First Impressions: A Stand Alone Enemies-to-Lovers Romance

  First Impressions

  Copyright © 2020 Dee Palmer

  Published by Dee Palmer

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in an form, including but not limited to electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either products of the authors imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase to, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it to the seller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  AUTHOR NOTE: I’m English, the heroine is English and as such her home language creeps in but on the whole this book is edited in US english…if the spellings are a little different please let them slide…it’s a quirk of mine. :)

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Other Books by Dee

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  Preview of Side Efffects

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Acknowledgements

  Other Books by Author

  About The Author

  Other Books by Dee

  The Choices Trilogy

  The Disgrace Trilogy

  Wanted Series

  Click here for my Amazon page

  For my husband (again)…Just because…always.

  Harlow

  Possibly the only thing that is worse than being stuck on a fifteen-hour long-haul flight with a child bawling its eyes out is being stuck on a fifteen-hour flight with a grown-ass woman bawling her eyes out. And I may spend the rest of my lonely life tracking down each passenger on that flight from hell to personally apologize for my very public, very humiliating, mile-high meltdown. Inevitable exhaustion or a soothing parent or perhaps a child-friendly drug might lull the fractious child into a quiet state and sweet slumber. Me? Not so much.

  Bone-wracking sobs tear me apart, and even pressing the pathetic excuse for a pillow against my face fails to muffle my devastation. I’ve drunk enough to induce an alcoholic coma, yet my body is fighting every attempt at oblivion with the resilience of a heavyweight champ.

  The air steward glides down the aisle, pausing momentarily when she sees my floppy hand waving for her attention, again. Even with hazy vision, I recognize the sympathetic tilt of her head. Not the head tilt; please, not the head tilt.

  The threat of fresh tears claws behind my swollen lids, and a surge of nausea rolls ominously in my empty, alcohol-soaked stomach.

  “Can I have another?” I slur, as she reaches the far end of economy class at the tail end of the plane.

  “I’m sorry, Miss, I can’t serve you any more.” Her expression holds a wealth of sympathy and slightly more resolve than I was hoping for.

  “Please.” I’m not above begging. Can’t she hear my desperation? What kind of monster would deny such a simple request to such a pathetic creature?

  “Miss, I’m sorry. Is there someone on board we can perhaps try and locate, someone who can help?”

  “I have no one,” I wail, overcome with the tidal wave of my unbearable reality. I have no one. She looks startled, frozen for a split second before pinching out a panicked smile and turning on her heel and hightailing it back up the aisle. I thrust the pillow hard against my sodden face, my nose running, my eyes streaming, and guttural sobs fail to block out the grumbles and the ‘for fuck sakes’ I can hear echo all around me. Trust me, if I could pull myself together, I would. If I could drink myself into a coma, I would. If I could end this now…I would.

  How the fuck did I get here? For someone so sure of her place in the world, so aware of how very lucky I am, how did I get so lost? No, how did I become such a loser? My head can’t work through the tangled mess to even begin to answer this ever-growing, ever downward spiraling line of questions. I know I’m wallowing. I know I’ll get through this; after all, I’ve gotten through worse, but right now, I just can’t see it. Right now, all I can see is darkness, and when I do look up, all I can see is that the same air steward has returned. She’s smiling now, but isn’t carrying an armful of miniature bottles of alcohol, so I have no idea why she’s so pleased with herself.

  “Would you please come with me?” She cups her fingers, hurriedly urging me out of my seat.

  “Why?”

  “Miss Hart, would you follow me, please?” she repeats, sweeping her arm out along the aisle, indicating the direction she wishes me to take and allowing me a moment to gather my things. I have no idea why I’m moving to her request; nevertheless, I do. Autopilot has kicked in for me just as much as it has, no doubt, for those flying the plane. I can’t help the years of ingrained manners. Someone asks me politely, or, in this case, somewhat firmly to do something, and I do it. Not that I had much to gather. My father’s old Oxford sweater, my passport, and a packet of Werther’s original sweets are all I have to my name, and I clutch them like they are the crown frickin’ jewels. All my other worldly belongings are where I left them, or, more likely by now, being sold off one sorry piece at a time, in one of the street markets in Hanoi.

  “Do you have a carry-on case in the overhead locker?” She reaches above me, her hand poised on the locker handle in anticipation.

  “No.”

  “Oh. Very well, follow me.” She strides off, and I stumble to catch up to her, hindered by the swill of alcohol soaking my system. When I reach the front of the tail section, I swear the whole population of the rear end of the plane sighs with relief at my departure. I don’t blame them. Five minutes of hysterical crying are enough to put anyone on edge, and I haven’t drawn breath for three hours. I pass the next section and the next. Only when I reach the bottom of a flight of stairs I never knew existed do I stop.

  “This way.” The steward flashes an encouraging smile, and I’m already shaking my head at her obvious mistake.

