I perch carefully on the opposite edge of the bed—because again,WHERE ARE THE CHAIRS?—and pull out my laptop like it’s a shield against all this awkward. My head is throbbing from hair being in an all-day ponytail.
I yank out my scrunchie, unable to hold back the moan of relief as my natural waves tumble free. My scalp is tingling. I massage it gently, trying to coax away my stress headache.
Then I feel it—the weight of his gaze—a slow burn that sends a prickle across my skin. Reece is watching me, his steel-blue stare locked in, intense and unreadable. Our eyes meet, and he flicks his gaze back to his phone. Heat crawls up my neck.
“Sorry,” I mutter, trying to tame my wild mane. “I look like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket. My hair gets crazy when it’s been up too long.”
“Yeah, you really need a mirror.” His voice is clipped. “Bathroom's in the back.”
Oh, so that’s how we’re playing it? Game on, grumpy pants.
“Right, because my thick porn star hair isn’t as flawless as Astrid’s fake waves. Your hair isn’t so great either, buddy. Maybe stop raking your hands through it every five seconds.”
His eyes narrow dangerously. “Is this your thirst trap hairstyle? For seducing all those island boys?”
“I hadn’t considered it, but you’re right—the bed head look sends a clear message: ‘I’m ready for some serious pillow talk.’”
“Lady and gentleman,” the captain says, oozing with honey-flavored innuendo, “I hope you’re ready for a smooth, satisfied ride.”
I stuff my computer away as the engines roar to life. I press my face against the window like an excited kid. The runway lights streak past faster and faster until we’re airborne, Los Angeles shrinking beneath us.
The jet lurches, and the champagne glasses rattle ominously in their holders. I clutch the bedframe, my heart going double-time as turbulence shakes the plane. A mess of strawberries, dripping in chocolate, goes airborne, and time slows down in the worst way.
I watch in helpless horror as fruit tumbles across the sheets in slow motion, rolling like edible wrecking balls. Several bounce off the mattress before splattering onto me, leaving streaks across my shirt and smearing a major glob of melted chocolate on my pants.
“¡Mierda! No, no, no—”
On impulse, I lick my finger and rub my pants.
“What are you—” Reece’s voice sounds strangled. “You’re smearing it. Oh my God!”
My brain screeches to a halt as he rips off his white shirt, buttons flying, revealing his tan muscular chest and six-pack abs. His pecs flex slightly with the motion, the light catching his tattoos. Reece snags a bottle of water from the table, splashes some onto the fabric, and crouches in front of me. “Hold still.”
My mouth goes dry.
“Wait, what are you—” My words cut off as his hand grips my hip to steady me, firm and warm through the fabric of my pants. My heart skips, and I forget how to breathe.
“This is stain removal 101,” he mutters, dabbing at the chocolate smears on my thighs with the damp shirt. Electricity zings through my body as if I’ve licked a live wire. Has it really been that long since I’ve been touched?
“You’ve gotta blot it. Rubbing makes it worse.” He’s concentrating way too hard for someone cleaning up melted chocolate. His movements are precise, focused—and when he applies a little too much pressure, it sets off a ripple of heat that tightens in my core. The cabin feels smaller suddenly, the air too warm, too close.
I swallow hard, trying not to notice how his thumb lingers near my hip bone or how his other hand presses into my thigh, dangerously high.
Way too high.
Did I mention high?
We both freeze, realizing his hand is one accidental inch away from having a meet and greet with my hoo-ha. I suck in a breath.
He jerks back as if I’m on fire, his fingers accidentally grazing my breast in his retreat.
“Jesus fuck—sorry! I didn’t—shit, sorry.”
“It’s fine.” I sound helium drunk, my voice way too thin. “Didn’t know you were a stain expert.”
“Uh, yeah.” He sits on the other side of the bed, putting distance between us. “Mom made me learn after I destroyed half my wardrobe as a kid. I played hard.”
The wordhardmakes my eyes automatically drop to his crotch and—Why? Why did I look?He’s packing what appears to be the Everest of erections in his Armani pants.
