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

  I am, on the other hand, a little more adept at hiding my emotions.

  “Cheers!” I tip the edge of my glass to hers. She grimaces when I gulp the champagne, disdain contorting her face as I down the whole glass and finish just shy of belching—in case she was in any doubt how much I don’t care what she thinks of me. However, years of playing tea party with Freya when growing up have left their gentlemanly toll and prevent the gas escaping. She lifts the glass to her lips but doesn’t drink.

  Fuck manners. I belch loudly and pour myself another glass.

  “The shower is just through there.” My hands are full, and her gaze follows where I’m nodding. Confusion crinkles her brow. “You stink. Take a shower, and maybe change your clothes,” I add in a tone that ensures it really wasn’t a suggestion.

  “Excuse me?” Her jaw drops comically wide. I’m tempted to tip it shut, but she might actually bite my finger clean off, judging by the fiery glare she has fixed on me.

  “This may be a large area, but scent travels, and, sweetheart, your scent is strong enough to turn both the champagne and my stomach.”

  “Oh, well, I wouldn’t want that.” Sarcasm loads each word as she slowly lifts herself from her seat. She’s barely five feet tall, and her nose is now mere inches from my naked chest. Her stiff little body bristles, so close it’s just brushing the fibers of my pants. Heat explodes between us, her scowl darkens, and every sensory receptor in my body sparks to life. Not that it matters. Attraction is chemical, and sex is sport for me. I’m holding the champagne bottle, but I still manage to pinch my nostrils together with my thumb and finger. I add a mock choke for effect and watch as she flips from quiet simmer to boiling rage in less than a nanosecond. She storms past me, spilling the contents of my glass and knocking me off my feet with a sharp shove of her shoulder. I burst out laughing. The door to the shower slides shut, and I can just picture her frustration that it wasn’t a door she could slam.

  Maybe this won’t be such a long flight after all.

  I’ve slipped on a clean t-shirt, and I’m sprawled on the sofa that stretches almost from the flat screen at the far end to the bar at the other. I have read my emails, caught up on some work, and read several of the trashy articles that have appeared about me in the last twenty-four hours. Not that I care. True or not, forewarned is forearmed, or so my grandpa taught me. There is still no sign of Ms. Hart. A flash of worry washes right through me when I remember the reason I brought her up here in the first place. She was crying. No, she wasn’t simply crying; she was drowning in tears, and her damn prickly attitude made me forget.

  Dropping the magazine I wasn’t really reading, I rush over to the shower room. I’m about to knock the door down when I also remember she wasn’t carrying anything in with her that could cause her harm, and the only thing in the shower that is remotely dangerous is the silky soft shower gel. The worst that could happen is one might slip and put their back out. I knock. Better to be safe than have another front page scandal to deal with. Not what the airline needs when it’s finally in the black.

  “Ms. Hart?” My voice is edged with urgency; hers is soft.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you all right in there?” Nothing… I guess it was a stupid question. “Are you planning on coming out anytime soon?”

  “Why?” Her voice is barely audible above the general hum of the engines. I sniff and bite back a snicker. It seems it’s her turn to ask the stupid question.

  “Why?”

  “Yes, why?” she repeats, and now I just feel dumb for asking.

  “Sugar, I know it’s nice in there, but wouldn’t you rather—oh I don’t know—sit down, have something to eat, get some sleep?” Nothing. Nada. The silence is starting to get on my last nerve. “God, this is like pulling fucking teeth! Have you had a shower?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then, come out.” Exasperation is fraying the edges of my wafer-thin patience. My fists curl with agitation, and I have to force each finger to unfurl and relax.

  “I can’t,” she clips. I drop my head against the door with a resigned thud.

  This better to be good. Schooling my temper, I ask in an encouraging, if somewhat strained, tone, “And why is that?”

  “You said I stank, but it’s actually my clothes, and then you said to change, only—” She sucks in a stuttered breath. I interrupt.