  “That’s first class,” I state, although the inflection in my voice makes it sound like a really dumb question. Especially since she’s standing directly in front of the gleaming chrome sign identifying the area as such.

  “Yes, Miss Hart
, I am aware of that.” Her smile is measured, although she’s clearly amused.

  “I don’t have a first class ticket. Actually, it’s a miracle I got any ticket with the cash I had on me.” I sniff back. Hours and hours of producing more bodily fluid than I have in my lifetime results in possibly the most disgusting noise I’ve ever emitted in public.

  “I am aware of that, also.” She hands me a crisp white tissue from her pocket. “I have been instructed to relocate you.”

  “Why? Oh, I mean, yes, I understand why. It’s just, I’m sorry, I can’t stop, and I doubt the first class passengers are going to be any more forgiving.” I wave a hand up and down my sorry state. I haven’t had a shower in three days; I smell like a farmer and look like I’ve been dragged through the jungle backward, several times.

  “Passenger, singular. Just one gentlemen is traveling in first class today, and he insisted.” The intonation in that last word seems a little off.

  “That’s really very kind.” My voice catches, and a fresh swell of tears threatens, but she cuts me off with a pinched, forced smile.

  “Quite.” She flattens her lips into a tight, knowing smile. I’m confused by the entire situation and her non-verbal cues are too much for my addled brain. She turns and walks up the spiral staircase. I follow, scooping up my jaw from the plush carpet as I reach the top step. I had no idea. Wow…just WOW!

  The top of the staircase sweeps open into what looks like a swanky, yet sensual, cocktail lounge more suited to a top Knightsbridge or Park Lane hotel, with its soft pink glow and discreet spotlights. Sumptuous seating edges one side of the plane and the other has booths, which afford a little more privacy. There is a semicircular bar directly ahead with a barman casually polishing a wine glass as if this isn’t the most ridiculous display of wealth I’ve ever witnessed. I mean, even with all this space, I’m only counting twelve actual seats. The TV screen displaying calming images of the world outside is as big as a front door, and with a quick glance, I can count five stewards milling around, not including the barman. It’s insane. There’s no one here, and downstairs, we’re crammed in like cattle such that one needs to be a semi-proficient contortionist just to be able to get to the toilet.

  “Take a seat, Miss Hart.” The steward points to one of the armchairs, swiveling the back so I can just plop my backside straight down, if I’m inclined.

  “I can’t stay here.” My tone is a tinged with judgment, and I can see from her expression that I am coming off as rude and ungrateful.

  “And why is that?” The clipped, gravelly, rough deep voice behind me makes me jump. I tangle myself up when I turn round so fast and stumble and end up sitting in the chair I was objecting to. I didn’t hear him approach. Damn the thick, footstep-silencing carpets. This is the man who has obviously and graciously allowed me to share his exclusive space, and I am, well, I’m just being rude. He strides toward me, rubbing his long hair with a towel. He blocks my vision until I push myself to stand and meet his gaze. He looks feral, standing over six-foot. Long wet hair looks almost back, framing his perfect cheekbones. He’s sporting an intense, furrowed brow. His beard is thick with stray straggly long strands, unkempt, and is mostly covering a deeply tanned face. However, it’s his eyes that are hypnotic, a piercing blue-green, beautiful, and boring right through me. Even so, it’s an effort keeping my focus on the eyes, given that he is half-naked, with only loose fitted lounge pants hanging artfully from his trim waist. And, oh, lord, he smells so good.

  Did he just get out of a shower?

  What the hell? They have a frickin’ shower! Shit, they might have a damn swimming pool up here for all I know.

  “Because I don’t feel comfortable.” I cross my arms, hoping he will take the hint and step back from the new barrier I’ve created. He doesn’t. In fact, a wolfish grin spreads wider as he leans further into my personal space. My heart does this thing where it’s trying to see just how fast and hard it can beat before it breaks a rib.

  “Not comfortable?” He hums, wry amusement crinkling his eyes. “There’s a suite at your disposal with a… Big. Comfy. Bed. Just how much”—he air quotes—“comfort are you after, exactly?” He arches a brow. The salacious way he said the word bed and air quoted the word comfort may have made the hairs on my neck stand to attention. Unfortunately, arrogance, confidence, and downright smugness roll off him in waves. I feel my expression morph from curiosity to disgust.

  “Not what I meant…exactly. Thank you for the offer, but it’s just not right.” My tone is dismissive and weighted heavily with condemnation and judgment. I don’t know what his deal is, but I’ve yet to meet a rich person that isn’t a complete arsehole. And I’m fairly confident the dubious sexual undertones are for his amusement at my expense. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the flat screen as it changes scenes, as if I needed further confirmation of my assessment. A timely reminder that my emotional state perfectly mirrors my physical appearance. I’m a wreck. I stiffen, and my jaw tightens because none of this is amusing, and I’m not in the mood to play whatever game he has in mind.

