Page 17 of Not on the Same Page

“Very,” he agrees, turning his gaze down to where his hands cup mine. His Adam’s apple bobs as his throat works against a swallow. “But when the lift is greater than or equal to the gravity and the thrust is greater than or equal to the drag, the plane can take off and fly. It’s science, not magic. The airplane isn’t going anywhere.” He lifts his eyes to meet mine again. “You’re safe.”

Those words feel loaded, even though I know they’re not.

In fact, I might be safe in this airplane, but I’m definitely not safe sitting here with my hand warm in Casey’s, letting his thumb pass idly back and forth as my heart settles in my chest.

And yet, I can’t bring myself to pull my hand away.

6

CASEY

I certainly didn’t mean to hold her hand for as long as I did. But it seemed to calm her nerves, and she didn’t move it until she got excited about a book and pulled it out of her bag to show me.

But I feel the loss of her hand in mine acutely, in a way I don’t expect. Every cell in my body wants to reach out to her again, especially when the plane starts its descent into Denver and it’s clear her anxiety is rising. She keeps her own hands clasped firmly in her lap though, so it would be inappropriate for me to hold it again.

I lose track of the number of times I study her intently, her hair falling to her shoulders in crimpy waves, her teeth biting her signature red-painted lips as her hazel eyes sparkle with mirth when I crack a joke or she says something sarcastic. I’ve always thought she’s beautiful, but now she’s stunning in a way I’m not sure I fully noticed a year ago when we were hooking up.

Oh, who am I kidding? Of course I noticed. Even then, I wasn’t able to get her out of my mind. If I’m being honest with myself, it’s why I ended things as abruptly as I did—I wasn’t going to make it out of there without losing my heart or my job or both. Better to have a clean break.

And yet, like a moth to a flame, I was drawn right to her in that airport bookshop. Even now, I’m reluctant to leave her side.

As soon as we land, she powers her phone on. It’s cute how she left it off for the whole flight. I tell myself it’s because she’s not a frequent flyer, not at all because she was so engrossed in our conversation that she forgot the device and in-flight Wi-Fi was available to her.

She scrunches her face up as she taps through a couple of messages. “Suzanna actually sent a car to take me to the hotel,” she says. “Shocking. Do you have a ride?”

And then I tell myself the hitch in her voice isn’t because she hopes to ride with me. Of course it’s not. If she had wanted to see me any time in the past year, she would have. I’ve been right here the whole time.

“Um…” I can’t seem to get my thoughts straight. “Yes. The press arranged it for me.”

“Oh.” Her expression is neutral, but her tone falls. I scold my stupid heart when it jumps with hope that maybe she did actually want to ride together.

The plane pulls into the gate, and as soon as we can step out into the aisle, I retrieve her bag for her from the overhead compartment.

She smiles and shoulders it. “Well, I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around this weekend.”

“Did you check any bags?” Maybe I can spend a few more minutes with her if I offer to help carry them.

She shakes her head. “I…uh…try to travel light.” She shrugs as we make our way down the aisle and out of the airplane. When I have to turn left to go to baggage claim and she has to turn right to find her ride, I curse my past self for packing three pairs of shoes and blazers I couldn’t cram into my carry-on.

As I wait for my bag to appear on the carousel, I internally scold myself that this is for the best. I need to keep my distance. Everything about my previous reasoning for breaking things off with her still stands. In fact, it’s even more important to keep solid boundaries now that I’m going to be heading up Starlight Press. She’s an agent with a good eye for standout talent—one I’d love to work with again—and any hint of favoritism could ruin this chance for me. It would be a bad look for Anastasios, too, since he was the one to suggest me for the position.

Even though I know all of these things are true, for the whole thirty-minute drive from the airport to the hotel and convention center, I still let my mind wander to the way she dragged her teeth over those plump, red lips with her hazel eyes locked on mine.

The first order of business is a cocktail hour for all the industry professionals and panelists. Attendees have their own meet-and-greet session at a local bar, which is nice. I’m glad I don’t have to be on only a few hours after getting off the airplane.

The entire convention center is gorgeous, with large stone fireplaces in each room and wood beams on high ceilings. It looks like a lodge where you’d want to curl up with hot chocolate and a good book, even in the heat of summer. There is also an extensive pool with a lazy river outside, but I doubt I’ll be able to take advantage of it on this trip.

The lounge area is much the same, but with huge windows that overlook an outdoor patio with stunning views of the Rockies. A bar takes up most of the center of the room, and people mill about it. Polite chatter and clinking glasses are heard above piano music coming from the far corner of the room. If I’m not mistaken, the pianist is playing covers of pop songs, though I can’t name the current tune.

Overstuffed armchairs and couches are positioned around tables throughout the space, and there are some rocking chairs that face the windows for people to appreciate the view. A large group of people surround a dark-haired man in a sharp, gray suit near the fireplace. He’s smiling and nodding at something one of the people is saying, but I don’t miss the way he squeezes the redhaired woman closer to his side. If I’m not mistaken, this man is the author of the book I picked up at the airport, but I’d have to look at his author photo again to be sure, so I decide to bypass that group and head for the windows.

“Endersen!” a deep voice calls from near the bar. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

I scan the area until I see a familiar face grinning at me. “Ashton Cochran. How the hell are you?”

Ashton is a senior editor at Morgan & Danielson Press based in New York City. We went to college together and have kept in touch on and off ever since. I’m not surprised to see he looks exactly the same as he always did—slicked back brown hair, his posture casual as he leans against the bar even as I approach. As his shrewd gray eyes take me in, I get the sense he’s sizing me up like I am him.

He reaches out a hand which I clasp in my own, and he brings me in for the obligatory bro-hug and back pat. “I heard about your new gig. Congrats, man. That’s amazing.”