Ache For You

9

My anger turns to panic. s**t. This can’t be happening! My voice wavering and my eyes filling with tears, I say, “Please. I’m begging you. I haven’t seen my father in five years. He’s the only family I have left. I have to be there for him. I have to get on this flight. If he dies and I’m not there, I’ll never forgive myself.”

The gate agent opens her mouth to shut me down, but a voice behind me says, “The lady can have my seat.”

I don’t have to turn around to know who it is. I’d recognize that panty-melting accent anywhere.

Plus, the gate agent looks as if she’s been electrocuted.

“Oh, s-sir, that’s very kind of you. Are you sure?” She glances at me and frowns, clearly thinking I don’t deserve to even stand in Euro Hunk’s general vicinity, let alone be the recipient of this magnanimous gesture.

“I’m sure.”

He moves into view, coming around my left side to stand next to me. His arm brushes my shoulder, sending a rash of goose bumps cascading down my spine.

“Let me see if I can arrange it. We do allow transfers in some cases. May I have your boarding pass, please?”

Gazing down at me with a small smile, he pulls a boarding pass from the inside pocket of his overcoat and hands it to the gate agent, all without glancing away from my face.

In a strangled voice, I ask, “You’re on this flight?”

He inclines his head in a kingly nod.

“You’re not a paparazzi?”

“A paparazzo,” he corrects. “Not the last time I checked.”

I turn to face him fully. “And, um, the count thing—”

“Marchese.” His eyes are bright with laughter. “No, it’s not a cheese.”

I put a hand over my chest and breathe, “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”

“Sir,” chirps the gate agent.

Our gazes hold for a moment that feels like an eternity until he looks away from me and turns his attention to her. “Yes?”

“This is a first-class ticket.”

I look at her in shock. She stares back at me with her brows lifted, like We both know you don’t deserve first class, sister.

“Yes, it is,” says Euro Hunk firmly. “Is there a problem?”

She looks at me, then back at him, then plasters a big fake smile on her face. “Not at all, sir. Your identification, please?”

He fishes a passport from another pocket of his coat and hands it over.

“Madam, may I have your boarding pass and identification again, please?” The gate agent smiles sweetly at me.

Unbelievable. I’ve been promoted to “madam.”

In total disbelief, I watch the gate agent tap away on her keyboard, changing the reservations so I can get on the flight. I turn to find Euro Hunk gazing at me with that same laserlike intensity he had when I glanced up from my sketch pad and caught him staring.

I say, “I can’t let you do this.”

“Of course you can.”

“It’s a wonderful gesture, but that ticket must’ve cost a fortune.”

The gate agent decides it’s time to be helpful. “The full fare for a first-class nonstop flight to Florence is $10,608.”

My jaw comes unhinged and hangs somewhere in the middle of my chest.

Euro Hunk sees my horror and tries to make me feel better. “That’s the round-trip fare.”

“I’m sorry, but there’s no way I can pay you back for that. As much as I’d love to accept your generous offer, I can’t.”

He tilts his head as if he’s considering something. His gaze drops to my carry-on. “Your sketch pad.”

“What?” I’m so startled I say it too loudly, causing the gate agent to jump.

“Your sketch pad. I’ll take it in trade for the ticket.”

He says that like it’s a completely rational thing to barter a $10,000 ticket for and he fully expects me to hand it over without another thought. But what he doesn’t know is that my sketch pad doesn’t contain the doodles of a hobbyist.

It contains the designs for my entire spring collection, which I was going to begin work on as soon as I returned from my honeymoon.

The honeymoon might be off, but the collection isn’t—and I haven’t yet scanned the images into my computer.

Which means that if I give Euro Hunk my sketch pad, those designs are gone forever.

I tighten my grip on my carry-on and pull it behind my back. “That’s impossible.”

A flash of irritation darkens his eyes, but they quickly regain their tropical-water tranquility. I can tell he isn’t used to hearing no, but he does his best to cover it up with a tight smile.

“I see. Best of luck with your father.” He turns his attention to the gate agent, who’s watching our interaction as avidly as the bartender did. “It seems I won’t be needing to transfer the ticket after—”

“Wait.” Panicked, I grab a handful of his plush coat sleeve.

He looks down at me with a brow arched condescendingly.

“Why would you want the pad? Isn’t there something else I can give you?”

When his carnal smile makes a reappearance, I know how bad that sounded. I quickly backtrack. “That wasn’t a proposition.”

“No? Pity.”

We stare at each other, our gazes locked. The heat in his eyes is unmistakable. With a sinking feeling in my chest, I realize I have to make a choice between prostituting myself and losing my spring collection.

My panic turns into full-blown hysteria.

Inside my body, a tug-of-war breaks out between my hormones, my brain, and my moral compass, which—if I’m being totally honest—is the first one to lose the fight.