Page 1 of The One Bed Rule
One
Claire
Thisisn’twhatOctoberis supposed to feel like. Thanks to the Miami heat, sweat beads on my forehead as I wait for my plane to begin boarding. I can’t believe people live in a place where there are no fall leaves or the whisper of a chill in the air. I make a mental note to cross southern Florida off my “places I could live” list. A warm coffee cup between my hands isn’t doing me any favors as I feel a drip of sweat make its way down my shoulder blades, but I can’t help it: I’m a cappuccino fiend.
Typically I’d be on a private plane, not waiting to board a commercial flight, but Willow—my favorite client and one of the most famous pop stars on the planet—decided to make a quick trip to Italy. There’s a piano she wants to look at, so she’ll go to her home on the Amalfi coast for a few days and I’ll count down the minutes until I’m back in New York.
“Tell me that isn’t hot coffee,” a gruff voice says with a playful bump into my shoulders.
Seth.
I offer a shrug—he already knew the answer. We haven’t spent a ton of one-on-one time together but it’s common knowledge I only drink hot coffee. I reply, “Surprised to see you here. How’d Willow manage that?”
“She’s got one of my best guys with her and another contact on the ground in Italy. Per her request, I’m going back to the city.” The head of my client’s security detail rolls his eyes with hisback to the citycomment.
Just like everyone knows I drink hot cappuccinos all year round, we all know how serious Seth takes his job with Willow. He treats her like she’s legitimately a part of his family and always feels best in a hands-on role when it comes to Willow’s safety.
We’ve worked together for a while, but that mostly means I'm following the plans he and his team give us—like we did for this award show last night in Miami. I’ve heard nothing but good things about Seth, but I don’t know a ton about him.
“Boarding pass?” I ask, wanting to see where he’s sitting on the plane. He squints while handing me a meticulously and evenly folded piece of paper. I open it to see he’s in the almost very last row.
This just won’t do.
I walk to the desk, ready to work my gate agent magic. While they check what’s available, I glance at a group of women to my right. It’s clear they’re talking about Seth as they try to covertly get a picture of him, which he picks up on immediately—security detail 101. When I look over my shoulder, I see Seth wave to the women and the chorus of sighs and giggles that follow are adorable.
“You’re all set, Miss Benton. Here are two new boarding passes for you,” the agent says, giving me a smile and a wink.
Satisfied, I walk back to Seth, handing over his new boarding pass.
He whistles. “First Class? Wow.”
“Next to me. That’s the only downfall,” I say, poking fun at myself while taking a long drink of my coffee.
“Stop,” he protests, tipping his head. His hazel eyes have flecks of green and brown, and remind me of the autumn leaves I'm missing back home. I’ve never noticed how pretty they were.
What else haven’t I noticed?
Seth is getting something out of his black backpack while I take him in. His dark hair has the start of curls—it’s longer than I’ve ever seen—and it’s almost black but peppered with gray. Why is it that men get to age and legitimately get hotter with each year that passes, while the rest of us are out here fighting for our lives? His back muscles ripple as he zips the bag up, lifting up and putting it back on his shoulders—he’s wearing a bougie athleisure top with fabric that looks like butter.
Why am I thinking about putting my hands on him? Running my fingers down those muscles on each side of his spine, his shoulders? Fuck, it’s been too long. Might need to plead temporary insanity and get back on a dating app, which is code for I need to get laid.
As we board, my phone buzzes: a reminder for my spa day tomorrow morning. The one I’ve had scheduled for months. We’re talking an entire day of being pampered, massaged, and primped. My muscles relax at the thought of it—the memory from last year. This year, I’ve really rounded out the experience with a private chef coming to my place to cook me one of my favorite meals.
We’re getting settled, me in the window seat and Seth right next to me, when the flight attendant approaches us.
“First, we’ve got champagne for both of you. And Miss Benton, we’ve got something a little extra.” He hands me a gift, a white bow on a dark brown wrapped box which feels like velvet on myhands. “Truffles for you. Happy birthday and thanks for flying with us.”
Shit.
Seth slowly turns and when I look at him, his eyes are wide, all hazel and gorgeous. “Birthday? Is today your birthday, Claire?”
“Yes,” I admit, covering my eyes. I don’t know why, but this is something I’ve never really celebrated.
Who am I kidding—I know exactly why I don’t like this day. My whole life, my parents were too busy working to ever really plan anything. And then, when I was able to take care of myself in the most basic of ways, they were too busy drinking and pretending I didn’t exist. I’ve always been too independent, desperate for control, because I simply had to. I went no contact with my parents long before it was a hot topic in therapy.
“And what year are we celebrating?” Seth asks, lifting his champagne flute.
I do the same with my flute and say, “Thirty-eight.”
