Olivia didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Didn't even allow her smirk to twitch as Grayson Steel leaned over the aisle with that smug, unbothered tone of his.
"Well, well, well… look who we have here."
She exhaled like she'd expected him the entire time.
"Hmm," she said casually, reaching for her seatbelt and clicking it into place. "I was wondering when you'd show up. You're late."
Grayson's brow arched. "You wound me. I thought I was early."
Across from her, he leaned back into his first-class seat, one leg crossed, fingers steepled loosely on the tray table. George was beside him, tapping his iPad while muttering something about projected Q3 earnings, completely oblivious—or more likely, pretending to be.
But Grayson's eyes?
They were locked on Olivia.
Even while nodding at George, even while pretending to absorb the screen, his gaze kept sliding back to her.
She knew. She could see it in the reflection of his watch face when he adjusted his cuff. Feel it like static in the narrow space between them.
Olivia casually pulled out her phone and thumbed through her inbox a weak attempt to act like she wasn't mentally spiraling. She checked for any missed calls or emails. Nothing critical. But really, she was stalling. Because her pulse had quickened the second, she saw him across the aisle, and she needed a damn minute.
The plane began to taxi. The usual hustle of the cabin faded into background noise conversations dropping into hushed murmurs, seatbelts clicking, flight attendants doing one last pass.
And then came her favorite part.
The hum. The whir of the engines kicking up, the pressure shift in the air, the way the entire plane settled into an unspoken stillness as it rolled toward takeoff.
Olivia leaned back, wishing not for the first time that she'd been offered a window seat. She loved takeoffs. The momentum. The speed. The moment the wheels left the earth and for a few seconds, gravity gave way to something else entirely.
Then they were airborne.
The city dropped away behind them, and Olivia felt that small rush she always got the freedom in movement, the lift.
And then—
"You really shouldn't have," Grayson said, leaning across the aisle again, voice low and smooth. "It's not even my birthday."
She turned, resting her chin on her palm, elbow perched neatly on the armrest. Her mouth tilted up in mild amusement. "And what exactly are you talking about, Mr. Steel?"
He gave her a slow, dimpled smile. "This gift, of course."
Olivia blinked. Her lashes dropped once, slow and deliberate. "I haven't given you anything."
"Oh," he said, mock-confused, tapping his finger against his chin as if lost in thought. "Could've sworn you did."
He leaned in slightly, crooking his finger to invite her closer.
Against her better judgment, she did.
He dipped his voice, nearly brushing her cheek. "Where else would I be able to have two uninterrupted hours with you? And you can't escape me, sneaky little fox." She sat up straighter, her chin lifting. "Mr. Steel, I don't try to leave you. You just can't seem to keep your hands on me."
He didn't flinch. Just smiled wider. "I had my hands on you perfectly fine last night, if I recall correctly."
Olivia's cheeks flushed, but she held herself together like the seasoned pro she was.
"Well," she said smoothly, reaching for the in-flight magazine she had no intention of reading, "that was a different kind of encounter entirely."
The overhead light dinged — seatbelt sign off.
She didn't wait. She unbuckled swiftly, stood, and walked down the aisle toward the lavatory. Every step felt like a countdown — her composure peeling slightly at the edges.
Inside the small bathroom, she leaned back against the door.
"Shit… shit… shit."
This was not the plan.
Well, not that she had a real plan. It was more… strategic improv. But still. Whatever mental distance she'd tried to put between her and Grayson Steel had just been narrowed to thirty-six inches and a shared air supply.
She splashed her face, patted it dry, and gave herself a once-over in the mirror. Her coat still hung perfectly over her frame. Her lipstick hadn't budged. Her pulse was still out of control, but at least she looked unbothered. When she returned to her seat, She stopped.
Her seatmate an older man who'd been quietly reading The Economist before takeoff, was gone. In his place sat Grayson Steel.
He was already buckled in, one arm slung lazily over the armrest, fingers wiggling in a cheeky wave.
"Surprise," he said, lips twitching.
Olivia didn't even roll her eyes. She just sighed and shook her head, then slid into the seat beside him with theatrical resignation. "Of course you would."
She reached into her bag, pulled out her laptop, and powered it on, not because she needed to work but because she needed something between them that wasn't oxygen and chemistry.
Grayson leaned in, his lips brushing her ear.
