On the plane, Melanie stuffed her small suitcase in the overhead bin and sat in the window seat, instantly squashed by the broad man who sat in the seat to her left. Squirming for an inch of space, Melanie fastened her seat belt, huddled close to the window, and waited for the rest of the plane to board. Her stomach twisted with a mixture of nerves, excitement, and hunger. She hadn’t eaten since lunch. She hoped Gabe was up for a meal, because she doubted the airline would part with so much as a peanut on this short flight.
Gabe.
Had she actually sighed aloud thinking about him, or had it been a mental sigh?
No matter, she couldn’t wait to see him again. Only a few more hours and she could lose herself in his arms.
The man beside her gave her a long, hard look, most likely because she was grinning like a simpleton who’d been swimming in a vat of vodka.
“Business trip?” he asked.
“Purely for pleasure,” she said. “You?”
“Business. Trying to break in to the UFC. There’s an amateur night in New Orleans this weekend.”
That would explain his broad shoulders and nicked knuckles. He wasn’t a bad-looking man; she just preferred hers a bit on the tall and lean side. Or had ever since she’d laid eyes on Gabe.
“Sounds painful,” she said.
“Nah, it’s fun.”
Getting repeatedly kicked and punched did not sound like fun to Melanie. But perhaps he meant delivering the kicks and punches was fun. Her brow furrowed. Nope. Hurting people for sport didn’t sound like fun either.
The huge man pushed up the long sleeve of his T-shirt, and her gaze landed on the barbed-wire tattoo that circled his forearm. On cue, her heart rate kicked up. She’d made great strides in her tattoo phobia when Gabe had allowed her to examine his up close—and what a pleasurable experience that had been—but apparently she wasn’t completely over her fears. She felt silly for panicking every time she saw certain tattoos, but the fear was still there. She wondered if it always would be. Some people were scared of clowns or spiders or enclosed spaces. She was terrified of certain tattoos. Those rough bikers who had scared the life out of her as a teen had really done a number on her psyche. She just had to avoid tattoos with barbed wire or roses or skulls—so like half of the tattoos in existence—and she could remain perfectly calm.
“Well, good luck with your fight,” she said, turning her attention pointedly out the window to stare at the back of the plane wing. If she didn’t look at the man’s arm, she could sit next to him all the way to New Orleans without having a panic attack. She hoped. She didn’t want to send the entire country to high alert because she freaked the f**k out on a domestic flight. She’d just stare out at the wing and make sure the engine stayed fully functional the entire flight. It would keep her attention off Mr. UFC’s tattoo. Maybe.
“Melanie,” a familiar voice called from the front of the plane. “Melanie Anderson, where are you?”
Melanie’s jaw dropped. What in the hell was Nikki doing here?
Melanie assumed there must be some horrible emergency and no one had been able to reach her because she’d turned off her cellphone in preparation for her flight. Melanie shot up out of her seat—or tried to. Her seat belt threatened to break her pelvis. She wrenched the clasp open and jumped to her feet, nearly banging her head on the overhead bin.
“Nikki, what’s wrong?” Melanie called, waving her hands. She could feel the heat in her face, and her throat was tight, as if someone were strangling her.
“There you are,” Nikki said when she spotted Melanie at the back of the plane.
She was carrying a rather large overnight bag.
Why was she carrying luggage to inform Melanie about whatever emergency had brought her here?
“Hey, big guy, would you mind switching seats with me?” Nikki said to the wannabe cage fighter. “You wouldn’t want to come between friends now, would you?”
She turned on her charming pout—the one that made two-hundred-and-fifty-pound walls of muscle climb out of their seats—and then smiled brightly when he took her bag and started to stuff it into the overhead compartment for her.
“You two hotties should definitely sit together,” he said. “I’m into feng shui. I like my beautiful decorations in balanced pairs.”
Melanie rolled her eyes until they threatened to glimpse her brain.
“You’re sweet,” Nikki said. “Isn’t he sweet, Mel?”
“Like cotton candy. What are you doing here, Nikki?”
“Going to New Orleans.”
“Well, duh. The luggage and boarding pass sort of tipped me off to that. Why are you going to New Orleans?”
Nikki held up a finger to put Melanie on hold and turned back to the big guy taking up the entire aisle. “Thanks for switching seats with me.”
“Can I get your number?” UFC-guy said in a low, deep voice, his gaze trained on Nikki’s push-up-bra-enhanced bust. Her boobs were currently demonstrating the impressive stretch and strength of the cotton fibers in her skintight pink T-shirt.
“I’ll bring it to you once we’re in the air,” Nikki promised.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to switch seats,” Melanie said.
“Melanie, Melanie, always afraid to break the rules.” Nikki winked at the big guy. “But I’m not. If anyone asks, your name is Nicole. And what will my assumed name be?”
“Richard Bailey,” he said. “Or just Dick.”
“It’s never just dick when I’m around.” Nikki laughed and settled into Mr. UFC’s vacated seat. She grabbed half of her seat belt and half of Melanie’s and tried to figure out how to fasten two female ends together.
Before the guy could deliver his next incredibly lame pick-up line, he was ushered up the aisle to his seat by a harried flight attendant. Melanie jerked the end of her seatbelt from Nikki’s fumbling fingers and fastened her buckle again. She counted backwards from a million so she wouldn’t strangle the life out of her best friend and greatest liability.
When Melanie was prepared for flight and could talk without breathing fire from her nostrils, she turned to Nikki and repeated, “What are you doing here?”
“Following your advice.”
Melanie made a face of complete incomprehension. “My advice? I told you that you couldn’t come.”
