Page 5 of If Only In Our Dreams

Because the sexy stranger from the plane was behind me. And judging by the fact I hadn’t heard footsteps for quite some time, he’d been behind me the whole fucking time. He looked pissed off still, his brow twitching as he stared at me. I wasn’t sure what to make of his face. It was the same face he’d given me when I’d boarded the plane and taken the seat next to him.

Unfortunately for me, if he hadn’t recognized me—which I was kinda doubting was the case—that meant he was waiting for me because of the arm thing.

Fuck my life.

“Look,” I started, cheeks hot. “I’m sorry for molesting your bicep, man.” Fuck. Now that he’d seen me interact with the kid he was bound to assume I had money—maybe he’d want compensation?

Nancy would bepissedif I ended up on the news again.

She was still beating reporters away with baseball bats. Fucking assholes wanted to know all the nitty-gritty details about my medical condition. About why I’d collapsed on stage. Like I wasn’t a fuckingpersonwho was struggling, but a piece of entertainment.

Not that I thought sleeping on someone’s arm was newsworthy, per say.

But fuck if I knew what made money nowadays. The press was full of vultures.

“That was nice of you,” the man said simply, watching me with those oddly warm eyes as he jerked his head toward the mom and son who were now out of earshot.

Mr. Sexy had adeepvoice, slow and sweet and even, like he said every word with purpose. Like he was ten steps ahead already. Like he knewexactlywhat to say and how to say it. Except that his eyes widened after the words popped out, like he was surprised.

I was so distracted by how hot he sounded that I nearly forgot what he’d said. And when I remembered, it took me a second to even process. Because that had not been what I was expecting.

At all.

I blinked.

Huh.

My mouth clicked shut, my ire and anxiety fading away and replaced by confusion. “Wh?—”

“Goodbye.”

Before I could respond, tall, gorgeous, and apparently awkward-as-hell, turned on his heel and strode as fast as he could, as far from me as he could possibly get. His long muscular legs ate up the distance quickly. I tried not to watch his ass as he moved, and failed.

What the fuck just happened?

Somehow, I thought, I must’ve fuckedthatup too. Probably by ogling him. Fuck.

At least I’d never have to see or talk to him ever again, right?

Which should be relieving.

So why was there a pit in my stomach?

I haven’t had a lot of regrets in my life. I mean, yes, I was an angsty teen with a chip on his shoulder. Yes, I had secrets. Yes, I hogged the bathroom. Yes, I was an asshole sometimes—most teens are, which in turn bred mistakes. But since I’d become an adult and moved away from home to pursue my medical degree, I could count on one hand the number of times I’d cared enough about something to feel any sort of true regret.

The kind of regret that eats you from the inside out.

That makes you question things in a way you never had before.

Pins and needles buzzed at my fingertips as I finished washing my hands in the airport bathroom. Regret tasted bitter as the burnt coffee I’d had for breakfast. It clung like a film to my body, clogging my pores, and making my movements feel more sluggish than usual.

Because while I often acted like an asshole—and I was fine with that—for some reason…the idea that the small blond man I’d met on the plane might think I was one was…uncomfortable.

Ah. There was that peskyregretagain.

I wasn’t normally the kind of man that ran away from things. I was stubborn and stalwart.Sturdy. I said what I meant. And I always did what I said I would. Promises were vows that were kept. And problems were meant to be dealt with when they arose. Not that the man had been a “problem”, because I certainly didn’t mean that.

The problem was my reaction to him.

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