"Now, little fox," he whispered, voice low and wicked, "I do believe you owe me something."
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Olivia said smoothly, eyes fixed on her laptop as she opened a few irrelevant files — documents she'd read three times already but now served as a very necessary distraction.
Grayson didn't buy it.
He leaned in, close enough that she could feel the brush of his breath against her cheek. "Oh, I believe you do," he murmured.
She felt the weight of his hand settle gently on her knee, his thumb moving in a slow, calculated stroke that made her pulse flicker beneath her skin.
Olivia turned her head to him.
His hazel eyes were right there. Warm. Steady. Daring.
He was so close now — too close — his lips just a breath away. Her own brushed his as she smiled.
"And what," she whispered, "pray tell, do you think I owe you?"
Their lips hovered — a single syllable would've been a kiss.
His gaze dropped to her mouth.
"I'm owed answers," he said, low and rough.
That broke her rhythm.
She leaned back like she'd been pulled underwater, letting her body sink into the leather seat. Her laptop remained open, untouched. Forgotten. Her arms folded tight across her chest.
"It depends on the questions."
Grayson turned slightly in his seat, facing her now, elbow resting on the divider. "Depending on the question?" he echoed, voice amused but sharp.
She nodded slowly. "Yes, Grayson Steel, it depends on the questions… and it depends on the responses you're looking for."
His eyes darkened. His gaze flicked across her face, and he leaned in again — not for show this time. Closer. Intimate.
"The only response I want," he murmured near her ear, "is the one your body gives me… every time I'm inside you."
A sharp breath caught in her throat. God. That voice. That mouth. That memory.
The ache that settled between her thighs at the mere mention of last night was almost immediate, and Olivia hated how easy it was for her body to betray her. To remember the way his hands had moved. The way he'd looked at her like she was the only thing in existence.
She forced herself to blink. To inhale. To regain a shred of composure. He saw it. Of course he did. The flicker in her eyes, the shift in her body. And he smirked. Like a man who knew exactly what he was doing. He leaned back casually in his seat, stretching his legs, as if nothing had just happened between them.
"Plus," he added, like they were discussing coffee preferences, "I don't recall there being any stipulations on our agreement."
Olivia's jaw tightened. "Agreement?"
He didn't look at her. Just smiled, eyes fixed ahead.
"Or…" he said slowly, "should I demonstrate my skills again? Refresh your memory?"
Her mouth opened. Then closed.
Damn him.
"Fine," she said finally, straightening her posture, adjusting her coat lapel like it was armor.
He turned his head toward her, brows lifted. "Fine?"
She narrowed her eyes at him, gaze direct. "You want answers? I'll consider giving you some."
Grayson leaned in, eyes dancing. "And what does consider mean, exactly?"
"It means," she said, cool and composed, "I decide the pace, Mr. Steel."
His smirk faltered — just slightly — and she saw it.
Olivia smiled. Point. Webber.
She reached over and picked up her coffee from the tray, taking a slow sip like she hadn't just been seconds from crawling into his lap.
"Besides," she added, tone almost bored, "I think I've already given you more than enough to work with."
Grayson's grin returned, lazy and lethal. "Oh, little fox… you've only just begun."
Grayson's arm was still resting along the divider, fingers loose, that watch catching the light like it had a mind of its own. He was quiet now, which was suspicious. She could practically feel something building behind that smooth exterior.
"That laugh." He says staring at her.
Olivia turned her head. "What?"
"The laugh," he repeated, voice calm but curious. "The one that started all this."
She blinked.
"You giggled the first time when I pulled up to the St. Regis. And again in the elevator," he added. "I remember both. I want to know why."
Olivia looked at him for a long moment, caught off guard that this was where he'd start. Of all the things they could talk about that laugh?
She sat back in her seat, crossing one leg over the other as she toyed with her sleeve.
"I laugh at a lot of things," she said vaguely, trying to brush it off, but she could feel his stare. "Maybe I just have a good sense of humor."
Grayson didn't buy it. "Hmm," he said, like he was cataloging that answer and marking it as incomplete.
"And the second one?" he pressed. "The elevator?"
She shifted. He really remembered everything, didn't he?
Olivia turned toward him, giving a half smile, one eyebrow arching. "Why are you so inquisitive about me, Grayson?"
