I follow the flight attendant through the first class section into the front galley of the plane. She reaches into a stash of canned club sodas and hands me one, along with a handful of plain white washcloths.

She frowns at me. “Sorry, it’s not much, but try blotting it out the best you can. Taking out the smell will make your flight more comfortable. I would offer you a first class seat since I’m sure your seat is a mess, but unfortunately, it’s all full.”

“She can sit here,” a deep, rumbling voice says.

When I look up, my gaze locks onto a pair of the lightest blue eyes I think I’ve ever seen. They’re practically see-through. If I thought he was attractive from a distance that is nothing compared to the sight of him up close. The intensity causes my stomach to flip and my knees grow a little weak. I swallow hard. Considering every seat is filled, I find myself confused as to where exactly here is. As inviting as sitting on his lap for the next few hours may be, I don’t want to open that naughty can of worms. He seems like way too much man for me. I don’t think I can handle someone so…intense.

“You’re willing to give up your seat for her, Mr. Cold?” the attendant asks.

He shakes his head. “No, but my manager will give her his seat.”

Mullet Man’s head jerks toward him. “I will?”

Mr. Cold rolls his neck and glares down at him with a stare so intense, it’s almost frightening. “You have a problem with that?”

“N—no, of course not, X,” he stutters, clearly intimidated by the beast of a man beside him. “She can totally have my seat.”

Mr. Cold jerks his chin toward the back. “Then beat it.”

Mullet Man quickly gathers his things and heads back to my tomato-stained seat in coach without another word. I glance over at the flight attendant but she simply shrugs and walks back down the aisle to continue passing out drinks.

I glance at the empty seat next to possibly the most attractive, yet scary, man I’ve ever come in contact with and my heart does a double thump. I can only imagine what sitting next to him for the next three hours is going to do to my cardiovascular system. My heart will never survive. It will explode from all the extra beats.

I pour the club soda onto the rag and begin blotting my jeans. I press and rub until practically every inch of my pants and shirt are soaked. Not exactly the greatest first impression to make on a celebrity, but this is the cleanest I’m going to get considering I’m thirty-five thousand feet in the air.

I sigh and then lay the now orange cloth on the drink cart in the galley and head toward Mr. Cold. I sit in the oversized gray leather seat, surprised at how much more room there is up here versus back in coach. I’ve always been curious as to what riding in first class would be like.

The weight of Mr. Cold’s stare presses on me like a ton of bricks. I know I can’t sit next to him for the next few hours and not say anything, so I might as well get it over with and thank him.

“Thank you for the seat. That was really kind of you.”

His eyes drift down my body, and then back up to my face. “Don’t mention it. You looked like you could use a little help, so I helped.”

I roll my bottom lip between my teeth as he continues to gaze at me. His eyes are the kind people write songs and poems about. They’re light blue and crystal clear. I’ve never seen someone with such intoxicating eyes. It nearly steals my breath every time I look into them.

Before either of us can say another word, someone passes a blank sheet of paper over my shoulder. “Give this to X. It’s for a kid in the back.”

I take the paper and slide it onto Mr. Cold’s tray. “My, aren’t you popular.”

He nods and begins scratching his name across the sheet. “How about you?”

I furrow my brow. “How about me, what?”

He glances over at me and smirks. “Would you like me to sign something for you? A piece of clothing…bare skin, perhaps?”

I grimace because I don’t exactly know what he’s famous for. If I had to guess, factoring in the kids’ reactions, I would say he’s a pro athlete of some type. Still doesn’t mean I need, or even want, his autograph—especially not on my bare skin.

“I’m good, but thank you.”

He lifts his eyebrows in surprise. “That’s a first.”

Suddenly I feel bad for sort of insulting him. He was nice enough—if you call ordering a worker around nice—to give me a seat in first class. I should at least try and be gracious.

“I’m sorry, that was rude of me. If you would like to sign something for me…that would be great.”

Mr. Cold chuckles as he hands me back the paper with his signature just in time for another autograph request to come from the back. “Don’t ask out of obligation. I hate that shit. Do what you want, not what you think people want you to do.”

His words hit me and remind me that’s exactly what moving to Detroit is all about. Like a good little girl, I’ve always done what’s expected of me. I went to a Christian college to please my father, and dated boys from our family’s church so the guy would fit my family’s ideal mold of what a good boyfriend should represent—all to please Father. None of it made me happy. Every time I wanted to explore the world, or taste some of the different fruits life had to offer, I was always reminded that some fruit is forbidden for a reason. Frankly, I was sick of always being told what to do and how to feel. I take a deep breath. It’s time to start living my life on my own terms.

“You know what? You’re right. I don’t want your signature. I don’t even know who you are.”

His gaze snaps to me and my newfound toughness wavers a bit under the intensity of his stare. Panicking slightly, I feel the need to backpedal. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for the seat, but I don’t want an autograph.”

He smiles and a tingle erupts in my belly before spreading through the rest of my body. He’s got a great smile, and paired with those gorgeous eyes of his, it’s a deadly combination of sexiness. I imagine many women have lost their ever-lovin’ minds because of that smile.

“What’s your name, beautiful?”

My heart does a double thud as I swallow hard and try to remember what my own name is. That smile is causing me to go a little batty myself. Not that anyone could blame me. After all, this stunning man just called me “beautiful.”

“Anna Cortez.”

His eyes dance with amusement.

“Cortez,” he repeats.

The way my name rolls off his tongue sounds so sensual and naughty. It’s almost as if he’s trying to turn me on and make me squirm on purpose for turning down his stupid autograph. “Is that Spanish?”

“It is,” I answer simply. “It means ‘courteous.’”

“Ah, sassy and smart, I see,” Mr. Cold teases. Or at least…I think he’s joking. It doesn’t seem like he’s pissed or anything because he’s still grinning. “It’s nice to meet you, Anna Cortez.”

“Likewise, Mr…”

Oh damn. Do I call him Mr. X? Or do I refer to him as Mr. Cold like the flight attendant did? I hate being stuck in these awkward social situations. I’ve never claimed to be a big people person.

Luckily for me, he fills in the gap. “You can call me Xavier.”

Things begin to click for me. “Is that where the X comes from?”

“It is.”

I lick my lips before I wonder out loud, “How about the ‘Phenomenal’ part?”

His eyes flick down to my lips and then back up again. “I could tell you, but I think it’d be a whole lot more fun if I showed you where that portion of my name comes from.”

Why do I have the distinct feeling that this man has just propositioned me after sitting next to me for less than ten minutes? No one, other than me, gets into these jeans that fast. “I think I’m good without that too.”

“You’re a good girl, aren’t you, Anna?” Xavier asks, trying to feel me out.

“I’d like to think so, but if you asked my father that question right now he might tell you I’m the spawn of Satan,” I respond easily, and then immediately wish I could take the last part back. I tend to ramble when I get nervous, thus exposing all my secrets and this guy is the last person who needs to know my life history. Besides, it’s not like he really cares anyhow. He’s obviously one of those kinds of guys Father always warns me about. The kind who only wants one thing.