  “Oh, I get it. You need me to get your case for you?”

  “I don’t have a case. I don’t have anything. That’s the problem. I don’t have anything to get to change into.” She’s crying again, sniffing, sucking in short breaths, and, from the sounds she’s making, she’s trying her best to control the flow.

  “You don’t have anything?” Silence. “Nothing?” Silence. “So, what? You were going to stay in there the whole flight? And then what?”

  “Well, I washed my clothes in the shower, so I was hoping by the time we land they would be dry, and then I could just get dressed.”

  “Riiiight.” I’m staring at the door like I’ve suddenly dropped into the parallel universe of a crazy woman. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. She’s so… No, I have nothing. All I know is, she can’t stay in the shower room for the whole damn fight. I don’t have anything suitable in my carry-on, and besides, my clothes would drown her slight frame. Pushing back against the door, I turn and walk to the end of the short corridor and pick up the crew phone. It rings only once when the chief steward picks up.

  “Anton, do we have any of the Global kids’ pajamas in stock?”

  “I think so, sir.” I can hear the unspoken question; however, he knows better than to ask.

  “Could you check and bring the largest size you have, please?”

  “Certainly.”

  I’ve barely put the phone down when I hear footsteps approaching. Stretching my neck from one side to the other, I can feel tension begin to creep in and set into the muscles across my shoulders. Running my hand through my longer-than-usual hair, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the widescreen as I walk to intercept Anton. I have to laugh. Ms. Hart was right; I do look like a wild man. My hair hangs in dark, thick, long, wavy strands almost to my jaw line. I’m sporting a much deeper tan than I normally have, and my bare arms are littered with scratches and marks. I know I’ve lost weight, and the reduction in muscle mass across my torso is evidence enough of the toll these last six months have taken on me physically. My beard is out of control, and as tempted as I was to tackle it earlier, I know I’m more than likely to sever an artery than cut a clean shave; besides, my barber will do a much better job. Anton holds out the clear wrapped parcel he has placed on a tray. Inside is a pale blue fluffy PJ set with tiny cartoon airplanes dotted all over and the Global Airlines logo embroidered on the pocket.

  “The largest size available is for a thirteen to fourteen-year-old child, but I do believe they come up big and are quite stretchy.” He’s fishing for clarification. Again, he won’t ask, but most likely, will find out soon enough.

  “They’ll have to do. Thank you, Anton.”

  “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  “Yes. We’ll have dinner served now, please.”

  “Very good.” Anton smiles, nods, and smoothly turns on his heel, disappearing down the stairs. I return to the locked shower room door and knock once more.

  “Go away,” Ms. Hart mutters, although from her weary tone, I can tell there’s little conviction in her request.

  “I have something for you.”

  “I don’t want anything from you.” Her brattish lilt is one thing; the way she emphasized the word ‘you’, I could almost taste how unpleasant it felt in her mouth. And that just pisses me off.

  “Now you’re just being ungrateful. Open the damn door, Ms. Hart.” She does, and I can’t help it; a groan of satisfaction at her compliance rumbles in the back of my throat. Her narrow stare and curt tone, however, kill any latent nefarious inkling.

  “What?”

  “Here, put these on and come and have some dinner. You look like you haven’t eaten in a fortnight.”

  “Two days.”

  “What?”

  “I haven’t eaten in two days. Well, except the pretzel snacks on board, but they don’t really count as food.” The garbled speed at which she mumbles her words isn’t helping the translation of crazy.

  “What are you babbling about?”

  “You make me nervous. I babble when I’m nervous,” she mutters, jutting her chin a little higher, screwing her eyelids a touch narrower.

  “I thought I pissed you off,” I quip.

  “Oh, you do that too. It’s a very fine line.”

  “Well, while you’re nervous and not pissed, how about you put these on for the rest of the flight, let your clothes dry, and come out and join me for dinner.” She takes the PJs, and I could be mistaken, but I swear her lips almost curve in an upward turn.

