Sarah pulled the center armrest up, and he lifted his arm for her to lean against him. But she didn’t. She leaned against the window, pulled the shade down over her shoulder, and tucked her feet in where the armrest had been. Balled up, she’d positioned the absolute farthest away she could’ve been without switching seats.

Wrong again. His head dropped, and he ran a hand through his hair. Time to gather intelligence. The purple book held the answers.

Skipping past pictures better suited for a gallery than a sketchbook, he found the first page of notes.

My List of Secrets.

CHAPTER FIVE

Brock started with the section Sarah had titled Secrets and ended with her bulleted Bucket List. No way was he writing down anything comparable. First, because his self-worth as a husband had drained down the shitter, and, second, because his thoughts were all shock ’n awed.

Looking from the purple notebook to the sleeping beauty, he knew his eyebrows neared his hairline. Knew there was a perma-blush dyeing his cheeks. What he hadn’t known was his wife.

As the jet descended, Sarah stirred. His heart clattered inside his chest. Not rhythmic. Definitely sporadic and panicked and turned-the-hell-on.

She would ask if he’d read her notebook. He could lie and say no. He could combust and say yes. Or he could just look at her the way he knew he was looking at her now, and she wouldn’t have to ask the question.

His skin was crawling, burning to touch her. Be with her. Make her read aloud everything she’d penned on paper.

Fuck, man. He needed off this plane. Now.

Wheels hit the ground, and Sarah’s eyes cracked open, locking on his. She didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. Didn’t have to. “You read it.”

One short chop of his head issued a confirmation.

“What’d you think?”

He blew out a hard breath, feeling too confined by the seat belt and his pants. “That we’re not having this conversation in the front row of first class.”

She giggled. Giggled. Her cheeks pinked, and goddamn, if this plane didn’t get to the gate and un-board them, he was going to pull the emergency hatch.

Never. Again. Would he fly commercial. Never.

Finally, the damn door opened, and he took Sarah by the hand. She said his name, probably grabbed her purse and that notebook. He never needed to read that notebook again, every word emblazoned on his memory.

Focused solely on finding a private location, he marched them out. They were the first ones onto the runway, and he scanned the perimeter. Old habit, looking for potential threats, but right now, he mostly needed to find the quickest way inside.

“Brock,” she called, keeping up with his quick pace. “Brock.”

They reached inside; air conditioning bathed across his heated skin that had nothing to do with the tropics. He turned and raked a gaze over her body. Seclusion. Needed. Now.