And this is why I never became a pilot. That, and failing Physics 101. Pesky detail.
Declan’s speaking in code with Joel, his hip digging deep into mine as we cram next to each other on the helicopter. He closes the door and the sound of the blades changes. It’s like someone shoved a feather pillow over them. The helicopter begins to jostle and I dig my fingers into his thigh.
He smiles at me, all stubble and dimples and bright irises. A reassuring arm wraps around me. “Takeoff is always hardest,” he says.
“I’ll bet you say that to all the girls.”
Joel makes a snorting sound, then cuts his mic. Declan shoots him an annoyed look, but returns his attention to me. “I’ve never taken a woman in my chopper before. Not on a date.”
“Is that what you call this?” I can’t stop touching him. My hand goes to the collar of his shirt, where a smattering of dark hair covers his collarbone. I want to lick him. Taste him. Nestle my cheek against his chest and hear his heartbeat. I want him in me again, the feel of his release, of his trust to give in to me.
Divergence is turning my life into something unrecognizable. A few weeks ago I knew what to expect from your average day. No, I couldn’t plan it meticulously, no matter how hard I tried, but a certain contentment made each week pretty predictable. Settled. Relatively comfortable, if a bit lonely. Get up, have coffee, go to work, do mystery shops, prepare presentations, come home to Chuckles, hang with Amy and Amanda.
Lather, rinse, repeat.
Drive my junky car. Have dinner at Mom and Dad’s. Overthink and overplan everything, then obsess about my tendency to overthink and overplan.
A billionaire player like Declan was, most definitely, not part of any plan. Not even part of my fantasies, which had taken a bizarre turn toward the superhero realm. If you can’t have a superman, you might as well get off on dreams of threesomes with Iron Man and Loki.
My Batman joke really was just a joke, though.
Declan is better than the Avengers and the X-Men combined. As I stroke the fine weave of his wool suit pants, his thigh shifts under my measured touch. Rippled steel bands react under my palm, the soft inner thigh flesh yielding the tiniest bit as I grasp him, feel his response. He inhales slowly and rests his chin on the top of my head, closing his eyes.
He’s enjoying this. Letting me explore him, confirm he’s real and under my inventory. Here’s his forearm. There’s his biceps. And the chest is right here. The scruff on his cheek makes contact with my cheekbone and I soften into him. Our bodies fit beautifully together. We fit together.
We.
We can’t say a word to each other right now unless we want the pilot to hear, so we sit in silence. His hands mimic mine, soon finding my curves and valleys, swells and peaks. The way he touches me makes me feel desired. Appreciated. Not just wanted, because anyone can be wanted.
He makes me feel cherished.
“Check out the Red Sox game,” he says, pointing to the well-lit Fenway Park. It’s an early game for the season. Everyone seems so tiny, so insignificant, and yet thousands—tens of thousands—of people are all congregated to watch the game, to party, to be one with the energy of the crowd.
For a split second, I wish Amanda were here. Sex in a limo with a near-billionaire! And a hot man who looks like a Men’s Health cover model. Watching a Red Sox game from above, flying over the gleaming city lights.
Me—Shannon—with Declan McCormick.
And then…my own mind does a 180-degree turn. Sometimes the clearest moments come when you least expect them, and this is one of those times.
You can’t believe it because you won’t let yourself believe it. Let go of your own self as an obstacle and imagine how much more you could do and be.
And be cherished.
Tears threaten the inner corners of my eyes. My throat aches with a sickly, bitter taste. I lean in to Declan and press my ear against his heart, the fine cloth of his shirt cool until my face warms it. A tear mars the perfect whiteness of his shirt and I don’t care.
Thu-thump. Thu-thump. Thu-thump. Steady and strong, his heart continues at its regular pace. I wonder if he’s always like this. So calm, so confident. Without being smarmy or a blowhard, Declan manages to embody so many qualities I’ve wanted in a man, but thought were mythical.
He’s nothing like my own father, who is a sweet, non-judgmental man. But Dad isn’t the dominant type. I’ve never seen him move through life making split-second decisions and assessments of character and behavior and filtering a person in or out based on their response. Dad doesn’t walk into a room with a feeling of command. He’s many wonderful things, but Jason Jacoby is anything but the leader of a pack.
And that’s okay. Really. Because I can love my dad but want a man for myself who is completely different.
“We’re almost there,” Declan says, pointing through the window at the scattered lights below. I’m so deep in my thoughts that somehow I manage to forget to look outside, to see the show unfolding beneath us. Complete darkness has descended over the city; it’s a moonless night, so up here in the sky, the air has a whiff of intrigue to it. Without the bright white orb in the sky to shepherd us, the chopper’s movements feel more than a little surreal, like riding Space Mountain at Disney, except there is no enclosed building, no track, no line.
We move down, more of the city rolling out before our eyes. A long patch of nothingness spills into view suddenly. The copter shifts downward and we’re flying fast over water. Declan kisses my ear and I see the white caps of waves cresting, my body drained. I’m tired and spent, yet wired and excited. It’s not from the copter ride.
It’s from knowing there’re so much more to come.
Joel says a bunch of numbers and phrases again, then suddenly we’re hovering a few feet above the ground on a tiny island, a tall building brightly lit right next to us. The flight itself was fast, so fast we must be on one of the Boston Harbor islands. I can’t tell which one. The tall, lit building is a lighthouse, the old kind. The lighthouse’s beacon faces out to sea and a small golf cart is parked next to the structure.
“Powering down,” Joel explains. I sit in place, the copter’s vibrations making my skin tingle. I’m parched, and just as the last snick sound from the blades’ rotation makes its final sigh, my stomach growls louder than a zombie bear that stumbled across a bunch of fresh raccoon brains.
“Hungry?”
“Starving.”
Declan has a satisfied look on his face, as if he’s hiding something he’s quite proud of. “Good. You’ll like what’s coming next.”