  “Oh, okay.” She swallows and slowly draws in a breath. Her face is pale. There is a dullness to the gloss of her hazel-gold colored eyes that doesn’t suit her, and for a fraction of a second, she looks to be as fragile as the breath she’s holding.

  “Are you okay?” My question is softly spoken, but it seems to strike an unpleasant chord. She visibly stiffens, purses her lips in a mean and callous smile just before she slams the door in my face.

  “You’re welcome!” I snarl. She roughly slides the door enough to poke her angry face through the gap.

  “Thank you!” she grits.

  “A little more with feeling and a little less snarl, sweetheart, and I might believe you.”

  “I didn’t ask for this; I didn’t ask for any of this!”

  “Neither did I!” We are almost nose-to-nose once more. The air crackles between us, fire and fury, an
d something a little more base and not exactly welcome. This woman is un-fucking-believable. I’ve brought her up from economy to first fucking class, I’ve given her something to wear and chilled champagne, and if my nostrils don’t deceive me, she’s slathered Jo Malone’s ginger lily body oil head to toe. Not to mention the gourmet dinner that is being prepared as we scowl at each other, and she’s looking at me like I’m the fucking devil. Her eyes glisten, and when she blinks back the tears, I let the fury evaporate as quickly as it came. This is not a fight worth having. Just get the flight over with, Cash.

  “Dinner is ready.” I say, more matter of fact than a cordial invitation.

  “Okay.” She nods and steps back into the shower room. A moment later, she emerges, and I can’t help myself. I blurt out a loud throaty laugh only to snap my mouth shut, cough and unsuccessfully try and suppress the chuckles. She looks so fucking cute. Her long blonde hair is wet, slicked back off of her face. She hasn’t a scrap of makeup on her face. Not that she did before, but clean and fresh from the shower, I don’t think I’ve ever seen such raw beauty. She has large, soulful eyes, swollen with all the sadness she’s carrying. Her lips are pale pink, and she’s hugging herself like she’s unable to keep warm, despite the perfect temperature in the cabin. I’m not great with ages, given the level of plastic surgery I’m exposed to, but she looks young. The PJs aren’t helping; still, I think she’s in her early twenties. A momentary lapse in judgment, and my curiosity gets the better of me for the second time, and I ask the pesky question.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Not remotely.” She is rigid, and for the first time, I realize it has very little to do with me; she’s simply holding herself together. I make the decision, for right or wrong, this has nothing to do with me, and the best outcome for us both is just to get through this flight without any more drama.

  “Sit, eat.” Walking in front of her, I point, as I wait to take my seat.

  “Yes, sir!” She salutes. Her mocking tone makes my palm twitch, and it takes all my effort to ignore that part of me. I close my eyes and tell myself: Even you know this is not the time, Cash. The stewards have laid up a table for dinner, with crisp white linens and elaborately folded napkins. The champagne flutes have been refilled, and there are two places set with silver domes covering the plates. Ms. Hart takes her seat, and I do the same. The steward fusses around, doing what stewards do to make first class passengers feel like they are something special. Ms. Hart is uncomfortable, and for the first time in forever, I am too. Well, this is new, and I’m not sure I’m a fan.

  The domes are removed with a flourish. A rich aroma of succulent chateaubriand, dauphinoise potatoes, and French beans wafts in an invisible cloud between us. My stomach rolls, and my mouth waters. I didn’t realize how hungry I was. I’ve taken a few hearty mouthfuls when I notice Ms. Hart has yet to put anything in her mouth. She picked up her cutlery before me; however, she’s only managed to rearrange the beans in some sort of Jenga pattern on her plate.

  “Something wrong?” She shakes her head. “What is it? Are you vegetarian?”