  “Not right.” His speech is deliberate, like he’s chewing on each word, alongside the mouthful of gravel that is making his voice so husky. His dark brows pinch together, and I swear his nostrils are flaring, although, this close, it’s difficult to see through the bushy facial hair.

  “No.”

  His eyes narrow. He’s caught my meaning, and I can see he’s not too happy about it. My throat is dry, and a large lump is lodging itself nicely at the back. The intensity of his gaze seems to have sucked all the oxygen from the room. The standoff is excruciating. His eyes are mesmerizing and furious at the same time. If I was at any other point in my life, I might have felt differently. I don’t normally make assumptions about people, but today, at this moment in time, I am running on empty, sleep deprived, homeless, jobless, and alone. I have been heartbroken for so long I don’t know what it feels like to feel normal, to feel happy, and Mr. First Class is angry at me because I’ve pointed out that having everything handed to you on a silver fucking plate isn’t right.

  “I see,” he says, after what feels like forever.

  I exhale loudly and turn to walk away. “I doubt that.” The thought is out of my mouth before my brain can tell my arm to slap my hand across my mouth and shut the fuck up. Really, Harlow? What the hell has gotten into you?

  He captures my hand and spins me back to face his dark scowl. I don’t know what has me more shocked, his forcefulness or the instant heat at our bodies colliding. A fraction of a second feels like a lifetime when you’re literally burning up. Then, just as instantly, he lets go. My body is no longer touching every part of him, although one wouldn’t know it from the way my heart is pounding.

  “Look, Little Miss High Horse, I personally don’t give a shit if you’re comfortable or not. I do, however, care about the hundreds of complaints I am going to have to field because the passengers downstairs have to listen to you wail like a banshee for another twelve straight hours. So grin and bear it, cupcake, you are not leaving this cabin. Now sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up.”

  “You can’t speak to me like that.” My arse barely hits the baby soft leather, when I bounce back to my full five-foot-nothing height. I hate that I sat at his command in the first place, but I’m standing now, with my chin tipped high, and indignation is running like liquid fury in my veins.

  Who the fuck does he think he is?

  “My airline, baby. I can do whatever I like.” He purses his lips to not quite a pout, his gaze more challenging as I process the information and try to assess if he’s telling the truth. Not that I have a great record in identifying that particular trait of late.

  “Your airline?”

  “Yeah, princess, my airline.” He folds his arms. The eye contact is unwavering.

  “You?” I don’t mean my response to sound like the notion is so ridiculous, but perusing him up and down, it’s hard for it not to be.

  “Did
I stutter?” He’s affronted, irritated, and I’m not helping when I snort laugh.

  “But, look at you. You look—”

  His interruption is more of a growl than spoken English. “I look what?”

  “You look like the wild man of Borneo.” My mouth feels strange, and I realize it’s because my dry, cracked lips are pulling in an unfamiliar stretch. I’m smiling. No, I’m laughing, full-on belly laughs. It’s not even particularly funny, yet I can’t help myself, and, god, it feels good. This feels good.

  “Well, which is it, princess? Wild man of Borneo or privileged prick?” he says, when I quiet down a little, enough to draw in a steadying breath. He looks confused, cautious, and something else I can’t identify. Join the club. Confused is my middle name; at least it’s better than loser.

  “Prick, you’re definitely a prick.”

  Cash

  My cock twitches again, and I’m hoping the thin material of my pants is robust enough to hide my growing erection. I don’t know what’s turning me on more: the fact she has no fucking filter, or that she’s so obedient. The two aren’t normally great bedfellows for someone like me, but this woman is so far from my normal, it could be any one of a hundred differences causing this reaction. I mean, she’s a car crash and practically has drama tattooed on her forehead, but those big hazel eyes, those lips, that fucking self-righteous lift to her chin.

  “Sit down.” My enunciation is as crisp and cold as the champagne I have on ice. She sits instantly, and this time, I have to turn away to adjust the painful surge of blood in my cock.

  “Leave.” Jerking my head toward the exit, I turn at the sound of soft leather creaking behind me. She is half-hovering, and at my raised brow and stony glare, she is sinking slowly back into the seat. I didn’t mean her. The stewards stealthily back out of the room, and the bartender nearly trips over himself to catch up. I take a deep breath. Unaccustomed as I am to having people insult me to my face, I need to calm myself. I stride over to the ice bucket and snatch up two crystal flutes. After carefully pouring the champagne, I walk back to her. Her eyes are like saucers, almost black with the size of her pupils. A little fear mixed with desire. I like that. Her hesitation is barely noticeable when she reaches for the glass. I do notice, however. Her jaw pulses with tension, and her lips are rigid with an impassive smile, as anger fires alongside the gold flecks in her eyes. A spark ignites in my belly at her reactions. It seems I quite like pushing her buttons.