Chapter 21

"Dear passengers," an announcement over the speaker system of the plane jolts me awake.

I look to my left and find Reese smiling at me. "Morning," she mouths, even if the sky out the plane window is already dark. With the flight taking over eight hours and Rome being six hours ahead, we're due to land at night.

I didn't mean to fall asleep, I wanted to enjoy every second of this trip with her. But the comfortable seats and the soft hum of the airplane's engines made it impossible not to nap. I stretch my arms and legs, still groggy.

The journey map on my screen has been turned off. Did Reese do it once I fell asleep? That'd be so thoughtful. "Where are we?" I ask.

Reese shushes me, pointing at the speakers on the plane's ceiling, meaning she wants to listen to the public announcement.

I do the same.

"…we regret to inform you that because of a technical issue, we ran out of fuel sooner than expected and had to schedule a layover in Nice to refill our tanks. We apologize for the inconvenience this may cause to your travel plans."

I watch Reese; she's gripping the armrests of her seat with white knuckles.

"Relax," I soothe. "We're in no danger."

"Sorry if hearing the plane is having technical malfunctions and is running out of fuel doesn't put me at ease." She scoffs. "You know how many things could go wrong?"

"No, but I have a sense you're about to tell me."

She nods. "The pilot could decide to climb to an altitude above eleven kilometers. That's dangerous."

"Why would he do that?"

"The thin air reduces the plane's fuel consumption."

"Okay. But it doesn't feel like we're climbing. I'm sure the pilots have everything under control."

"Not if the gauges don't work. If the fuel one is misbehaving, others could, too. And if the sensors don't work, all we have standing between us and certain death are the nerves of steel of the captain. And even then, if he's getting the wrong readings on airspeed, he'd have to guess the flight angle and thrust to maintain a steady airflow across the wings. But his guess is as good as yours, and he could plunge us to the ground or rise too much and make the plane stall and then crash… just to name a few."

"These are the moments I'm glad I understand so little about turbine engines."

"It's more of a fluid dynamics issue. You can't mess with the Bernoulli Principle."

"Still blissful in my ignorance about the whole concept."

That makes her crack a small smile. But to appease her anxiety, I stop a passing flight attendant.

After being reassured that the lack of fuel has been caused by a shortage with the refurbishing cistern at JFK and not a sensor malfunction, Reese visibly relaxes.

The laid-back attitude, however, positively evaporates when, after sitting for an hour on the tarmac at Nice, we're informed that the plane hasn't been cleared for takeoff, and we'll have to catch a connecting flight to Rome the following morning.

But, on the plus side, the airline is going to accommodate us in hotel rooms for the night.

By the time we get to the "hotel"—more of a dingy airport motel with flimsy walls and questionable stains on the carpet—the mood has definitely dampened.

So much for the luxury travel experience I wanted to give Reese. Before arriving at the hotel, we had to queue to retrieve our luggage at baggage claim, then wait to be put on a bus and be shuttled here, and now we're stuck in an endless line with all the other plane passengers to get assigned to our rooms. Somehow, we ended up almost last in the check-in line—the hotel apparently doesn't differentiate between first-class and economy ticket holders.

When our turn arrives, I gesture for Reese to go ahead.

"Thanks," she says and proceeds to the check-in.

I wait next to her as she gives her data to the receptionist, a nice young lady called Amélie, according to her name tag. Amélie inputs everything on her computer and, finally, with a smile, announces, "You're in room 708. Is one key okay or would you like two?"

Reese scoffs. "Why would I need two keys?"

Amélie's smile falters, and her gaze shifts to me uncertainly. "In case you both want a key?"

Reese follows the receptionist's gaze and chuckles nervously. "Oh, no, we're not sharing a room."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"We"—Reese flips a finger between us for emphasis—"are not sharing a room."

"But you were under the same booking," Amélie protests.

"It's a business trip, we work for the same company but we're not, you know…"

Amélie nods. "Let me check real quick what I can do for you." She types furiously on her keyboard, then lifts a worried gaze to us. "I want to apologize for the mistake, but it looks like we're out of rooms."

Reese, who's kept smiling up to now, frowns. "What do you mean out of rooms?"

"We only have one room available for you to share, all other rooms have already been assigned or have been reserved for the remaining passengers of your flight."

"That's unacceptable," Reese complains, then turning to me, she adds, "Say something."

I try to summon some inner indignation, even if, to be honest, having to share a room with Reese seems like a gift from the heavens. "Is there another hotel we could stay in?"

Amélie shakes her head before she even replies. "I'm sorry, sir, but the Marathon des Alpes-Maritimes Nice-Cannes will run tomorrow; most hotels in town are fully booked."

Reese is positively puffing smoke out of her ears and nostrils. "What about out of town?"

Amélie goes back to typing. "Maybe you could find some place to stay, an hour, an hour and a half away, but I would advise against that option."

"Why?"

"The airline has placed you on an early connecting flight tomorrow morning. If you go out of the city, you'd have to leave at four in the morning to get back to the airport in time. Plus, with all the traffic restrictions and diversions downtown and along the coast because of the marathon, circulation will be a nightmare. I'm not even sure you'll be able to get back here from there."

"We'll take the room," I interject.

"What?" Reese snaps. "Are you crazy?"

"We'll take the room, thanks." I ignore the protests and make to steer Reese away, whispering in her ear, "I can sleep on the floor, no big deal."

Her eyes drop to the stained carpet, and when she looks back up at me, doubt is written all over her pretty features. She fights against me to stay put at the reception desk, asking, "Is the room at least a double?"

"Yes, Miss." Amélie is finally happy to deliver a piece of good news and Reese seems to accept her destiny. "Your room is on the seventh floor; elevators are that way."

The receptionist points us to the back of the hall and the very smart, very pissed woman next to me finally lets me lead her that way.

As the slowest elevator in the world makes its climb to the seventh floor, Reese maintains a frowny, grumpy attitude, keeping as far away from me as she can, arms protectively crossed over her chest.

"Come on," I tease. "I promise I don't snore if that's what's worrying you."

She glares at me. "It's not that. I don't have any pajamas."

I raise my eyebrows questioningly. "You didn't pack your PJs?" Then, I know I shouldn't, but I can't resist a little dig. "Or are you telling me you prefer to sleep naked?"

Her cheeks flush crimson. "I don't sleep naked, and, of course I packed my PJs, they're just not appropriate for a room-sharing situation."

Oh. My attention levels spike. "Why not?"

She points down at her baggy clothes. "I know I dress pretty casually, but I like fancy sleepwear."

"And by fancy you mean?"

"Silk…"

An image of her in underwear the first time we met pops into my head, and I can't resist smirking.

"Don't make that face," she chides.

"I wasn't making any face," I lie. I probably had the expression of a pervert ready to pounce on her. "And I also have nothing against silky sleepwear."

"It's not that I try to be sexy," Reese blabbers, clearly nervous. "I just like the sensation of the silk on my skin." She touches her belly as a demonstration. "How cool and soft if feels against?—"

Before she can continue, I close the distance between us and press my hand over her mouth to stop her from talking.

Her eyes widen in surprise, and I have to muster all my self-control to talk in a steady voice as I say, "You're describing freedom to a man in prison. Please stop."

We stare at each other, and I've no idea what's going through her head. But I know I'm afraid that if I remove my hand from her mouth, I'll lose a battle I've been fighting with myself for the past few weeks and kiss her.