At the mention of his name, I straighten, mentally and physically preparing myself to see him again. It always takes me a moment to acclimate when in his presence. It’s like he sucks the air right out of the room. He doesn’t just take my breath away; he deprives my brain of precious oxygen, leaving me a blubbering, stuttering mess.

As expected, Ransom is dressed in jeans and a tee, this one heather gray. He also has on dark aviators and that gray slouchy beanie over messy hair. I don’t know if it’s the same one from that night or if he has a dozen of them, which probably boasts some ridiculously expensive label that costs a fortune for merely a bundle of wool. Still, he looks amazing, even in that disheveled, just-rolled-out-of-bed way. It’s like he doesn’t even have to try. Sex appeal is about as natural to him as blinking those dark, sinuous eyes.

“Hey, man,” Ransom mutters, extending a hand to Tucker. The two shake and Tuck returns the greeting. When Ransom turns in my direction, he’s less than cordial.

“Heidi.”

One word. That’s all I get. Not a nod, not a smile. Just my name on his tongue. And it doesn’t sound like music anymore. It sounds like a curse.

“Well . . .” I say, looking down at our itinerary. “Flight leaves in an hour. We better get moving.”

We go through ticketing and security without speaking, which isn’t a problem considering Ransom is stopped for autographs every five feet or so. If he had chosen to showcase his signature locks, I’m sure we would have needed security. By the time we get to our gate, the attendants are already calling for first class passengers. We board quickly to avoid further delays from fans and find our seats. To my disenchantment, Ransom is seated directly behind us, not across from us as I initially thought. He’ll be able to see everything—hear everything. And while I really shouldn’t care, or suspect that he does, I can’t help the pang of unease that seizes my gut as I take my window seat, giving Tucker the aisle.

“What’s wrong, babe?” he asks, settling beside me. He takes my hand where it rests on the armrest between us. “You look a little pale.”

I give him a weak smile. “Just tired, I guess.”

“Well, just try to relax,” he responds, leaning over to press his lips against mine before tilting back into his headrest. “It’s going to be a long flight.”

Long flight, indeed. Probably the longest one yet.

The flight attendant comes over to take drink orders and I hurriedly request a glass of champagne. Tucker lifts a questioning brow, eluding to the early hour. I simply shrug.

“Vacation.” And if I’m going to make it through alive, with my dignity and marriage intact, I’m going to need alcohol. Lots of it.

The flight is uneventful for the first hour or so, and I manage to doze off after a couple more glasses of bubbly. That’s when I feel the back of my seat bow as if someone is gripping it. My eyes pop open and dart up just in time to see Ransom looming over me, his tired eyes gazing down at me with the intensity of a sniper.

“Excuse me,” he mutters. Then he shifts over into the aisle and creeps into the lavatory. I look over at Tucker, who appears to be oblivious, completely engulfed in an audiobook he’s listening to through his headphones while tapping on his MacBook Air. It’s as if he didn’t even notice.

A few minutes pass before a suspicion hits me like a baseball bat. Ransom should have been back by now. What if he’s sick? Or what if he’s in there getting high? Shit. I can’t have him on a public plane, blitzed out of his mind. And if Justice finds out? Yeah, I take my liberties with him, but he won’t budge on the No Drugs policy. His staff is randomly tested and even his clients have to submit to pre-enrollment screenings. Say what you want about him, but Justice is a standup guy. Total asshole, but a good man deep inside.

I can’t sit still. I can’t be satisfied with just wondering what he’s doing in there, if he’s ok, if he’s finally gone too far this time. My reputation may be on the line, but, hell, so is his life. And cold bitch or not, I can’t not care about him.

“Excuse me,” I murmur, unsnapping my lap belt. When Tucker doesn’t respond, I tap him on the shoulder to get his attention.

“Yeah?” he says, pulling off his headphones.

I point toward the lavatory. “Bathroom.”

After Tucker’s moved into the aisle to let me out, he quickly sits back down to get back to whatever he’s doing. I know there’s some investigating that goes along with the passing of his patient, so I assume he’s still dealing with that.

When I get to the ugly, beige folding door, I tap lightly, as not to draw attention to myself or the person inside.

“Yeah?” replies a strained rasp.

“It’s me.”

A long moment passes before I hear the lock slide open, yet he doesn’t open the door. I look up to see that Tucker is still deeply engrossed in his work, and then I do the unthinkable. I step inside the tiny airplane bathroom with another man.

Ransom is leaning over the sink, palms pressed to the edge of the makeshift cabinet. His head is down, but I can see that his skin appears to be slicked with a thin sheen of sweat that looks clammy to the touch. I peer around his massive body, which takes up the entire space, save for the spot I’m standing in, and search for any signs of drug usage. But there’s nothing. Not a trace of paraphernalia.

“I don’t have anything on me,” he mutters, without lifting his head.

“I didn’t think you did,” I lie.

“I know why you’re here, Heidi. I know what you’re looking for.”

“Well, if you know, why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me you were a drug addict, Ransom?”

He chuckles under his breath, causing his hunched back to vibrate with mirth. “I’m not addicted to drugs, H.”

“Then what is it? Alcohol?”

“I wish.” The sound of his voice is so weak and defeated in this enclosed space, it seems to amplify every unsaid word and every rejected sentiment. I just want to lift my hand and touch him—for his comfort and for mine. Whatever is eating him up inside—whether it be pills or coke or booze—is hurting him. And he’s hurting himself to dull the pain.

“Ransom, you can talk to me,” I whisper. “Whatever is going on . . . I’m here for you.”

“Are you? Like you were there for me Saturday night?”

“That’s different. I needed to be home, and you were fine—”

“I know what you wanted to talk about, H. I know you wanted to leave me. Just like everybody else.”

My first reaction is to deny, but his words stun me into silence. I know you wanted to leave me. It sounds like so much more than annoyance at having to find a new publicist. So much more than just business. There’s pain behind those words—pain deeper than I could ever reach. And while I may not have initially caused it, I’ve become a physical reminder of it. An itchy, stinging scab over the secret laceration over his heart. And I don’t know why. I don’t understand why he’s given me the power to hurt him, when I never asked for that role.

“I’m not good for you,” I hear myself say on the edge of a whisper.

“I know. Nothing fun ever is. But I want you anyway.”

I look past his back to find that he’s looking at me through the tiny mirror, those dark, glassy eyes rimmed with even darker circles. I believe him about not using. I believe him but I don’t want to. The truth seems even worse.

The plane hits a rough patch of air, and we remember where we are. The haze of raw emotion retreats and we both sober with self-consciousness. Ransom turns on the miniature sink to splash water on his face. I fiddle with my hair as if I were actually doing something in here to mess it up. When I place my hand on the handle of the door, Ransom turns to look at me expectantly.

“Try to get some rest, ok? We’ll be in Arizona in a couple hours.” Then I escape that tiny closet filled with our secrets and skeletons, and hope that none have followed me out.