He threw open the door and stepped inside, only to find the vacant sign was telling the truth. Jordan wasn’t there. He moved to back out of the space, realizing he’d chosen the wrong door, just as another passenger backed into him and slammed the door shut. Noah pitched forward over the small excuse for a counter, his forehead slamming into the mirror. This didn’t surprise him. Physical injury brought on by his often clumsy girlfriend was fairly common—and to Noah, endearing—though Jordan didn’t usually hit with this much force.

“Oh shit.”

Though the stars hadn’t yet cleared his vision, Noah knew that voice, and it sure as hell wasn’t Jordan’s. When he straightened himself to full standing position and focused on the mirror, he took in the sight of Griffin standing behind him, right behind him, with barely room to breathe, his head thrown back in laughter against the door. The closed door.

“What are you doing?” Noah asked.

“Same thing as you, I’d guess,” Griffin said, taking no notice of Noah’s palms gripping the counter, knuckles white against the dulled silver. “Guess I should have paid better attention. I totally thought Maggie went right, but she must have gone left.” He laughed harder. “And Jordan’s gotta be in the one just next to us. Jesus, we’re a couple of assholes. I’m sorry, man.”

Griffin spun back to face the door, nudging at the lock. Once. Then twice. Then Noah watched as his fellow occupant’s fist curved around the small bolt, struggling to pull it free.

Noah ran his hand through his hair as his throat tightened.

“You’ve got to fucking be kidding me,” he said. “This is not happening.”

Noah turned toward the door and pushed Griffin to the side against the toilet so he could wedge himself in front of the door, slamming the heel of his palm against the stubborn bolt. Nothing.

He backed away, sliding into a sitting position on the counter, the only way to give himself a few inches to breathe.

“What the hell did you do?” he asked, observing as Griffin’s eyes widened. Noah pressed one hand to his chest and the other out in front of him, trying to force an arm’s length between them.

“You’re having a panic attack,” Griffin said, the realization evident in the words.

Noah closed his eyes and took in a long, slow breath, a calming mechanism he hadn’t needed in quite some time. He nodded but focused on his breathing before saying anything else.

“Look, Reed, I appreciate you stating the obvious, but let’s just get the fuck out of here. Okay?” he said through labored breaths.

Griffin’s shoulders slumped as he pressed himself back against the door. Noah could tell he was trying to create more space, and he had to give the guy credit for that.

“Hold on a sec,” Noah said, remembering the back door to his and Jordan’s apartment, the one they rarely used because the door was misaligned and the lock always got stuck.

He hopped off the counter, and Griffin wedged himself into the corner, not that it mattered. Their shoulders still touched, but Noah didn’t have time to care. He grabbed the small door handle and pulled the door toward the inner frame and then tried the lock again. Nothing. So he pushed the door into the outer frame and tugged at the bolt again.

Freedom.

He popped the door open and stumbled into the slightly larger space between the four bathrooms. Four bathrooms? Well, that explained his misjudgment. He’d pay better attention next time. Fuck, who was he kidding? There would be no next time. He was pretty sure sweaty palms and uneven breathing before the good stuff even started would not be the way to get Jordan to scream his name—in pleasure, that is. She’d probably scream her head off if he blacked out before she even got his pants unzipped.

“How’d you know?” he asked Griffin before they headed back to their seats. “That it was a panic attack.”

Griffin shrugged. “Maggie has similar symptoms sometimes, before a migraine comes on. I’d do anything to keep that from ever happening to her again, but I can’t take it away from her, you know? It sucks, and I’m sorry it happens to you, too.”

Noah had to hand it to him. Griffin was a good guy. That’s part of the reason Noah had such a hard time being around him. When he’d met Jordan on the train to Scotland three years ago, he fell for her almost instantly. But because his ex was with him on the exchange program, things got complicated quickly, and Jordan ended up dating Griffin for their first few months in Aberdeen. He was good to Jordan. And even though things didn’t work out because, despite their rocky beginning, Jordan had fallen for Noah as quickly as he’d fallen for her, she and Griffin parted as friends and were still pretty close.

If Griffin had been an ass, it would have been easier for him to just let it go. But Noah was the ass, the one who almost missed out on being with the person he loved most; he’d be a dick to hold his own mistakes against Griffin. It was time to let it go.

“Thanks? I guess,” Noah said. “Are we having a moment or something?”

Griffin laughed. “I think we are.” He paused for a second. “You were going to risk that for Jordan?”

Noah laughed, too. “Yeah. I was. But I’m officially reconsidering.”

Griffin held out his hand, and Noah gripped it in a firm shake.

“Leave the past in the past?” Griffin asked.

Noah let out a long breath, and with it he released three-year-old doubt and regret.

“Leave the past in the past.”

Chapter Eight

Miles

If sitting seventeen rows behind Griffin, Maggie, Jordan, and Noah plus getting stuck in the middle of a three-seat row didn’t make Miles a fifth wheel, he didn’t know what did. He knew he shouldn’t be sulking. He did get a great deal on the ticket, after all. But he also knew from watching Maggie and Jordan glide past him to the cluster of lavatories in the back of the plane, and Griffin and Noah scrutinizing their every move, that there was a whole lotta somethin’ going on, and he would be the only one this weekend getting nothing.

The woman to his left had slept most of the flight but now was leaning across the aisle, conversing with the man in the opposite row’s window seat. Greek was a loud language. Or maybe she just had to shout to make her voice reach beyond not only the expanse of the aisle but also the poor guy sitting on the end seat. Miles couldn’t get a good look at him past the woman’s animated gesticulations, but he could tell the passenger was smiling, and he liked that this stranger was just as amused by the conversation as he was.

Sleep never came easily for Miles, and he had whiled away the hours either feigning the activity or reading the romance novel he ended up running back to Hudson News to purchase. What could he say? He judged books by their covers, and this one had him at a half-naked couple. Turned out the story was pretty good, too, if you were into happily-ever-afters and all that crap.

A third voice joined the cross-aisle convo, and moments later the woman next to Miles was standing up, repeating a word he didn’t understand.

“Efharistó,” she said to the man across the aisle as he rose along with her. “Efharistó.”

And then she was in his seat, and he was in hers, and Miles was—staring. Except Miles Parker didn’t stare. He was the object of other people’s gawks and ogles, men and women alike. It’s not like he was an asshole about his looks, but he never put on the bullshit of false modesty. He was hot. He knew it. And he liked the effect it had on others.

“It means thank you.”

Miles was sure the guy had some sort of European accent, but it was too slight to place. What he was more concerned about was the fullness of the lips from which the accented voice came.