Page 75 of The Perfect Wrong

A functioning woman who gets to enjoy the things a girl in her twenties should, and the badass enigma with his body folded around mine reminds me that I’mnot.

“Call me Jiminy goddamned Cricket,” he growls, running his stubble across my cheek.

“Come again?” I whisper.

“I’m your conscience for this trip, Delia. We’ll make this your ride. Your adventure. No bullshit. I’m just along to keep you safe and make sure you don’t get in over your head.”

Just like that, he lets me go.

And just like before, every time we separate, it feels like crashing back to earth so hard it bruises my soul.

I watch him pick up the bag he’s dropped on the floor. He slings it over his shoulder and doesn’t look back as he walks to his room and shuts the door.

I’m left standing there with a sunbeam from the skylight halfway down the middle of my face, splitting me in two, officially wetter and more confused than I’ve ever been in my life.

Truce?

I think I just made a deal with the devil.

Chris Triton is about to show me a whole new level of hell.

* * *

It’s a busy morning flight,just a short hop between here and Harry Reid International.

Even with Dad’s perks landing us cozy, overstuffed seats in first class, it still feels way too close with just howbighe is.

Or maybe I just can’t handle touching his skin, so I practically shove myself up against the round airplane window.

We’re surrounded by jabbering businesspeople of every sort, and it does nothing to take the edge off.

“Are you sure you won’t worry about anything at home?” I ask, wondering if he can hear me through his earbuds.

He yanks them off. “Nah. Ma, she isn’t my problem anymore. She shouldn’t be yours or Bruce’s, either.”

I nod, hoping he’s right.

Our parents took off together somewhere this morning before the chauffeur brought us to the airport, and I’m tingling way too much to care.

I want fun.

I want ideas for my paper.

And I definitely want to sort out this crap with my quite possibly drunk stepbrother—I caught him tossing a shot of whiskey into his coffee this morning while we were waiting in the lounge.

I alsoreallywant to forget everything that’s been plaguing me like this sadistic, brain-eating crush.

Not long after I’m done making small talk, he’s dozing off.

Or so I think, until we’re past twenty thousand feet.

“Goddamn it, Sex...they’re fortified. Snipers. Heavy arms. Where’s ourfucking backup?” His hand brushes mine angrily as he shifts in his seat.

One look at his agonized expression says it’s no ordinary nightmare.

It’s a memory.

Oh, no.