“I have to go,” I tell my sister, Rachel, as the airline makes the announcement for the final boarding call for my flight.

“You didn’t even let me finish my story,” she whines, and I can’t help but giggle at her.

Which story is she referring to?

“I’ll call you as soon as I land, I love you.”

“Love you.” We hang up, and I grab my bags, which are on the floor in front of me, and then I proceed to the gate.

I’m the last to board, which is totally normal for me—I hate to fly.

“Have a safe flight,” the attendant says, handing me back my half of the ticket stub.

I give her a half smile; the anxiety I'm starting to feel is rising rapidly. It’s brewing deep in the pit of my stomach and will soon be eating me from the inside out. As I proceed down the bridge, I focus on putting one foot in front of the other.

Approaching the plane, I can already hear a screaming child and it makes my ears ring. Dammit, I wish I’d already taken my Xanax. But Rachel was blabbing for so long, I didn’t even think about it.

God love her, though. She knows I hate flying and is always the best distraction I can ask for when it comes to traveling for work.

I enter the cabin for first-class and spot my seat, saying a silent prayer when I notice the one next to mine is empty. It’s never fun to fly next to someone when you’re petrified and about to have a panic attack. It makes it super hard to act normal.

I lift my carry-on bag and store it in the overhead bin. Taking my seat, I toss my bag onto the other chair and rest my head taking a deep breath before I dig through my purse for my pills. My heart is pounding so quickly, I can feel it in the pit of my stomach. As I search for my pills, I fear I’ll pass out before I find them. The engines of the plane are roaring, and I’m not able to deal with this feeling any longer.

“You mind?” a pair of shiny loafers asks, standing next to the empty seat.

“Excuse me?” I ask the man in an offended tone.

“Your bag is in my seat,” he says, and I almost roll my eyes when I glance up at the man. I saw him earlier while I was waiting for our flight and he seems like a total dirtbag. I mean, the guy answered a phone call in the loudest and most inappropriate way possible. Talking dirty to some woman in public. It was just gross.

Yanking my purse off the seat, I place it on my lap and continue my panicked search for my medicine.

“Another drink, Mr. Smith?” I hear the stewardess ask him and this time I actually roll my eyes when I look up to see her flushed cheeks, chewing on her bottom lip as he responds, “Please.”

“I’ll take a Gin and Tonic,” I butt in and stop the grade school act she’s doing.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She leaves just as I find my pills, and I quickly pop one into my mouth. This whole time Mr. Smith, or whatever she called him, watches her ass until she’s out of view.

Resting my head back, I look out the window in between blinks. Then the plane starts to move.

“Flight attendants, please prepare the cabin for takeoff,” the captain says through the intercom.

My stomach is instantly a mess, and I pray this flight is smooth. Turbulence will send me straight into hyperventilation mode.

“Two Gin and Tonics,” the stewardess says, and I gratefully take mine from her hand and practically swallow it all in one gulp.

“You okay?” the guy asks me.

“Yeah, why?”

He looks at my almost empty cup and raises his light brown eyebrows at me. His messy hair lies so perfectly, if that’s even possible, and his suit . . . well, it speaks for itself.

“I hate flying,” I tell him.

“Bad flight in the past?” he asks.

“No, I’ve just never liked it.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t.”

“Huh.”

“Huh, what?” I ask annoyed as the plane taxis toward the runway.

“Normally, if you don’t like something, there’s a reason. Like if you hated a certain food, it was probably because your parents forced you to eat it as a child, or it didn’t agree with your taste buds.”

“Who are you, Dr. Phil?”

“No, I’m Westin Smith. And you are?”

“Sasha Monroe.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Sasha.” He reaches for my hand, bringing my eyes to his large fingers. Hesitantly I give him mine, and as he takes a hold of it, a sensation tingles inside of me.

What the fuck is happening?

I fight the feeling our connection is giving me. It’s only a handshake, with a guy who is so not my type. He’s a loud mouth and obviously a womanizer, so a spark should be the last thing I’m feeling between us. But still, there it is, flickering deep in the pit of my stomach.

He’s the kind of guy I should stay far away from. Then to my surprise, he brings my hand to his lips and shit . . . I like it.

“I know what you’re doing,” I tell him hoping that speaking the words will make him stop trying to come on to me.

“Yeah, what’s that?” he asks coolly as the plane abruptly rockets down the runway. The speed we are going at and the vibration makes me forget about everything. I squeeze Westin’s hand as if it will help me get through the takeoff and close my eyes.

Usually, I have time to mentally prepare myself, but not with this man next to me. He’s distracting in a way I’ve never experienced. I didn’t even realize we were taking off. I mean, I heard the captain, but it didn’t really register in my brain.

I'm breathing rapidly as the world around me spins. The plane shakes, and all I can picture is it shredding to pieces and blowing up, that is until a whisper in my ear brings me back to the present. “Sasha, you’re cutting off my blood flow.”

Westin is referring to his hand that I have in a death grip. I let it go and brace the arms of my seat, praying that the flight will be over soon.