THIRTY-THREE

FIRST CLASS

Maverick

I’m wired today. Couldn’t sleep. Spent all night making our reservations, then picking the perfect restaurant in Boston to take Reese out.

I texted her the confirmation number and flight times, and she replied, I’ll see you there

My cock’s on fire today. My whole body is on fire today. My brain is on fire, my whole body buzzing in anticipation of fucking holding her, fucking looking at her, fucking making her mine again.

I read the text again while I wait at the airport and wonder if she got held up at the security checkpoint. “You masturbate daily, Mav?” Oz asks to my right.

“Yeah.”

I’m hard. So what. She does that to me.

“Do it more often.”

I clench my hands at my sides and exhale, trying to get it to come down. We’re at the boarding terminal, Oz and I.

I want to be alone with Reese, but I’m keeping a close eye on him too. Him and his “water.” I know it sure as heck isn’t water. But at least he’s cut it down some, now that I’m watching him so closely.

I want him to be well. I want him to want to be well.

“You won’t be able to take your hands off her. You need to woo a woman with your head, not with your cock.”

“I’m bringing my best game, Oz. Really. I’m taking you both out to dinner. Someplace nice.”

“So.” He pats the water bottle he mysteriously brought back from the men’s restroom a while ago, as if to make sure it’s in his jacket pocket. “Does Tate know she’s coming with you?”

I remain silent.

Tate is a touchy subject now. Oz hates that I train with him. He can go on for hours on what a bad idea it is to get in bed with the enemy, yada yada.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he answers himself. “Tate can go fuck himself. Or his hot wife.”

“Oz . . .” I shoot him a warning look. “We respect Tate. And his wife. Right?”

“Me?” Oz asks.

“Come on, Oz; we’re professionals.”

He frowns. “Tate’s gonna bust your face when he knows you’ve got it hard for his wife’s cousin.”

“Tate fucking knows, all right? And he’s not stopping me.” I rub my palms on my jeans and I glance at the clock.

The speakers flare up again for the second time: “Now boarding flight . . .”

The line is diminishing by the second.

I want to text her.

I’m too proud to text her.

I’m aware of Oz staring at me with an I-told-you-so look.

I get up and pace, then lean against a pillar, hands inside my jeans as I scan the walkers heading in our direction. I wait a little longer.

I text her.

You ok?

I call her. Voice mail picks up. “Reese? You all right? Call me.”

I check my phone for messages, nothing. I check my ticket and I stare out at the plane window.

Oz looks at me, the last man boarding.

I shake my head.

He sighs and heads inside.

And I watch the plane taxi out. Watch it head to the line, and then watch it take off.

The plane disappears on the horizon. I wait for two more hours. Dragging my hand through my hair, over and over. Then three hours.

Four hours later, I head to the ticket counter and change my ticket to coach.

Flying first class on my own just isn’t on my agenda.

THIRTY-FOUR

RACER

Reese

I’ve cried so much that now I’m hiccupping, curled in a blue chair in the hospital waiting room. Hiccupping and then, softly, to myself, crying again. There are a couple others in the waiting room. All much more composed than me, reading magazines and pretending they can’t hear me.

I’ve been waiting here for an hour, or maybe two. I don’t know. All I know is that it’s been Groundhog Day for me for the past few hours. Except I’m reliving the same ten minutes over and over in my head.

Racer.

Us, playing with the trains while Brooke finished packing and came to relieve me and I could leave for the airport.

More trains. Me, getting restless, looking at the time, the penny in my pocket.

Racer, getting mad that one of the trains kept charging off the track.

Me . . . fixing the track.

Racer . . . very quiet behind me.

Too quiet behind me.

Not breathing behind me.

“Hey.”

I hear Remy’s voice and I jerk upright, wipe my tears, and set my feet down on the floor.

He comes over. “He’s all right,” he says, low and even.

He looks down at the penny in my palm, the penny that I had been staring at like some lost soul staring at a door that leads back home.

I jam my penny into my jeans pocket—still haunted by the sight of the train with three wheels that had been sitting next to Racer as he choked on the fourth wheel.

My hand trembles as I let go of my penny and pull out my hand, feeling my eyes start to water again. “I’m so sorry, Remy.” I force myself not to cry, but the stupid tears are slipping.

When I yelled for help, Remy had turned Racer over but the train wheel seemed stuck in his windpipe. The ER was three blocks away, and I don’t think I breathed until we got here.

“He’s all right. Okay?” He pats my shoulder in a fatherly way and heads back to check on Racer and Brooke.

They come out soon, the three of them, and Racer sees me, then he turns away and buries his face in his dad’s neck. As if I’m some Judas. As if I failed him. Because I did.

I can hardly look Brooke in the eye.

“Brooke, I’m sorry.”

She nods, her face red from all the tears she cried too.

I wipe my tears and follow them outside, where Pete is pulling the SUV into the driveway. When they bring him into the car, I notice Racer’s not purple anymore, but his face is all red like Brooke’s and probably mine are.

I want to squeeze Racer to me, but he still curls against his father’s chest and avoids my eyes. I think of Maverick’s chest for some odd reason, at a moment like this, and I would give his penny—the one he gave me that I never wanted to let go of—to have that chest right now for me to curl up against too.

“I’m sorry you missed your flight,” Brooke says softly after a moment.

I nod quietly.

“Call Miles and meet him later,” she says.

I realize at this moment that Brooke thinks I was traveling with Miles.