I just keep breathing. The flight attendant returns with a little baby bottle of water, which Mac uncaps and holds out for me.

“Take a drink of this. Just a small sip.” I comply, the cold water feeling good in my throat. I feel ridiculous. This flight is full of people who are not having panic attacks.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “This is my biggest fear.”

“I can tell,” he says gently, and I raise my gaze to meet his. He’s a handsome guy, his short hair styled nicely, his jaw firm, eyes direct. He’s tall, with long arms and legs and a lean body. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” I reply, surprised to find it true. “The water helped. Thank you.”

“No problem. Are you going to Napa Valley on vacation?”

“Work,” I reply, shaking my head. “I’m attending a conference.”

“So you’re a wine enthusiast, then?”

“You could say that,” I reply with a smile. “I own a wine bar in Portland.”

His eyes narrow for just a moment. “Really? Which one?”

“The one inside Seduction.”

“I’ve heard great things about that place.”

I smile widely now, intensely proud of the restaurant that my four friends and I have built from the ground up. Seduction is our baby, our pride and joy.

“That’s nice to hear,” I reply. “You’ve never been?”

“Not yet, but I’ll make a point to go the next time I’m in the area.”

So he doesn’t live in Portland.

Bummer. Mac is one guy I wouldn’t mind running into again.

But before I can give this much more thought, the door of the plane is locked and they’re announcing the flight time and showing me how to use my seat belt—really, is not knowing how to fasten a seat belt a thing?—and use the oxygen mask if I should need it.

Please, God, don’t let me need it.

The door between me and the pilot is closed, and the plane pulls away from the gate.

And I think I’m going to throw up.

“If you need to get sick,” Mac says, seemingly reading my mind, “there’s a bag here.”

“I’m not going to get sick.”

I hope.

“I like your tattoos,” he says.

“Thanks.”

The plane drives for what feels like forever, passing other planes and gates.

“Are we driving there? I had no idea this was a road trip. I would have brought some chips.” I sigh deeply and rub my forehead, which is disgustingly sticky with sweat.

“We’re taxiing to the runway,” Mac says. “If you need to grab my hand, I don’t mind.”

“Are you hitting on me?” I ask, turning to him now, and finding him smiling widely at me, his green eyes lit with humor.

“No. I’m offering my hand if you’re afraid.”

“But you’re not hitting on me.”

Damn.

“Not unless you want me to.” His lips twitch as his eyes lower to my lips, and I wish with all my might that we were in my bar rather than in this plane so I could flirt back and enjoy him a bit.

“I don’t want to die,” I whisper, and lick my lips.

“You’re not going to die, Kat.” His eyes grow serious now. He blinks once, his jaw firms, and he takes my hand. “You’re not going to die.”

“Okay.”

I nod and sit back in my seat, but then suddenly the plane turns a corner and picks up speed, racing down the runway.

Oh. My. God.

It lifts up off the ground, and we’re soaring in the air, and I’m going to pass out.

“Deep breaths.” Mac’s voice is in my ear. I comply, taking a deep breath, letting it out, then taking another one. “No passing out on me.”

“Are you psychic?” I ask breathlessly.

“No, you’re turning blue.” I can hear the smile in his voice, but I’m not brave enough to open my eyes to look at him. “If you could let up just a bit on my hand, I’d appreciate it.”

I immediately let go of his hand and open my eyes. He’s shaking his hand, as if I’d just almost taken it off, and I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even realize I was holding it so tightly.”

“I think I’ll have blood flow back in my fingers by next week,” he replies with a smile. He sees me glance to the window and immediately closes it so I can’t see the ground moving farther away. “If you don’t look outside, it just feels like we’re on a train.”

“No, this doesn’t feel like a train.”

“Tell me about your tattoos.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m trying to distract you from being scared,” he says, and shifts in his seat. A bell dings, catching my attention. “That’s just how the pilot communicates with the flight attendants.”

“Like Morse code?”

“Something like that,” he replies. “So tell me about your tattoos.”

“No.”

I shake my head and clench my hands in my lap.

“Why not?”

“Tattoos are personal, and I don’t know you.”

“You held my hand,” he says, and then laughs when I toss him a glare. “Okay, no personal stuff. What are we supposed to talk about, then?”

“I don’t think we’re supposed to talk.”