Indigo Nights (Nights #3)(2)

I shivered as my nipples grazed the lace of my bra. I hadn’t thought about sex for a long time—I’d shut down that side of myself while I focused on getting sober. That had been over three years ago.

The advice from my sponsor had been not to date for a year, not three. But after a long time of being miserable and out of control, I was happy and sober. Putting that at risk to date wasn’t worth it. My last relationship had ended badly. In fact it had started badly, and continued disastrously, leaving me weak and hopeless. Memories of who I’d turned into meant staying single hadn’t been a struggle, and anyway, it wasn’t as if I was beating men off with a stick.

But something about Mr. 8A was deeply . . . sexual, almost to the point of disturbing, because it stirred something in me that was so unfamiliar.

I scanned his face as he pulled out papers from his carry-on.

“Let me know if I can help you put that in the overhead locker, sir.” The male flight attendant bustled past, no doubt hoping for a spanking. 8A nodded once briskly. He looked like a man who did everything very deliberately, with no mistakes.

He slipped his jacket off, the expensive fabric yielding beneath his fingers. He handed it to the blonde, who just happened to be passing. He opened the overhead locker. I watched his muscles bunch beneath his tight shirt as he placed his bag inside. It was difficult to decide how old he was. His skin suggested early thirties, but his stern expression hinted he might be older.

As I deliberated over his age, his body, his mouth, Mr. 8A turned his head in my direction and caught me staring. I smiled, trying to cover the fact that I was thinking about him naked and between my thighs, not to mention wondering if every part of him was as solid as it seemed.

He offered no smile, no introduction. He just looked at me, or into me. I wasn’t quite sure.

I laid my palm against my breastbone to calm the pulsing of my heart, but somehow I couldn’t look away. Then, as if in understanding, like he’d got the measure of me, he offered me a brief nod and turned away.

I lost sight of him when he sat. I exhaled in relief, but at the same time, I wished the sides of my seat were slightly lower so I could watch him a little more.

I hadn’t noticed a man in a long time. Not in a way where I wanted to touch him, and for him to touch me. Mr. 8A had prodded awake a part of me that had been asleep a long time. I’d been thinking about starting to date again for a few months now, but not because I missed being part of a couple. Not because I wanted to share my life with someone, but just because I thought I should. As much as anything, it was the next step in my recovery. I could see how it could become ten years between lovers if I didn’t do something. Even my brother was regularly suggesting I get out and meet people. His wife, Haven, was even more vocal about it. She’d even tried to set me up a few times. As she said, I didn’t have to fall in love but dinner and casual sex could be fun.

I wasn’t sure if I could be casual about sex.

Was it possible to separate the physical from the emotional? Did I need to sleep with a stranger—to break the cycle of singledom I was in?

I wasn’t convinced. A relationship was a risk, and if I was going to take a risk, shouldn’t it be with a guy who might be my forever man? I was done with dating men who saw me as the girl they were with before they got serious, because drunk or not, I was always serious about them; I couldn’t help myself. Nearly four years might be a long time, but if I found the man that was meant for me, I’d happily wait another three. At least, that was what I was telling myself.

A small, quiet voice from deep inside told me I was just frightened. Frightened of intimacy without the cloak of alcohol to protect me.

Alcohol gave me confidence.

Alcohol made me sexy.

When it came down to it, the pull of sober sex was easy to resist.

In the meantime, Mr. 8A was a mighty fine view, and I was happy to look but not touch.

I checked my phone for the time. Five minutes to takeoff and the cabin doors weren’t even shut. We were late. I glanced behind me and out the window. Snow was falling thickly. I hoped we were still going to be able to take off.

The three cabin-crewmembers assigned to first class were gathered at the bar, chatting, waiting for the signal to start clearing people’s glasses, and stealing furtive glances at Mr. 8A.

I understood their excitement.

There weren’t many men who wore a suit like he did.

Or many men who were so handsome they elicited a short intake of breath on first glance.

Or many men who looked like if they touched a woman, they’d possess her forever.

I shifted in my seat. I had to try to distract myself. I leafed through the pages and tried to find where I’d left off.

“Sir. Miss,” the blonde addressed me and Mr. 8A a few minutes later. “I’m afraid we’re delayed due to the weather. We’re asking people to make their way back to the lounge. We’re hoping we can be back on track within a couple of hours. I’m very sorry for the inconvenience.”

Used to travelling, it didn’t take me longer than a minute to be off the aircraft and headed to the lounge. I wanted to find a free table in a quiet corner to work through my recipes, so I needed to get there quickly. It was for occasions such as these that I wore flats when I travelled.

After checking in to the lounge, I headed to my favorite place at the far right-hand side of the space, beyond the showers and the business center. There were only three tables of two in this section, and people who didn’t fly regularly didn’t realize they existed. It meant peace and quiet.