Nathan Hendricks tore off his seatbelt the instant the ding sounded inside the cabin. The confines of his luxury jet may as well have been a prison. Only moments after takeoff and he was ready to make a break for it.

“May I get you something, Mr. Hendricks?”

He glanced at the uniformed hostess. With a five-hour flight ahead, not even an entire bottle of his best vintage would be enough to drown his thoughts.

“I’ll have scotch.” Wouldn’t stop him from giving it a red-hot go. He focused on her nametag. “Actually, Stacey, why not give me and the bottle some alone time.”

Today called for a serious amount of drinking.

Thirty years old and he’d just run away from home like a surly teen. Obviously, it wasn’t his finest hour. The next five wouldn’t be any better. He had too many images to burn from his mind and even more thoughts to smother.

Stacey set the glass and decanter on the side table by his recliner, the liquid gold making him salivate.

He knocked back the first glass, letting the drink burn its way down his throat. He didn’t take a breath before chasing it with a second.

When he’d run away as a twelve year old in an attempt to track down his father, there’d been no private jets or expensive, liquid solace. Just a bus ticket purchased mostly with change found under the sofa cushions.

This time was different.

This time he was an adult.

He should know what he was doing.

Holy fuck. What had he gone and done? He’d been an idiot when he’d run away as a child. Worried the living shit out of his mother, not to mention his sperm donor of a father who had zero desire to be found.

This time, he’d been a colossal moron. He’d sold his company, moved back to his hometown of Greenpea, South Carolina, and even purchased one of the town’s most iconic houses…

Only to hightail it back to Washington before the ink could dry on the deed.

Mom wouldn’t understand. She’d been so excited to have him home.

He tugged at his shirt collar. The top button popped from the fabric and flicked across the cabin, skittering off a fiberglass wall.

Shit, shit, shit.

Of all the things his angelic mother would not understand, leaving without a word ranked a crap-ton lower than the cause of his decision.

He opened the scotch and poured himself a third, this time being plenty generous with the pricey amber liquid.

The truth was, if he’d stayed another day—another fucking minute—he’d have screwed his mother’s beloved stepdaughter within an inch of her sheltered, twenty-one-year-old life.

You know who else wouldn’t understand?

His stepfather. Retired sheriff and now Greenpea’s own mayor, Jeremiah Morgan. The proud firearm owner would polish a bullet for each one of Nathan’s vital organs if the man had half a clue.

Nathan inhaled the scotch. Sobriety wasn’t necessary now he was out of Greenpea and returning to Seattle. He was leaving the place where he’d cruised around town in the classic car he’d hired his stepbrothers to restore. Was heading back to his penthouse with no yard and a car someone else drove for him.

An enviable life that wasn’t lived.

“Are you happy, Nathan?” He almost covered his ears to block out the sound of the gentle voice in his head.

When Aria Morgan asked him that question on one of his regular Tuesday night phone calls home, it had changed his entire life.

He hadn’t been able to deny the answer—no.

Maybe he’d done well for himself. He’d achieved more than anyone anticipated by purchasing companies and selling them off piece by piece at an insane profit. But he hadn’t been happy since the day his mom wished him well as he went off to an Ivy-League college on a scholarship.

Hadn’t been happy since the last time he’d called Greenpea home.

The cabin shuddered. A jolt of turbulence tore through the aircraft. He grabbed on to the decanter before it could hit the floor, gripping the armrest with his other hand.

The cabin evened. He put the decanter down, and his head swirled with a drunken rush.

He’d fucked up everything.

When he’d returned to Greenpea on his first college break, it wasn’t to the quaint cottage he’d shared with his single mom. It was to Jeremiah’s stately home and to Nathan’s mother’s new instant family. A family he hadn’t been sure held a place for him. He’d been too old to think of Jeremiah’s teenage boys or eleven-year-old daughter as siblings. Far too independent to see his mother’s new husband as a father figure.

Didn’t mean he didn’t respect the man. His mom had never been so happy, and that meant he was happy. For her. And he had Jeremiah to thank for that.

The problem in more recent years was Aria.

His cock twitched at the way her name whispered through his mind. He dragged his hands over his face and groaned. Somewhere over the last four years, she went from a freckle-faced, Pippi Longstocking to an irresistible throwback of a ‘50s pin-up girl. Her beautiful body was designed to drive a man to insanity.

She had no idea how special she was. Humbly gorgeous. Sweetly innocent. Savvily wise. The most perfect girl in the world, and the moment he realized exactly how perfect, his thoughts hadn’t strayed from her.

Oh, fuck.

He scrubbed his face again. Harder. He’d messed up everything by making his feelings obvious. Three weeks he’d been home, staying at Jeremiah’s house until his was ready. Twenty-one days, during which he’d watched Aria shamelessly walk around the place in ass-hugging yoga pants, too-big sweaters that fell off her shoulders, her fiery hair a riot in something she called a “messy bun” but what he’d call “just been fucked”. And that was all he could think of doing to her.

Fucking.

His erection throbbed. He guzzled another drink. Now everything was ruined—his family life, their friendship. All because he must’ve given himself away.

Given her a push that drove her to do something they’d never recover from.

A wash of agony, that managed to somehow still be compatible with his raging hard-on, tore through him. He pushed from the recliner and stumbled to the door of the private bedroom. He needed to kill some of this god-forsaken, five-hour flight.

And the only thing worthy of stealing his drinking time was to jerk off like a bandit.

To the mental image of his sweet little stepsister.