Page 6 of Just This Once

Within thirty seconds of me laying eyes on her, the curly-headed hellion had become the only thing to tempt me into doing what no one else had for the last eight months, the one thing I’d promised myself I’d never do again.

And there was no taking it back, either. The genie was out of the bottle.

I could be silent no more.

“Son of a bitch,” I muttered in outrage, promising myself that I’d make the brat pay for this.

Someday, she’d pay for dragging me from my beloved denial. Because now, I was just pissed.

1

HOPE

September 2024

Two dings had me looking up from the magazine I’d been reading.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the captain’s voice came over the PA system. “We will begin our descent into Westport now. Please turn off all portable electronic devices and stow them until we have arrived at the gate.”

As he carried on about straightening seat backs and securing carry-on items, I closed the magazine and stuffed it into my purse so I could peer out the minuscule window beside me.

Ten more minutes, and we’d be back on land again. I could not wait.

My stomach dipped as the airplane began to nose its way toward Earth. Swallowing thickly, I squeezed my hands around the strap of my purse as I pressed my back more firmly into my seat, bracing against the sickened feeling that came over me.

God, I hated flying.

But I’d wanted to come home more, so here I was.

When the plane jerked suddenly, hitting turbulence, I clenched my teeth through a quiet moan and squeezed my purse strap harder.

“Not a fan, huh?” the man next to me asked, noticing my distress.

I sent him a tight smile that I hoped conveyed that I wasnotopen for conversation. The handsy asshole had managed to touch my bare leg four times in the past hour alone since he’d boarded with us on my second layover in Houston. And he had to be fifteen to twenty years older than me, which made it even more ick.

Note to self: never wear shorts on a plane again.

I’d been traveling for over seven hours, and the last thing I was in the mood to do was fend off Mr. Ancient, Over-Amorous Octopus Hands.

He chuckled at my response and patted my thigh, higher than ever. “Don’t worry, little lady. That was just a tiny air pocket. We’re good.”

Little lady? Was he serious?

Staring straight ahead, I endeavored to ignore him, hoping he wasn’t going to now tell me about the most frightening experiencehe’dhad on a plane—the way pretty much everyone else did when they learned how much I loathed flying.

“Hell, a couple of years back,” he started with a nostalgic sigh. “I was on this one flight where the wheel refused to come down before landing?—”

Oh, for the love of Pete.

“Could younot?” I broke in with a glare.

I mean, Jesus. I was already freaking out about everything else; now I had a damn retracting wheel to stress over too?

Thanks a lot, jerk-off.

The man sent me a startled glance. “Damn, darlin’.” He whistled and leaned away to put more space between us as ifIwere the problem. Freaking gaslighter. “I was just trying to distract you from your fears with a little conversation.”

“By telling a girl who’s scared to death of flyingmorescary flying stories…while we’re on a plane?” I countered. “Yeah, I’m so sorry for offendingyouby asking you to stop.”

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