He didn't even blink. "Why wouldn't I be inquisitive about you?"
That threw her a little. She flushed just a soft bloom across her cheeks, quickly hidden behind a cool smile.
"I guess," she murmured, "you're onto something."
She glanced down at the slim silver watch on her wrist, tapping it once for emphasis.
"We're stuck together for…" her eyes flicked up again, "one hour and twenty-five more minutes. I shouldn't be the only one giving answers. It's your turn."
Grayson leaned back slightly, that smirk crawling across his face, just enough to show the left-side dimple.
Damn him and that dimple, Olivia thought, schooling her features into calm indifference. She held her gaze anyway. Staring contest: engaged. He didn't look away. Neither did she. Ten seconds. Fifteen. Finally he blinked.
"Little fox," he said, voice amused, "I never said I wouldn't answer your questions."
He tilted his head. "What do you want to know?"
Her lips quirked the thrill of being handed the reins just enough to make her straighten in her seat, stretch slightly, and turn to face him more directly.
She let the silence stretch for just a second longer than necessary.
Then Olivia leaned in, elbows resting on the armrest, chin in her hand like she was contemplating something far more serious than she actually was.
"Okay…" she said slowly, tapping a finger to her lips. "Let's start simple."
Grayson's eyes narrowed with curiosity, his smirk still lingering like he already knew he was in trouble.
Olivia smiled.
"Boxers or briefs?"
He blinked, caught off guard for just a half second, and then let out a deep, low laugh that kind that rumbled from his chest. It made the seatbelt sign flicker back on. Maybe.
"Going right for the essentials, I see," he said, amusement thick in his voice.
She shrugged one shoulder, utterly unbothered. "You said I could ask anything. I'm just doing what any responsible woman would do with her allotted first-class interrogation time."
Grayson leaned in, close enough that her breath caught again. "Neither."
Her brows lifted. "Neither?"
He gave her a slow, knowing look. "You've already confirmed that yourself."
Her cheeks went warm, but she didn't look away. "Touché."
He sat back, smug.
Olivia, unshaken, leaned in again. "Alright, follow-up."
"Go on."
"What's your Starbucks order?"
Grayson blinked again. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me. Critical information. That tells me more about a person than their résumé."
He stared at her like he wasn't sure whether to kiss her or request a background check. "I… don't have a Starbucks order."
"Ah. So you're one of those."
He raised a brow. "Those?"
She looked at him with mock disappointment. "The mysterious men who think coffee should be black, meetings should start at six a.m., and emotions are optional."
His mouth twitched.
She wasn't wrong. "I take it back," she said, pretending to sigh. "That was a red flag. I should probably move seats."
"You could try," he said with a wink. "But I already claimed this one."
She narrowed her eyes playfully and leaned in once more, her voice low and teasing. "So far, your answers are disappointing, Mr. Steel."
"Oh really?" he asked, brushing a knuckle under her chin like he was testing the limits of her game. "Because your body seems to be responding just fine to them."
Her pulse kicked. She hated how accurate he was. But she didn't flinch.
"Give me a real answer," she said, sitting back again, crossing her arms. "No more evading."
He studied her for a moment, as if deciding whether to give her what she wanted or make her work for it, with a half-smile and that damn dimple, he said, "Fine, Olivia. Your move. Hit me with a real one."
Olivia tilted her head, eyes skimming over Grayson like she was choosing a wine instead of a question.
Real question, but nothing too real. That was the trick.
Because once things got serious, it became a two-way street. He'd ask things back. Things she wasn't sure she wanted to answer — not when her body couldn't seem to distinguish between lust and danger anymore. Grayson Steel was both.
So no, no deep dives today. No questions about childhood, long-term goals, or the meaning of last night. keep it cool. Keep it light. But make it fun.
She uncrossed her arms slowly, lips twitching with restrained amusement. "Alright. Real question."
Grayson's brow arched, intrigued.
She didn't give him the satisfaction of drama. She just leaned forward, elbows on the armrest, her tone casual.
"Have you ever had a fake name?"
He blinked. "A fake name?"
She nodded once. "Alias. Cover name. Something you've used to get out of a situation… or into one."
Grayson stared at her for a second, then gave a slow, delicious smile. "That's the real question?"
"It is."
He ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek, clearly amused. "You expected something deep. And instead you're asking if I have a secret alter ego?"
