“I thought we agreed not to talk about that.” Her eyes are fixed on where I’m cutting a square out of her breakfast.

“It’s an indirect reference with the intention of making a point. Open, please.” I raise the fork, getting within an inch of her mouth before she grabs it from me.

“I can feed myself, thanks.” She glares while she chews, but her disgruntled expression doesn’t last long. Her eyes close as she swallows and moans, “Oh my God.”

“Good, isn’t it?”

“Amazing.” She plows through the rest quickly, which is good, especially if she’s planning to drink the entire bottle of champagne. It seems rather likely as it’s already half gone and she’s decided to pour another glass. She holds the bottle up with a pithy grin. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like some of Armstrong’s liquefied money? It’s delicious, tastes like dollar bills sliding down my throat.”

I’ve had far too much half-flat champagne recently; however, if it reduces the amount she consumes before she boards her flight, I’ll bite the bullet. She almost knocks over my glass in her attempt to pour, so I take the bottle and manage the task on my own.

There’s a lull in the conversation and she spins the flute between her fingers. “I really am sor—”

Before she can finish issuing another apology, the PA system crackles to life. “Flight six-nine-one-four to Bora Bora now boarding first-class passengers at gate thirty-seven.” The message repeats one more time and we both raise our hands to signal the waiter. Amalie does this while chugging champagne.

She sets the flute down and wipes a dribble from her chin. Her cheeks flush, maybe because of the alcohol consumption, maybe because she’s just realized what I have.

We’re on the same flight.

Seven: Mile High

Amie

“You’re going to Bora Bora?” I’m trying not to show my shock. I’m sure I’m failing.

“I am. And, it appears, so are you.”

“That’s rather coincidental.” I don’t understand how this is possible. Why can’t my nightmare of humiliation just end?

His expression is carefully neutral. “It very much is. But rest assured I had no idea this was where you were going.”

Spending an hour in the airport with Lexington is not the same as coming to the realization that we’re heading for the same destination.

Bora Bora is small and he’s on hotel business. My honeymoon was booked in a Mills hotel. Because they’re the best. There’s a better than average chance we’re going to be in the same place at the same time during my three weeks on the island. I don’t like how excited my entire body seems to be about that. No was the very last thing I wanted to say to you.

I do not need to be thinking about what he said, or how desperately irrational I was during those inerasable minutes. Or how much I wanted that retribution and maybe still do. Except I’m not sure it would be retribution anymore. I might be past that point. I’m not sure how to feel about that, other than conflicted. I can certainly admit that I’m attracted to Lex and have been from the moment I met him. But acting on that attraction isn’t smart beyond the harmless flirting we’ve been doing. Except now we’re going to the same place, on the same plane. That’s bad. Very, very bad, because the Anarchy part of me thinks it’s very, very good.

I reach across the table with a trembling hand and pick up the nearly empty bottle of champagne. It’ll cost at least five hundred dollars, if not more. I’m looking forward to charging it to Armstrong’s credit card, and finishing what’s left.

Except when the bill comes, it hasn’t been separated and Lexington refuses to let me pay for my share.

“Please let me get this.” It’s a statement, not a question, and the lilt of his voice is both authoritative and gently persuasive.

“The whole point is to charge that bottle to Armstrong’s card,” I argue.

“It might be best to wait until you’re out of the country, don’t you think? You can rack up charges on the plane, on your whole damn holiday if you want.”

There are no charges to rack up on the plane since I’m in first class, and the honeymoon is all-inclusive. I relent, but only because he makes a good point. Spa services aren’t covered at the resort, so I can charge those, and any clothes or jewelry that catch my eye. I may need to do a lot of shopping, at least until Armstrong realizes I’m charging things to his card and cuts me off.

While Lexington pays for my extraordinarily expensive bottle of champagne, I gulp down what’s left in my glass. There’s still an inch in the bottle, and if it didn’t look extremely tacky, I’d drink that too. Instead, I gather my purse and coat, smooth out my skirt—yes, I’m wearing a skirt on an eighteen-hour flight. I wanted to at least look good should I run into anyone I know. So on the off chance it got back to Armstrong, I at least appear as if I’m unfazed by all of this. Unfortunately, the change of clothes I’d packed, yoga pants and a T-shirt, are safely stowed in the undercarriage of the plane, so I’m stuck in this.

The champagne hits me as I stand. I wobble, grabbing the closest thing to steady me, which happens to be Lexington’s arm. His rock-hard arm. His rock-hard arm that I know is decorated in a very elaborate tattoo, hidden under his white dress shirt and navy jacket.

The Mills men like body art. Bancroft has a half sleeve, which runs from his shoulder to the middle of his bicep. Lexington’s spans his entire arm. I’ve seen the entire thing once. Although, at the time, I didn’t take the opportunity to admire it, as it was during a Halloween soirée last year. He was dressed as a gladiator. His costume was brilliant, and it showed off the incredible body currently hidden under his suit, which raised more than a hundred thousand dollars during our charity bachelor auction.

He gives me a knowing, dimpled smile. He really is very attractive and in exactly the opposite way Armstrong is. His hair is dark to Armstrong’s light. He’s built where Armstrong is lean. His features are chiseled as opposed to regally pretty. Lexington is polished, but beneath that smooth exterior is the kind of bad boy I’ve always found myself hopelessly attracted to.

The kind of man with full-sleeve tattoos. The kind that suggests flying to Vegas to elope within two minutes of meeting me. The same kind of man who flashes an entire room at a Halloween soirée and gets away with it. Or at least he gave off the impression of being a bad boy. I’m not entirely sure that’s true anymore with the way he’s come to my rescue more than once. And most of what I’ve been told about him has come from Armstrong and highbrow gossip, the truth of which is always up for debate.

While I probably would’ve thrown myself at any available man at my farce of a wedding, all of these traits certainly made it a lot easier to do the other night.

He whispers, “Champagne hitting you harder than expected?”

I realize I’m holding on to him rather tightly, so I release his arm and attempt to find my balance. “I’m fine.”

His fingers press gently against the dip in my spine. “Aren’t you glad I insisted you eat?”

I brush his hand away, unnerved by the way the contact is heating me up from the inside and that I’d like more of it. Which is inappropriate. I can’t want this man. He’s my estranged husband’s cousin. He’s my best friend’s boyfriend’s brother. I’ll see him constantly at events. It’s bad enough that I’ve already thrown myself at him once and been rejected.