Page 56 of The Love Rematch
Nina and Trish sit in a pod to her left. Fred is in a different pod all the way to her right, next to a stranger. And Emily sits in the middle pod with an open seat to her right—an open seat she desperately prays someone will fill as the rest of the business-class passengers shuffle down the aisle.
No one does.
The line thins, then ends. Flight attendants take drink orders. For a brief, glorious moment, Emily wonders if he’s sitting somewhere else.
Then, as if summoned, Jake is suddenly there. Without glancing her way, he drops into the empty seat by her side. As he readjusts, her seat bounces slightly. Every shuffle of clothes andclinkof metal makes her curious, but she couldn’t see him even if she tried. A plastic divider separates the seats. The only thing they share is a drink tray and the air around their legs. Really, it’s no big deal that he’s there. He could be anyone.
But he’s not.
He’s Jake.
Every breath. Every sound. Every silent moment is like a reminder.
Jake. Jake. Jake.
When the flight attendant finally puts her wine down on the drink tray, Emily goes for it immediately, not realizing Jake had the same thought. She grabs her glass. He grabs his. The backs of their fingers brush, a match striking flint. The fuse zips up her arm. Fireworks explode inside her chest, stunning her still. A soft gasp escapes her lips.
Does he hear?
Does he know?
Jake doesn’t move. Emily doesn’t either. Time stretches. No more than an inch of his skin touches hers, but they may as well be naked with the way her body lights up. Every nerve is alert. Her cheeks flush with heat. She can’t see him, can’t gauge his reaction, but he must feel it. Why else hasn’t he pulled away?
Move your hand.
Move your hand.
Move your freaking hand.
She can’t. Her arm won’t budge. Someone else has possession of her body—the same backstabbing bitch who had control of her dreams the night before.
Jake moves, but not away.
He bends his pointer finger, bringing his knuckle fully against her skin, then lifts it up and drops it down in an unmistakable stroke. Deliberate. Purposeful. Not even close to an accident. Emily feels it everywhere—and she meanseverywhere. She clenches her thighs together as her need skyrockets.
The plane jolts into motion, breaking the spell.
Shit.
What am I doing? What am I doing?
Emily jerks her hand away, bringing her drink with it, and takes a long sip to calm her racing pulse. She glances around to distract herself and meets Nina’s gaze. How much did the producer see? Was there even anything to see?
Emily swallows.
Nina’s expression is for a moment inscrutable, but it quickly relaxes into an easy smile. She lifts her glass in a silent cheers. Emily does the same, feigning calm. Then she shoves her headphones on and chooses the least romantic movie she can from the list. She has absolutely no idea what it’s about, but there’s a slimy, putrid alien on the poster and that’s enough. She settles into her seat.
At the exact moment she finally feels somewhat back to normal, something sharp scratches her calf.
What the hell?
She jerks her leg to the side and glances out the corner of her eye. Jake is hunched over in his seat. He must’ve accidentally nudged her with his bag.
Except, ten seconds later it happens again.
She kicks instinctively. He grunts.
This time, instead of the gentle prod, something whacks her leg. There’s no mistaking its intentionality. Annoyed, Emily reaches down and grabs the offending item, prepared to start whacking Jake with it, until she sees what it is.