"Don't dodge, Mr. Steel."
He leaned in, just slightly. "I might have used 'Blake Harrington' once in Monaco."
Olivia's brows lifted. "That's… dangerously suave."
He shrugged. "Had to get into a closed event. The name was on the list. The man… wasn't."
She chuckled. "You just happened to look like a Blake?"
"I happen to look like I belong," he said, lips curved. "No matter the room."
Cocky. But… accurate.
"Do I get a question now?" he asked, voice smooth.
She held up a finger. "Not yet. Follow-up."
"Of course," he said with mock patience, folding his arms like he had all day. "Proceed."
Olivia narrowed her eyes. "If I were to text George right now and say, 'Tell me the truth: has your boss ever gone by Blake Harrington?' What would he say?"
Grayson chuckled and this time it was full-bodied, a little unexpected. "He'd say, 'God help us, he's using that one again.'"
She laughed, leaning back in her seat with satisfaction. "See? That's how you answer a question."
"I have to admit," he said, tilting his head as he watched her, "that was… not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
He shrugged, but there was something thoughtful behind the smile now. "I don't know. Something heavier."
Olivia's smile faltered for a fraction of a second. She recovered with ease.
"Not today," she said lightly. "Ask me something serious and I'll have to ask you something back. And I haven't decided what to make of you yet."
That stopped him.
His eyes locked on hers, and for a moment just a breath the playful energy between them went still. But then he nodded once, accepting that.
"I'll take that," he said. And just like that, the dimple was back.
Grayson leaned his head back against the seat, one hand rubbing along the edge of his jaw as he watched her. His expression had softened — that sharp, steel-like intensity was still there, but now tempered with interest.
Not just in her body. In her.
"Alright, little fox," he said. "My turn."
Olivia lifted her brows, mock-cautious. "Go easy."
"I make no promises."
She smirked. "Typical."
Grayson turned slightly toward her, his knee brushing hers in that casual, intentional way he always seemed to do — like he needed the contact, even if it was minor.
"What's something you always travel with… but never use?"
That made her blink. She hadn't expected that. Her first instinct was to brush it off, toss him a joke. But her lips curved slowly instead, a more thoughtful smile forming.
"That's a good one," she admitted. "Let me think…"
She tapped her finger against her armrest, staring ahead at nothing for a moment.
Then she glanced back at him.
"I always pack one really bold lipstick," she said. "Something completely impractical red, orange, borderline neon. It's never the one I end up wearing, but I can't bring myself to leave it behind."
Grayson's smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Why?"
She shrugged. "In case I suddenly decide I want to become someone else for a night."
"I think you already know how to become someone else," he said, low.
Olivia tilted her head. "Is that your second question?"
"No. That's an observation."
She smirked. "Your turn then. Hit me with number two."
Grayson didn't miss a beat. "Who do you call first when something good happens?"
The air shifted slightly. Still light. Still safe. But it touched something.
Olivia looked at him, her face unreadable for a moment. Then she answered honestly.
"My best friend," she said, voice softer now. "Always."
He nodded once, like he'd already known but just wanted to hear her say it.
She leaned toward him just a little, mirroring his earlier challenge. "You?"
"My sister," he said. "Followed closely by George, depending on the news."
Olivia smiled. "Poor George. Imagine being second string."
"He thrives on it."
A small silence settled between them — not awkward, just… quiet. Safe. Mutual understanding wrapped in first-class luxury and unspoken rules.
Then Grayson shifted again, and the playfulness returned.
"Alright," he said, voice dipping again. "Last one. For now."
"Hit me."
"If we weren't on a plane right now… where would you rather be?"
Olivia smiled to herself and this one felt different. Not smug. Not guarded.
Just real.
"Somewhere warm," she said. "With a drink in my hand. Sand under my feet. Hair up. No plans."
He watched her carefully.
"No plans?" he asked.
She turned to him, chin lifting slightly. "Not every part of me is organized and strategic, Mr. Steel."
He leaned in again, voice soft and close. "No… just the parts you show the world."
Her heart thudded once hard. But she held his gaze. Because for all her mystery, all her walls, she couldn't deny it anymore: Grayson Steel was getting closer. Not just to her seat. But to the parts of her she usually kept locked up tight.
