Mister Weston

“Gillian...” She sighed and walked over to my closet, opening the doors. “You and me are going to leave for a friend’s private party in exactly two hours. For those two hours, and the four to five hours we spend at the party, there will be no mentions of Jake, Elite Airways, the newspapers, nothing. The only thing I want to talk about is what you’re drinking, what you’re wearing, and who you’re interested in bringing home. That’s it.”

“The first night we met, Jake told me that he didn’t have a type,” I said. “I wonder if he was just saying that to get me to go home with him...What do you think?”

She pulled a blue dress out of my closet and threw it at me before walking toward the door. “Be ready in two hours, Gillian. Two hours.”

GATE C54

GILLIAN

New York (JFK)

I WAS CERTAIN THAT the fates above were huddled together and laughing hysterically at my expense. The “party” Meredith brought me to wasn’t on some secluded rooftop via an abandoned building like last time. It was on the rooftop of The Madison at Park Avenue, and although residents were supposedly not allowed to attend, being here only made me think of the one who currently lived right below us in Unit 80A.

Every twenty minutes, Meredith went out of her way to introduce me to someone new, someone “cool,” but the attraction was never there. At least, not in the intense way I knew it could be.

Almost every man at this party was a self-made suit or a rising visionary in the world of fashion art, but I couldn’t last in a single conversation for more than five minutes. My mind was always elsewhere, my heart too stubborn to give anyone new a chance.

Grabbing a glass of wine from a waiter’s tray, I walked over the roof’s railing and looked up at the sky as a white plane hovered over The Hudson.

“Cool plane, right?” a voice to my left said. “Probably military. Probably a turbo glider or something, probably getting ready to head somewhere on the other side of the world right now.”

“No,” I said, “That’s an MD-88. It’s only for short range flights.” I turned to look at him, but he was blinking rapidly in intimidation and slowly stepping away from me.

I watched as the small plane flew higher, as it continued to make its ascent.

“So, you’re still spreading the wrong information...” The deep, low sound of that voice made my heart jump, made me turn around and come face to face with Jake.

He was still fucking perfect; still sexier than the last time we were together.

Wearing an impeccable black suit in a way that only he could, he was smiling at me, eventually taking the place right next to me at the railing.

“It was an MD-90, Miss.” He didn’t say my name. “You were close though, very close.” He glanced at my lips.

“I’m Jake.” He extended his hand, and the second I took it, every nerve in my body instantly came to life. “And you are?”

“Gillian.”

“Hmmm. What do you do for a living, Gillian?”

“I’m a bestselling author...You?”

“I’m a pilot, senior captain actually.”

“You look a little too young to be a captain,” I said, easily mimicking our very first conversation the night we met.

“Well,” he said, planting a light kiss on my forehead. “My high number of flight hours say differently.”

Silence.

For several minutes, the two of us simply stood staring at each other, and I knew, right then and there, that my heart was still tethered to his, that there wasn’t a chance in hell that I would ever fall for anyone else the way I fell for him.

His eyes never left mine and he wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me closer as if he was going to reclaim my mouth with his, but he stopped before our lips could touch.

“I have something I would like you to sign.” His hands skimmed my hips and he looked into my eyes. “Will you do that for me?”

I nodded and he slowly let me go, reaching into his blazer and pulling out a paperback copy of Turbulence and a pen.

“You can sign it under the dedication,” he said. “Right under, For you, only you.”

I took the pen from his hands and wrote, “Even if you’ve moved on, you’re still *my* anomaly” on the title page. Then I signed under the dedication.

Smiling, he took the book from me. “You’re still my anomaly, Gillian,” he said softly. “You always will be.”

“Does that mean you’re not upset about the book anymore?”

“I’m fucking livid about the book.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “And actually, since we’re on that topic, let’s get a few things straight: One, your use of aviation terminology is terribly executed throughout the book. You thanked your content editor in the credits so I had high hopes, but after three times of going through it with my highlighter, I’m still finding mistakes.”