And I think I just came in my damn panties.

Serious Face gives me a look I can’t quite decipher, until he speaks. He sounds like a pre-pubescent teen. “I’m so sorry, but I can’t allow you to take the liquid items on the plane. It’s against regulations.”

I wave him off, relieved the tension seems to be broken. “It’s fine. I have travel sizes of everything anyway.” Why did I say that out loud?

Lexington puts his arm around me and squeezes my shoulder. I must really look like I’m about to lose it if he’s being this nice after what I did to him. “She’s always prepared. A regular Girl Scout of sexpertise.”

They begin the process of repacking my bag, leaving out the items that have been confiscated; so, everything apart from my gigantic bottles of lube and my brand-new bottle of toy cleaner.

At least the embarrassment is over. I hope. I just need to keep it together long enough to finish repacking my bag and then I need to get away from Lexington, because my emotional hold is close to snapping.

Six: Fuck Toy Warehouse

Lexington

I think my brain might explode. Amalie—poised, put-together (apart from the night of her wedding, understandably) demure, sexy-as-fuck Amalie—has the Willy Wonka equivalent of a portable sex shop stored in her goddamn carry-on.

“I’m going to have to clean everything,” she gripes.

The security guards are acting as if they’ve found a bag of candy and they’re about to fight over who gets to eat it. She’s right about the cleanliness issue. Those two have touched pretty much every item in that bag. Although they are wearing gloves.

I have to wonder what happened to make them open it in the first place. She hardly looks the criminal type. In fact, she’s exactly the opposite. Amalie’s appearance fits into the sweetly sexy category, and she’s become infinitely sexier thanks to the fuck toy factory she’s warehousing in that bag. The stainless-steel plug is rather intriguing. Amalie appears to be a naughty, dirty girl. Which begs the question: why the hell was Armstrong putting his dick in other mouths?

“May I please assist? The steel and the glass shouldn’t be next to each other.” Amalie’s voice is matter of fact, sweet like sugar with a hint of a waver. But her posture reflects her annoyance.

“Oh yeah, sure, sorry.” The security jerks step back and watch her do her thing, rearranging items, wrapping, moving things around. She’s gentle and efficient, her embarrassment over this only visible in the hint of pink in her cheeks and the single bead of sweat working its way down her temple, along with the tremulous exhalation of breath.

This is the version of her I’m most familiar with—minus the bag of sex toys. The polite smile, calm, even demeanor, despite present circumstances. That she’s keeping it together as well as she is, considering what she’s been through, is a testament to her strength as a person.

I note the barely imperceptible tremor in her hand and the heavy bob of her throat as she shifts the items in her carry-on around. There’s plenty of space for adjustments now that the bottles of lube are missing. She zips the interior compartment, then closes the bag.

“I can get that for you,” one of the security douches offers.

“It’s fine. I’ve got it.” In her rush to zip the case closed, her fingernail catches on the teeth, tearing it. “Shit!” She shakes out her hand and inspects the damage. She’s torn it to the quick, blood pooling and dripping down her ring finger. Which I note is diamond-free.

I reach into my jacket pocket and root around for a tissue, but all I can find is a pocket square, likely from a past event. “Here, let me see.”

I take her hand before she has a chance to protest and wrap the fabric around her finger, gently pressing below the nail bed. Red expands across the gray.

She tries to pull her hand away, but I hold tight. “I’m fine, Lexington, really. You’ll never get the blood out.”

“I’m not too concerned about a scrap of fabric that essentially serves no purpose other than to be decorative.” Long, slender fingers with perfectly manicured nails, apart from the torn one, flex around my palm. She has delicate hands, soft skin. My asshole cousin had access to these hands and he was dumb enough to ruin it. He really is an idiot.

Amalie places her free hand on my forearm. “Lexington, please.” The tremor is more prominent, and it echoes in her voice. Her panic is clear when I lift my eyes to hers. She blinks rapidly, her lashes wetting with each frantic attempt to keep her emotions in check. “Please.” It’s barely a sound.

I release her hand and my pocket square flutters to the ground.

“I’m sorry.” She shoulders her purse, grabs her carry-on, and nods to the security guards before striding through the doors, toward the departure gates.

I scoop up the stained fabric, jam it in my pocket, and follow her. She’s speed walking in heels. “Hey!” I call out, even though it’s clear she’s trying to escape me now that this most recent fiasco is over.

I don’t know when I’ll see her again, and with the way things happened at the wedding, and just now, that doesn’t sit well with me. I don’t want her to feel bad about what went down in her bridal suite. “Hey! Amalie.” I grab her elbow.

Her head drops along with her shoulders. The submissive posture doesn’t last long. She straightens her spine on a deep exhale, turns her despondent gaze on me, and gives me her signature polite smile. “Thank you for helping me out of an awkward situation.” She inclines her head in the direction of the security checkpoint. “It was very . . . creative.”

Her eyes flutter shut again for a brief moment. She tucks blond strands behind her ear, releasing another tremulous breath. “I’d also like to apologize for my behavior in the bridal suite. I was very . . . distressed and I acted inappropriately. I shouldn’t have . . . attacked you like that.”

That’s one way to interpret it I suppose. “I’m very capable of defending myself when necessary, and I at no point felt attacked.”

Her smile falters and her chin trembles. “I somehow seriously doubt that’s true. I’m not usually a lunatic. Anyway, I’m very sorry. Have a safe trip, Lexington.”

She turns to walk away, but I’m still gripping her elbow. “Amalie, wait.” I don’t know what I’m going to say, or if there is a combination of words that will make what happened less awkward for her. My initial response is to make light of things, but I’m not sure a joke is appropriate with the way she seems like she’s about to fall apart.

“Please, Lex, I need to go. I need—” A tear leaks out of the corner of her eye and she swipes it away, pulling free of my grasp.

Her kitten heels clip on the tile floor as she rushes away, disappearing into the ladies’ bathroom. I consider waiting, but I feel like I might make things worse if I do. I hope the next time I see her it’s under better circumstances and she’s less distressed and embarrassed.

Resigned, I make my way to the lounge—which I’m grateful I have access to. I’m also thankful there was a first-class seat available on this flight. Eighteen hours on a plane in coach would’ve been a form of torture. I’m tall, and not particularly narrow, so anything over four hours in cramped seating leads to all kinds of muscles seizing up.

I order a coffee and browse the menu. At this odd hour, I feel like breakfast. While I’m waiting for my eggs Benedict to arrive I check emails. Ursula, my assistant, has forwarded all the information I requested on the hotels I’ll be visiting. I guess it’s good I have eighteen hours in which I’ll be stuck in a seat, unable to go anywhere but the bathroom, to review it all.