We’re boarding. I managed to pretend-read for three hours and I’m finally a two-hour flight from visiting with family. Things are good. No one will guess how I had to force my throat to work in order to swallow my sweet café au lait, knowing he was so near, yet so far out of reach.
The gate attendant scans the boarding pass on my phone, and I hurry down the ramp so can get on the plane, fit my sleep mask over my eyes, and try to forget how close I’d come to seeing him after all these years. Damn, but it hurts. Why hadn’t he sensed my presence the way I had his?
With tears messing with my vision, I reach for my carryon and hoist it ahead of me for the long trek down the aisle to the back of the coach section. A familiar scent assaults my nose and a long arm stretches from behind me and lifts my case from my grasp.
“We’re in row two. Seats A and B.”
Damn! When did the plane leave the ground? I’m floating on air.
His voice, deeper than I remember, rolls over me and smothers every bit of resistance I’ve ever known. 
My body reacts, sizzling with the desire to turn and kiss him till the air in my lungs is spent. I can’t run any longer. Can’t dismiss the need. But I can silently yell at my mind for insisting I tune out my spidey sense and go with the flow.
He’s back. Reality as I know it is gone. I’ll never board another flight intact again. What am I supposed to do?