They settled into a rhythm—conversation rolling smooth and easy, like they were on their third drink at some candlelit bar instead of trapped at thirty thousand feet, across a shared armrest.
"Alright," Grayson said, lifting his glass of sparkling water like it was something far more interesting, "favorite type of food. Go."
"Depends on the mood," Olivia replied. "But Thai is always a top contender. Bold, spicy, efficient—kind of like me."
Grayson grinned. "You calling yourself efficient now?"
"Multitasking queen, actually."
He chuckled. "Alright. What about guilty pleasure food?"
"Peanut butter. By the spoonful. Right out of the jar."
"Straight savage," he said, sounding impressed.
"I contain multitudes, Steel."
He leaned in a little, eyes twinkling. "I believe that."
She tilted her head. "You?"
"I'll eat almost anything, but breakfast food's sacred. Pancakes, bacon, black coffee. In that order."
She smiled. "Classic. Let me guess—you make it yourself, too?"
"Only when bribed."
She rolled her eyes. "Of course."
A moment passed before she added, "I'm also a big reader. Always have a book in my bag. Two, actually. One to start and one to back up in case the first one disappoints me."
Grayson's brows lifted. "Strategic."
"I like stories. I like patterns. I like the rhythm of things."
"You sound like a stats girl," he said, almost too easily.
Olivia looked at him with a glint in her eye. "I am a stats girl. I love sports—not to watch necessarily, but I love tracking games, player performances, predictions. I like the way numbers tell stories."
Grayson's smile grew wide. "That's sexy as hell."
She narrowed her eyes, feigning suspicion. "Wait—are you actually into sports or is that just your line?"
"I'm a lifer," he said. "Played baseball in high school and college. Still meet up with a few old teammates once a month for pickup basketball."
"Volunteer league?" she asked, amused.
"Sometimes, yeah. I like giving back."
She gave him a side-eye. "So you're a Boy Scout."
Grayson barked a laugh. "A what?"
"A Boy Scout," she repeated, nodding with exaggerated seriousness. "I knew it. I'm sorry—this just isn't going to work."
He played along, matching her tone. "Why? Because you're a bad girl?"
"Of course not," she said, lifting her chin. "I was a Girl Scout."
Grayson leaned closer, elbow brushing hers. "Ah. So this is why we can never be."
"Exactly. We're sworn enemies. It's in the rules."
"I feel like you're making this one up."
"Nope," she said, trying not to laugh. "It's in the guidebook. Black-and-white."
He narrowed his eyes. "Your… guidebook?"
"Yes. Girl Scouts have guidebooks. You think we're just out here selling cookies without protocol? Please."
"So let me get this straight," he said, already grinning, "you're saying there's a section in your ancient cookie-selling doctrine that states Girl Scouts and Boy Scouts are—"
"Not allowed," she interrupted, stifling a laugh.
"Right. Not allowed to be together. Forbidden. So we must end this, immediately, as soon as we land."
"It's for the best," she said solemnly. "What would my leader say?"
He leaned in, close again, eyes dancing. "Your leader would say that is the most bullshit story they've ever heard in their life."
That did it.
Olivia couldn't contain herself any longer. She erupted into laughter, shaking her head and leaning back into her seat. Grayson joined in, his laughter ringing out as he briefly tilted his head back. In that moment, everything felt easy, light, and fun. She enjoyed it. She enjoyed being with him. And therein lay the problem. Throughout the jokes and playful teasing, Grayson never stopped touching her lightly, constantly. His knuckles brushed against her forearm, his palm rested on her knee for emphasis, and his fingers skimmed over her wrist when he wanted to make a point. None of it was inappropriate, yet it all felt electric.
Her body was on high alert, as though her skin had been reprogrammed, with each casual touch sending sparks in uncontrollable directions. She shifted in her seat, attempting to cross her legs to regain focus, but it was no use.
Why does he get to be this close and this calm? she thought.
And that was when the question came. The one she hadn't wanted to ask. The one that had been itching in the back of her mind since the elevator… since the shower… since the look in his eyes when he said "If you run, I'll find you again."
She turned to him, her voice calm. Almost too calm.
"There's something I've been wondering."
He paused mid-laugh, instantly attuned to the shift in her tone.
He sat up straighter, watching her now. "Yeah?"
Olivia looked at him, carefully, fully. Her voice still light, still composed, but threaded with something real now.
"Why me?"