“That’s not advice, that’s an order. Remember just a few days ago you said visualize what you want, gather your courage and go out and get it?” Nikki punctuated her words with opening and closing hands, as if she were putting Melanie’s advice up in lights. “I’ve been visualizing Shade Silverton all week.”
Gabe.
Had she actually sighed aloud thinking about him, or had it been a mental sigh?
No matter, she couldn’t wait to see him again. Only a few more hours and she could lose herself in his arms.
The man beside her gave her a long, hard look, most likely because she was grinning like a simpleton who’d been swimming in a vat of vodka.
“Business trip?” he asked.
“Purely for pleasure,” she said. “You?”
“Business. Trying to break in to the UFC. There’s an amateur night in New Orleans this weekend.”
That would explain his broad shoulders and nicked knuckles. He wasn’t a bad-looking man; she just preferred hers a bit on the tall and lean side. Or had ever since she’d laid eyes on Gabe.
“Sounds painful,” she said.
“Nah, it’s fun.”
Getting repeatedly kicked and punched did not sound like fun to Melanie. But perhaps he meant delivering the kicks and punches was fun. Her brow furrowed. Nope. Hurting people for sport didn’t sound like fun either.
The huge man pushed up the long sleeve of his T-shirt, and her gaze landed on the barbed-wire tattoo that circled his forearm. On cue, her heart rate kicked up. She’d made great strides in her tattoo phobia when Gabe had allowed her to examine his up close—and what a pleasurable experience that had been—but apparently she wasn’t completely over her fears. She felt silly for panicking every time she saw certain tattoos, but the fear was still there. She wondered if it always would be. Some people were scared of clowns or spiders or enclosed spaces. She was terrified of certain tattoos. Those rough bikers who had scared the life out of her as a teen had really done a number on her psyche. She just had to avoid tattoos with barbed wire or roses or skulls—so like half of the tattoos in existence—and she could remain perfectly calm.
“Well, good luck with your fight,” she said, turning her attention pointedly out the window to stare at the back of the plane wing. If she didn’t look at the man’s arm, she could sit next to him all the way to New Orleans without having a panic attack. She hoped. She didn’t want to send the entire country to high alert because she freaked the f**k out on a domestic flight. She’d just stare out at the wing and make sure the engine stayed fully functional the entire flight. It would keep her attention off Mr. UFC’s tattoo. Maybe.
“Melanie,” a familiar voice called from the front of the plane. “Melanie Anderson, where are you?”
Melanie’s jaw dropped. What in the hell was Nikki doing here?
Melanie assumed there must be some horrible emergency and no one had been able to reach her because she’d turned off her cellphone in preparation for her flight. Melanie shot up out of her seat—or tried to. Her seat belt threatened to break her pelvis. She wrenched the clasp open and jumped to her feet, nearly banging her head on the overhead bin.
“Nikki, what’s wrong?” Melanie called, waving her hands. She could feel the heat in her face, and her throat was tight, as if someone were strangling her.
“There you are,” Nikki said when she spotted Melanie at the back of the plane.
She was carrying a rather large overnight bag.
Why was she carrying luggage to inform Melanie about whatever emergency had brought her here?
“Hey, big guy, would you mind switching seats with me?” Nikki said to the wannabe cage fighter. “You wouldn’t want to come between friends now, would you?”
She turned on her charming pout—the one that made two-hundred-and-fifty-pound walls of muscle climb out of their seats—and then smiled brightly when he took her bag and started to stuff it into the overhead compartment for her.
“You two hotties should definitely sit together,” he said. “I’m into feng shui. I like my beautiful decorations in balanced pairs.”
Melanie rolled her eyes until they threatened to glimpse her brain.
“You’re sweet,” Nikki said. “Isn’t he sweet, Mel?”
“Like cotton candy. What are you doing here, Nikki?”
“Going to New Orleans.”
“Well, duh. The luggage and boarding pass sort of tipped me off to that. Why are you going to New Orleans?”
Nikki held up a finger to put Melanie on hold and turned back to the big guy taking up the entire aisle. “Thanks for switching seats with me.”
“Can I get your number?” UFC-guy said in a low, deep voice, his gaze trained on Nikki’s push-up-bra-enhanced bust. Her boobs were currently demonstrating the impressive stretch and strength of the cotton fibers in her skintight pink T-shirt.
“I’ll bring it to you once we’re in the air,” Nikki promised.
“I don’t think you’re supposed to switch seats,” Melanie said.
“Melanie, Melanie, always afraid to break the rules.” Nikki winked at the big guy. “But I’m not. If anyone asks, your name is Nicole. And what will my assumed name be?”
“Richard Bailey,” he said. “Or just Dick.”
“It’s never just dick when I’m around.” Nikki laughed and settled into Mr. UFC’s vacated seat. She grabbed half of her seat belt and half of Melanie’s and tried to figure out how to fasten two female ends together.
Before the guy could deliver his next incredibly lame pick-up line, he was ushered up the aisle to his seat by a harried flight attendant. Melanie jerked the end of her seatbelt from Nikki’s fumbling fingers and fastened her buckle again. She counted backwards from a million so she wouldn’t strangle the life out of her best friend and greatest liability.
When Melanie was prepared for flight and could talk without breathing fire from her nostrils, she turned to Nikki and repeated, “What are you doing here?”
“Following your advice.”
Melanie made a face of complete incomprehension. “My advice? I told you that you couldn’t come.”
“That’s not advice, that’s an order. Remember just a few days ago you said visualize what you want, gather your courage and go out and get it?” Nikki punctuated her words with opening and closing hands, as if she were putting Melanie’s advice up in lights. “I’ve been visualizing Shade Silverton all week.”
