Me: Completely. Send help.
Bryn: Too late now. Just promise me you’ll actually have fun instead of overthinking everything to death.
Easy for her to say. She’s not the one about to spend Christmas pretending to be in love with a man who can send her pulse racing just by existing.
By 11:45, I’m standing in my lobby with a suitcase that weighs more than I do and a level of anxiety that could power asmall city. When Mitch’s black SUV pulls up, my stomach does something complicated and unnecessary.
He climbs out, and I immediately regret every life choice that led to this moment. He’s wearing dark jeans and a gray wool coat thatbroadens his shouldersin all the worst ways, and when he spots me through the lobby windows, he flashes that smile—the one that’s probably gotten him out of trouble his entire life.
“Ready for this?” he asks, taking my suitcase like it weighs nothing.
“Define ready.”
He laughs, loading my bag into the back. “Nervous?”
“Terrified. You?”
“Same.” He opens the passenger door for me, and the casual chivalry catches me off guard. “But the good kind of terrified.”
The airport is a zoo—holiday travelers everywhere, delayed flights, crying children. But somehow, walking beside Mitch through the terminal makes it feel manageable. Maybe it’s the way he navigates crowds like he’s cutting through defenders on the ice, or maybe it’s how he keeps checking to make sure I’m still beside him.
“First class?” I stare at our boarding passes like they might spontaneously combust.
“It’s a necessity when you’re six-three. Trust me, you don’t want to see me folded into coach for three hours.”
The flight attendant recognizes him immediately, all bright smiles and lingering touches when she takes his coat. I pretendnot to notice the way her eyes linger on his arms, the way she leans just a little too close when she offers him a drink.
“Your girlfriend is so lucky,” she gushes, glancing at me with barely concealed envy.
“I’m the lucky one,” Mitch says smoothly, and something in his tone sends a prickle of awareness across my skin.
The seats are enormous compared to what I’m used to—leather and space and actual legroom. I try to look like I fit in here instead of like someone who usually fights for armrest territory in row thirty-seven.
“Relax,” Mitchell murmurs, settling beside me. “You look like you’re about to bolt.”
“Still considering it.”
“Too late now. We’re airborne.”
He’s right. Through the small window, Dallas is shrinking below us, and there’s no backing out now. I’m committed to this insane plan, whether my nervous system got the memo or not.
“So,” I say, gripping my armrest with more force than necessary. “What’s the story? How did we meet? How long have we been dating? What are my favorite flowers?”
“Sunflowers,” he says without hesitation.
I blink. “What?”
“Your favorite flowers. Sunflowers. You’ve got a coffee mug on your desk with them painted on the side.”
The fact that he noticed such a small detail about my workspace does something dangerous to my chest. “Okay, that’s... surprisingly observant.”
“I pay attention.”
His voice drops to that low register that wakes up every nerve ending. When I look at him, he’s studying my face with an intensity that steals my breath.
“We should probably get our story straight,” I say, trying to redirect before I do something stupid like lean closer.
“We met at work. You were coordinating some charity event, I was being difficult about the schedule, you put me in my place with that sharp tongue of yours.” His mouth curves. “I was intrigued.”