The two other people in my row, a mother and her teenage son, aren’t even pretending to listen. They both have earbuds in, each of them bobbing their heads to their own preferred playlist. When one of the boy’s earbuds falls out, his mom reaches over and tucks it back into his ear, and he gives her the sort of half smile that tells me it’s far from the first time this has happened.

Of course, they remind me of Logan and his mom, and the prickling feeling climbs up my throat to my nose until the tears push past my eyelids. Jesus, I should have gotten this out on the tiny biplane from Durango to Denver. At least then there wouldn’t be an audience to witness my sobs.

I turn toward the window, fixing my gaze on the wing of the plane as the tears start falling steadily. Soon, the sleeve of my cardigan is wet with tears and snot, and all I can do is pray that my seat partners have their earbuds in tight. It’s not like me to cry in public like this, but then again, it’s not like me to fall in love with one of my clients either.

And that’s what I did, isn’t it? I fell in love with Logan Tate. Faster than I thought was humanly possible and harder than I thought my heart could handle.

And maybe I can’t handle it. Maybe that’s why I ran off so fast. Maybe I thought that would be easier somehow. I know now that I was wrong. I’ll miss the smell of a wood-burning stove and Logan’s winter-air scent.

The plane rumbles beneath me, and I realize the flight attendant has wrapped up her presentation and taken her seat, ready for takeoff. I must have missed the part where they tell us to turn our phones to airplane mode.

Reaching into my carryon, I grab my phone and swipe it open. But before I kiss my service good-bye, I open up that email from Les, scrawl my digital signature on the paperwork he sent over, and press SEND.

There. Logan is all set to return to the ice the second his suspension is over. And just like that, he’s no longer my client. It’s a thought that stirs up a strange, fluttery feeling in my chest.

If he’s not my client, maybe he could be something else. Like my boyfriend or, eventually, my . . .

No. I shut that thought down quicker than I can power off my phone.

I am absolutely not allowing myself to think about Logan’s insane proposal right now. It had to have been the post-sex endorphins talking, or maybe he was just living out some sort of weird domestic fantasy of his. Either way, he didn’t actually mean it. And even if he did, I’ve known the man for all of fourteen days.