  “No, no, I’m not. It’s just…look at this. Don’t you find it obscene?” Derision coats her remarks, and, despite my incredulous response, I know exactly to what she is referring, and again, I am not a fan.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Did I stutter?” She sniffs, arching her brow high with judgment as she repeats my phrase from our earlier interaction in what I can only assume is her best attempt at impersonating my voice. I place my cutlery down, deliberately and carefully, as I calm the rage currently boiling my blood. I level a glare that never fails to leave the recipient quaking.

  “Right, let’s just get this out there and over with. I’m rich, yes. I work fucking hard, and you know absolutely nothing about me other than I have money. So, of the two of us, which one is being a prejudiced, presumptuous—”

  “Petulant—” she interrupts.

  “I was going to say asshole.”

  “Oh, I thought if you were sticking with the alliteration, maybe prick would’ve been better. Although that doesn’t really work with females,” she muses, and I don’t know her well enough to know if she’s joking, still nervous, or just nuts. I’m thinking it’s the latter.

  “Thank you for the grammar lesson, but I’m happy with asshole.”

  “You’re right, I know nothing about you, and frankly, I don’t want to. But that doesn’t stop me feeling—” She swallows thickly. The words seem to be choking her up, although not enough to keep them to herself. Unfortunately.

  “Yes, uncomfortable. I get it. Well, suck it up, buttercup, because you’re going to have to endure these conditions for another ten hours. Poor you.” I add an exaggerated pout and protruding bottom lip for effect. She scowls, folds her arms, and sits back into her seat, and as far away from the table as she can without actually getting up.

  “Arsehole,” she mutters, not quite under her breath. My retort is instant and at full volume.

  “Ungrateful bitch.”

  “Wow, you are just…just—”

  “Yes, yes, I’m all ears.” I cup my left ear and lean over so as not to miss this gem of a character assessment she’s about to share.

  “Oh no, not all ears. You’re a massive dick, too, don’t forget,” she sneers, a self-satisfied smile contorting her face like a spoiled child. I can’t help myself. I look around, left and right and behind me, making a point of pulling as much confusion into my expression as I can.

  “What? What are you looking for?” Irritation adds a little huff at the end of her sentence. Her gaze follows mine as if she’s missing something.

  I enlighten her. “The naughty step.” My smug grin is as wide as I can manage.

  “Fuck you,” she snaps, and rage colors her cheeks to a flushed red hue.

  “My favorite way to long haul, but let’s eat first.” I wink and shovel a large piece of meat in my mouth to stop myself from laughing. Outrage and indignation are waging a war across her features, and I’m intrigued to see which one emerges victorious. This is better than HBO.

  “I would never…with someone—”

  “Yes, yes, someone like me. I get it.” I fake a yawn, just the right amount of boredom coating my interruption. “Feeling’s entirely mutual, so don’t flatter yourself, sweetcheeks. I was only fucking with ya. You are not my type.”

  “Good.” She glares, and although I’m not looking, I’m fairly confident that fiery stare is trying to incinerate me in my seat.

  “Good. Now eat, or it will only go to waste, and surely, that goes against one of your holier-than-thou codes or something.”

  “Arsehole.”

  “Yes, you said that already.” I slice another large slab of tender beef and fill my mouth, chewing and moaning at the delicious taste. I keep my eyes focused on my plate. When I’ve finished and look up, her plate is spotless. She has a little more color to her cheeks. It looks good on her, and if I’m not mistaken, there’s the very great danger of a smile cracking her stony expression.

  “Good?” I venture to enquire, feeling some sort of invisible truce settle between us.

  “Very.” She beams, and I get hit with the sweetest, most honest smile for almost a whole second, before it crumples and big fat tears fill her eyes. She sobs into her napkin. The muffled noise is too much. If I stay, I get involved, and this, her, everything about this train wreck has nothing to do with me.

  “Riiiight. I’m going to sleep.” I push my chair back and stand. Her broken expression is too much, and I’m about to sit back when she does what she seems to do best: Piss. Me. Off.

  “Oh pleeeease, don’t let me disturb you.” Sarcasm and accusation fire from her lips, killing my best intentions dead.