Flying Read online

  Her parties had always been open-door—expansive guest lists, nothing formal. So when the doorbell rang while she was in the living room collecting empty Solo cups and discarded napkins, Stella at first didn’t do more than look up. The party had spilled over to both the front and back lawns, so even if there was an oddball guest who felt shy about walking right in, he or she could surely walk around to the back. She dumped the trash into the pail she’d set up in the corner of the room for just that purpose, not that anyone seemed to have noticed it...and the bell rang again. Dusting off her hands, Stella went to answer it.

  On the step stood Matthew, in all his glory. “Hi,” he said.

  Stella closed the door in his face.

  She opened it again a moment later, finding him still standing there, this time with his mouth open and brow furrowed. She’d imagined this moment in so many different ways. Playing it cool. Jumping into his arms. Telling him to get lost. But when it was real and true, when he was right in front of her, all Stella could do was stare.

  Gently, Matthew reached for her wrist and pulled her forward a few steps onto the front porch. The door closed behind her. Stella stared. Matthew smiled hesitantly.

  “It took me twelve hours to get here. Aren’t you going to say anything?”

  He’d driven here. Not flown, then. But still, he was here. Baby steps.

  “It’s just that I thought...I thought I would never...” The tears came then. Fat, burning, sliding down her cheeks and wetting her lips with the taste of salt. Stella drew in a sobbing breath, embarrassed but incapable of holding any of it back. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

  “Aww, now, now,” Matthew said as if this were all some kind of joke. A fucking joke. “How could you think that?”

  Stella drew herself up. “Because you made me think so!”

  They stared at each other in silence pierced by the sounds of the party and Stella’s hitching breaths. Then by Matthew’s small, sad sigh. He reached for her but didn’t grab. Didn’t pull or force. He reached and waited for Stella to let him take her.

  Had there really been a question of her refusing him?

  They clung to each other on her front porch, neither of them speaking, her face pressed into the hollow of his shoulder. She breathed in the scent of him. Fabric softener, soap, that distinctive smell of him that she’d been so sure she’d never breathe again. She shook a little, and his hands smoothed down her back, until at last she looked up at him.

  “Shhh,” Stella rasped, her own swollen eyes and streaked cheeks making this ironic, “don’t cry.”

  Matthew held her close. “Stella,” he whispered in her ear. “I just drove twelve hours on gas station coffee and determination. I need to use your bathroom and get something to eat, or I’m going to pass out on your front porch.”

  Stella laughed and wiped at her eyes. “Come inside. There’s plenty of food.”

  “In a minute,” Matthew said. “I can wait another minute.”

  Then he kissed her. And again. He kissed and kissed and kissed her, and suddenly everything felt as though it was all going to be all right.

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from TEAR YOU APART by Megan Hart.

  “Hart’s beautiful use of language and discerning eye toward human experience elevate the book to a poignant reflection on the deepest yearnings of the human heart and the seductive temptation of passion in its many forms.”

  —Kirkus Reviews on Tear You Apart

  If you loved Flying, look for these other great reads by New York Times bestselling author Megan Hart, available now in ebook format:

  Stranger

  Tear You Apart

  Naked

  Broken

  Dirty

  The Space Between Us

  Also, don’t miss the Cosmo Red-Hot Reads from Harlequin title Tangled Up (May 2014), also by Megan Hart!

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  Chapter One

  I came in on the train and then took a cab, but that didn’t stop the late March drizzle from destroying everything I’d carefully put together at home earlier this afternoon. My hair hangs sodden against my forehead and cheeks. My clothes cling, damp and heavy and chilled. I stripped off my dark, soaked stockings in the gallery bathroom and wrapped them in paper towels to tuck inside my purse, and my legs feel glaringly pale. Instead of the glass of white wine in my hand, I’m desperate for a cup of coffee, or better yet, a mug of hot chocolate. With whipped cream.

  I’m desperate for the taste of something sweet.

  There should be desserts here, but all I can find are blocks of cut cheese, sweating on the tray among the slaughtered remains of fancy crackers. The bowl of what looks like honey mustard is probably all right, but the companion bowl of ranch dressing looks like a playground for gastrointestinal distress. Courtesy of the rain, I’m more chilled than the cheese, the dips or the wine.

  I haven’t seen Naveen yet. He’s flirting his way through the entire crowd, and I can’t begrudge him that. It’s exciting, this new gallery. New York is different than Philly. He needs to make an impression with this opening. He’ll get to me eventually. He always does.

  Now I hold the glass of wine in one hand, the other tucked just below my breasts to prop my elbow as I study the photograph in front of me. The artist has blown it up to massive size. Twenty by forty, I estimate, though I’ve always been shit with measurements. The subject matter is fitting for the weather outside. A wet street, puddles glistening with gasoline rainbows. A child in red rubber boots standing in one, peering down at his reflection—or is it a her? I can’t tell. Longish hair, a shapeless raincoat, bland and gender-neutral features. It could be a boy or girl.

  I don’t care.

  I don’t care one fucking thing about that portrait, the size of it just big enough to guarantee that somebody will shell out the cool grand listed on the price tag. I shake my head a little, wondering what Naveen had thought, hanging this in the show. Maybe he owed someone a favor...or a blow job. The BJ would’ve been a better investment.

  There’s a crinkle, tickle, tease on the back of my neck. The weight of a gaze. I turn around, and someone’s there.

  “You’d need a house the size of a castle to hang that piece of shit.”

  The voice is soft. Husky. Nearly as gender-neutral as the face of the child in the picture. I pause for just a moment before I look into his eyes, but the second I do, my brain fits him into a neat slot. Male. Man. He’s a man, all right, despite the soft voice.

  He’s not looking at me, but at the picture, so I can stare at him for a few seconds longer than what’s socially acceptable. Hair the color of wet sand spikes forward over his forehead and feathers against his cheeks in front of his ears. It’s short and wispy in the back, exposing the nape of his neck. He’s got a scruffy face, not just like a guy who’s forgone shaving for a few days, but one who keeps an uneasy truce with his razor at best. He wears a dark suit, white shirt, narrow dark tie. Retro. Black Converse on his feet.

  “And who’d pay a grand for it? C’mon.” His gaze slides toward me just for a second or two. Catching me staring. He gestures at the photo.

  “It’s not so bad.” I’m not sure why I’m compelled to say anything nice about the picture. I agree, it’s an overpriced piece of shit. It’s a mockery of good art, actually. I should be angry about this, that