The Stopover (The Miles High Club 1)

I want all of this man . . . every last drop.

“Hot towel?” Jessica the flight attendant asks.

We jump back from each other, embarrassed. What must they think of us? They’ve been watching us flirt shamelessly for the entire trip.

“Thank you,” I stammer as I take the towel from her.

“There’s a snowstorm in New York, and we’re going to circle for a while to see if we can land,” she says.

“What happens if we can’t?” Jim asks.

“We will fly on to Boston and have an emergency layover for the night. You will be accommodated in a hotel, of course. We’ll know in the next ten minutes. I’ll keep you updated.”

“Thank you.”

She walks off to the other side of the plane and out of earshot, and Jim leans over and whispers, “I hope New York freezes the fuck over.”

Nerves dance in my stomach. “Why is that?”

“I have plans for us,” he whispers darkly.

I stare at him as my brain misfires. I’ve been prick teasing like a pro, but I’m really not that kind of girl. It’s easy to be brave and slutty when there’s no chance of anything happening. I begin to perspire. Why did I get so damn tipsy? Why did I tell him about my drought? That’s supposed to be kept private, fool.

“Another drink?” Jim whispers.

“I can’t—I have a job interview this afternoon.”

“That won’t be happening.”

“Don’t say that,” I stammer. “I want this job.”

“Good evening, passengers; this is the captain speaking.” A voice comes over the loudspeaker, and I close my eyes. Shit.

“Due to a snowstorm in New York, we will be flying on to Boston tonight and staying there. We will return to New York early in the morning. Sorry for any inconvenience this has caused, but safety is our priority.”

My eyes meet Jim’s, and he gives me a slow and sexy smile and raises his eyebrow.

Oh no.

Chapter 2

“Don’t look so excited.” He smirks.

“Jim . . . ,” I stammer. Oh hell, how do I say this? “I’m not really the kind of girl who . . .” My voice trails off.

“Who fucks on first dates?” he says, finishing my sentence.

“Yes.” I wince at the crudeness of that statement. “I just don’t want you to think . . .”

“I know. I wouldn’t,” he replies curtly. “I don’t.”

“Good.” Relief fills me. “I was being flirty when I thought we were getting off and never seeing each other again.”

“Right.” He smirks in amusement.

“Not that I don’t think you’re great,” I add. “Because if I were that kind of girl, I would totally be into you. We would be fucking like . . .” I pause as I try to think of an analogy.

“Rabbits?” he offers.