting any expectations.
I type out a quick message and send the photo before I change my mind.
Primrose Hill is gorgeous. All of London is actually. Why on earth did you leave?
Instead of staring at my phone in eager anticipation of his response, I shove it in the back pocket of my jeans and walk back down the hill. Halfway down, it buzzes. My heart thunders when I check and see it’s a text from Callum.
CALLUM: Because the weather here is miserable. You’ve caught us on an off day when it’s sunny. You look gorgeous BTW
I bite my lip, grinning to myself as I stroll around the park.
ME: It’s hard to beat Maui’s perfect weather Also, thank you. How are you?
CALLUM: I’m stuck in a pub watching my cousin and his knobhead friends do shots before the wedding. I was hoping I could text you for the next few minutes to avoid talking to them
I laugh softly to myself, then quickly text back.
ME: Of course. And yikes, sorry to hear that
CALLUM: Having a nice time with your family?
ME: Yes. They’ve been taking me all over Camden Town. My aunt and uncle had errands to run today, so I’m checking out the Primrose Hill area on my own. Such a cool neighborhood they live in.
CALLUM: You’re not far from me. My cousin’s family rented out the Grazing Goat pub for the reception tonight. It’s in Marylebone, only a few miles away.
My hand holding the phone tingles. Now that’s a sign from heaven if I’ve ever seen one. Callum is within reach. If I want him, all I have to do is say so.
Three gray dots appear at the bottom of his most recent message, then fade away. Again they reappear. Again they fade.
The disappearing dots are an odd comfort. It’s a sign that he’s just as nervous as I am. It’s the unlikely confidence boost I need.
ME: What you said . . . Before you walked off the plane . . . Did you mean it?
It’s the best I can manage when my nerves are whirling like an out-of-control carousel. The wording of my message makes me sound like an uncertain teenager. But I don’t care; I just want an answer. Before I try anything with him, I need to know for sure what he said wasn’t a one-off or his idea of a joke.
My phone buzzes with his immediate reply.
CALLUM: Every word, Nikki
My fingers fumble to form a coherent response, but I come up with nothing. So I simply send “OK.”
If I weren’t walking the perimeter of a public park, I’d be cradling my face in my hands and groaning at how pathetic my texting game is. I fight through the embarrassment, staring with interest at a red phone booth.
When my phone buzzes this time, I’m too nervous to look at it. What in the world do I expect Callum to say when all I send him is a pathetic “OK” as my reply?
I force myself to read his response anyway.
CALLUM: You’re awfully chatty today
ME: Sorry. I’m out of practice at this whole flirt-texting thing LOL
CALLUM: Ah, I see. Try this: Yes, please, Callum. I’d like nothing more than to do some very, very bad things with you
I chuckle out loud this time. With each text he sends, I’m more at ease, more comfortable at the thought of amping things up between us.
ME: LOL you are ridiculous
CALLUM: I am . . . but am I also right?
I step to the edge of the sidewalk to keep out of everyone else’s way. Staring at his words on the screen, I take a breath. This is it. Take a chance or blow him off. My fingers hover over the keypad for a second before I swallow and take the plunge. I type those three letters that I know will kick things off officially between us and hit “send” before my nerves can convince me to do otherwise.
CALLUM: Lovely. Free tonight? I’d like to see you.
With steady hands, I type my response.
ME: When and where?
Chapter 9
The moment I walk inside the Grazing Goat, I scan the room for Callum. It doesn’t take long to find him. Even in a restaurant packed to the brim with sharply dressed wedding guests, he stands out. His broad, tall, leanly muscled body cuts a dashing figure in the black fabric of his tailored suit. There’s just a peek of white from his dress shirt and the sheen of his silver tie. I was right. The Great Gatsby in all his West Egg glory would look downright slovenly standing next to Callum James in this suit.
He stands at the edge of the bar and turns around, spotting me. A soft smile tugs at his lips. His gaze fixes on me like a spotlight. Those
bright hazel eyes light me up from the inside out.
He strides the few steps to where I’m standing. There’s no hug, no cheek kiss, no bodily contact of any kind. And that’s one hundred percent fine. We’re standing in a room full of his family and friends after all. It would be awkward if he had to explain that he invited his work rival to this family engagement. Standing this close to Callum, so close that I can feel that delicious heat from his body hitting mine, is a worthy alternative.
“You made it,” he says.
A roar of cheers from across the room captures our attention. A handful of tux-clad men hold pints of beer above their heads, yelling something nonsensical in unison. The guy at the end leans down to kiss a woman, who is rolling her eyes but smiling. The bride, I assume, since she’s wearing a white ball gown.
Callum frowns, then touches the small of my back. “Here.”
He leads me to an empty side room. The expression on his face turns sheepish. “I love my family, but Christ am I done with the drinking and shouting and toasting.”
“It’s all right. You look really good, by the way. Like, really, really good.” There I go again sounding like a bumbling middle schooler with no game whatsoever. I power through the urge to face-palm.
Under the dim mood lighting of this side room, his skin flushes light pink. “Thank you. I hardly ever wear getups like this anymore. Feels weird.”
“It looks the exact opposite of weird.” My eyes move in a slow scan down the length of his body. “You’d give James Bond a run for his money.”
He lets out a chuckle before doing his own visual scan of me. “And you look . . .”
Automatically, I cross my arms over my chest. I didn’t plan to attend a wedding while on vacation in London, so I made do with dark skinny jeans, a black blouse, patent leather heels, and a cream trench coat. I’m not the best-dressed person in this room by a long shot, but I’m proud of how put-together I look on such short notice.
