Chapter 14

The company, in their infinite stinginess, booked me in economy. Of course they did.

Because apparently, they expect emotionally unstable travel bloggers to fly across the Atlantic wedged between two strangers eating tuna sandwiches and coughing into the shared air like we’re not already one bad day away from a full breakdown.

I’m standing at the gate in JFK, staring at my boarding pass like it personally offended me. Seat 34B. Middle seat.

No window, no dignity.

This was supposed to be a new beginning. A work trip. A distraction. A post-Monty, post-Axton recovery mission.

I had even planned the aesthetic: a red-eye flight to London, face mask on, champagne in hand, dramatic lighting while Lana Del Rey plays softly in my noise-canceling headphones.

But apparently, the only thing I’m getting is a bruised elbow from the armrest battle and a complimentary bag of salted peanuts.

I am not above chaos. Not anymore. So I march to the desk, messy bun, sunglasses inside, an overpriced trench coat I definitely don’t need, and plaster on a smile.

The gate agent looks up. She’s young, probably around my age, with a curly bob and bubblegum-pink lip gloss. Her name tag reads Melody, and I decide immediately that she’s my last hope.

“Hi,” I say sweetly, leaning on the counter like this isn’t a reckless act of self-sabotage. “Totally random, but are there any upgrades to first class?”

Melody blinks at me. “Do you want me to check?”

“I mean, only if it’s, like, way cheaper than therapy. Or if you accept payment in hugs and kisses.”

She snorts. Then her eyes widen. “Wait… are you Charlotte Montgomery? The travel blogger? The one who did that piece on hidden spas in Budapest and the review on that seven-star treehouse hotel in Bali?”

I blink. “Guilty.”

“Oh my God, I love your blog. You’re like funniest blogger I know.”

“Honestly, the most accurate compliment I’ve ever received.”

She beams, fingers flying across her keyboard. “Okay, so… technically there are two seats left in first class. And I should charge you the difference, but you have, like, a ton of frequent flyer miles with us. You could do a last-minute points upgrade, if you’re interested.”

“I could kiss you.”

“Please don’t. I’m a professional. But also, like, same.”

We both giggle like girls about to commit a petty felony together.

Ten minutes later, I’m walking onto the plane with a new boarding pass, slightly smudged mascara, and the kind of flutter in my chest that comes from impulsive spending and divine feminine delusion. I glance down.

Seat 2A.

First class. A window seat. Champagne dreams, here I come.

I glide down the jet bridge like I’m on a runway in Milan, fully prepared to spend this flight wrapped in a complimentary blanket and self-importance. No Monty. No guilt. No Axton—

And then I freeze.

Because seated directly beside my glorious, freshly-upgraded self… in 2B… is Axton fucking Rowe.

In all his broad-shouldered, stubble-dusted, magazine-cover-gorgeousness. Wearing a charcoal button-up with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms like he’s about to steal my last shred of dignity.

He looks up and our eyes meet.

We both blink.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I mutter, too loud to be polite.

Axton blinks once, then looks back at his book like it’s just a normal day.

“Lovely to see you too, Charlotte,” he says without looking up.

Nope. Absolutely not. I want to throw myself off the plane. Or demand to be reseated next to literally anyone else. A baby. A tax auditor. My ex-boyfriend’s mother. Anyone but him.

“Are you stalking me now?” I say, sliding into my seat like I didn’t just have a small heart attack.

Axton raises one brow. “Yes. I spent ten grand on a plane ticket just to breathe your recycled air for six hours.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you.”

He snorts. Snorts. Like he thinks I’m the ridiculous one.

We both reach for our seatbelts at the same time. Our arms brush. I flinch like I’ve touched an electric fence. He sighs like he’s being forced to share a desk in detention.

“Please tell me there’s a divider,” I whisper to the flight attendant as she passes.

“There is,” she chirps, like this isn’t a life-or-death situation. “But it has to be down for takeoff.”

Of course it does.

Great. Amazing. I should’ve just taken the damn peanuts.

I buckle in like it’s a punishment.

Because that’s what this is. Axton’s right there. Right next to me. Close enough that I can smell him, his stupidly expensive cologne, cinnamon, bergamot and all man.

I don’t say a word.

Neither does he.

Which is somehow worse. Because now there’s just… silence. And tension.

I subtly lean away from him. He subtly leans toward me.

There’s a privacy divider between our seats. A sleek, high-tech wall that could rise up and protect me.

The divider rises slowly.

I catch the smallest flicker of his smirk before it blocks him from view. Like he knew I’d do that. Like he’s amused. Infuriating.

The flight attendant stops by. “Champagne before takeoff?”

I nod.

She turns to Axton. “And for you, sir?”

“Bourbon. Neat.”

Of course, he drinks Bourbon like he’s some antihero in a movie.

When the drinks arrive, I take the champagne flute with both hands. Delicately. Gratefully. Like it’s my last hope. And sip it with the desperation of a woman trying to pretend this is fine. Everything is fine.

It’s not.

I can feel him. Even through the divider. That quiet presence. That heat. That smugness. The way I just know he’s probably reading some pretentious novel or drafting an email that will ruin someone’s day. I peek around the divider.

He’s scrolling through his phone. Calm. Composed. Inhumanly hot in that “devastates your life and walks away without blinking” kind of way.

I snap back like I touched fire.

Deep breaths, Charlotte. It’s just a flight. You’ve survived worse. Like that hostel in Rome with the moldy pillowcases and that guy who tried to kiss you after saying women belong in the kitchen.

I lean back. Close my eyes.

And then, just then,

The freaking divider sinks.

He lowered the divider.

I open my eyes and turn, slowly, like a horror movie protagonist about to face the killer.

“What are you doing?”

He doesn’t look at me. “I figured we should be civil.”

“I was enjoying the civil war just fine, thanks.”

A smirk. Barely there. But there.

Then silence again. Except this time, it’s louder.

The plane begins to taxi. The engine roars. My pulse tries to keep up.

I glance at him again. He’s looking straight ahead, jaw tight. Like he’s holding something back. Like he’s mad. Like he has the right to be mad.

Oh, hell no.

I snap.