Push Me (To The Edge series, #1) (2 page)

He extended his hand.
“I’m Sam.”

I paused for a moment,
shook his hand, then said, “I’m Claire.”

“Nice to meet you, Claire
.”

He bought the fake name, even though he was now getting a longer and better
look at me than he had earlier. Yes, I had changed, but was I really that forgettable to him? What the
hell
?

Without asking, he slid the chair out across from me and sat down. He pointed to his drink. “Coffee, black, no sugar. As plain as it gets, and still too expensive.”

I closed the magazine and picked up my purse to put it away. I wasn’t in the mood for small talk. I get enough of that while I’m working. When I’m traveling—especially alone and without Ian—I like to keep to myself. But maybe trying something new would help.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Atlanta.”

Of course he was.

“Flight 242?” I asked.

Sam nodded. “If it ever takes off.” He looked at his watch.
“So, I take it we’re on the same flight.”

I should have k
nown. If we boarded the plane and our seats were next to each other, I’d be certain that I was being filmed for one of those hidden-camera shows.

I nodded, said, “Yep,”
then gulped down some coffee.

Sam said,
“I’ll keep an eye on the plane’s door in case you need help getting through it.”

I
looked at him out of the corner of my eye. With heavy sarcasm, I said, “This plane has a revolving door?”

“Touch
é
.” His crooked smile widened a little, then he looked around at all the other people crammed into the little shop as he sipped his coffee.

“But
seriously, thanks for the help earlier,” I said.

“
No problem. Business trip?”

I nodded.

“What do you do?” he asked.

“Merchandise coordinator. I work for a national department store.”

His facial expression was one of someone who was impressed, though I doubted he knew what my job title meant. Most people don’t. It’s behind-the-scenes kind of work.

I knew what he did, but before I could ask and before he could volunteer it, my phone chirped. I pulled it
out of my jacket pocket and swiped the screen to unlock it, finding a text from Ian.

It was short:
Have a great flight. Call when you get there
.

I shook my head, tired of
being told to check in with him. He wanted me to take his private plane every time I had a business trip, which was often, and I refused, explaining to him that it wasn’t necessary because my company paid for all my travel. Ian didn’t think that mattered, insisting that I would be safer and better cared for if he arranged for all of my travel. In the end, though, I won out, basically pleading with him to let me use the company’s travel accommodations so I wouldn’t be embarrassed by the fact that my rich boyfriend, who no one I worked with had ever met, was jetting me around the country all the time.

“Something wrong?”
Sam asked.

“No, it’s just my…never mind.”
I stopped. Sam didn’t need to hear about my boyfriend problems.

My ph
one rang. I looked at the caller ID and saw that it was Ian. I decided to let it go to voicemail.

Looking at the screen, I
noticed that my phone wasn’t picking up a wi-fi signal. I brought up the settings, tried to connect, but no luck. I noticed Sam was looking at his phone. “Are you getting wi-fi?” I asked him.

“Yeah, you’re not?”

I shook my head, frowning.

“Let me try it,
” he said, reaching out.

I’m pretty good with technology, but I’
m also easily frustrated by it, so I handed him my phone.

While Sam tried to get my
wi-fi going, I took the opportunity to stare at him, but only had a few seconds before my almost-daydream was interrupted by Sam’s voice. “Got it working.” He handed the phone across the table and sure enough, he had it connected to the airport wi-fi.

My phone rang
. Once again, Ian calling. Jesus, he wasn’t going to stop until I answered.

“I really have to take this,” I said to
Sam. “Sorry.”

I got up to leave, accepted the incoming call, and by the time I got my phone to my ear, I heard
Ian’s demanding voice asking me why I hadn’t responded to his text and why I didn’t answer my phone when he called a few minutes ago.

I rolled my eyes at
Sam, who had no idea why I was doing that, but he gave me a smile and a little wave.

I mouthed a “thank you” and he simply nodded back.

I stepped out of the coffee shop, ready for another overly tense conversation with Ian, who acted as though he could own people like he owned his businesses and who, in a matter of a few days, would find out he didn’t own me. There were changes to come.

Chapter Two

I had been lying to Ian a lot lately, and it was becoming almost as tiresome as he was. This time I told him I’d been having trouble with my bag and had spilled my coffee, which prevented me from getting to the phone when he called.

“If you’d take my plane, you wouldn’t have to carry anything. Including your coffee.
And your flight wouldn’t have been delayed. Yes, I checked.”

I could almost h
ear his smile in the words he spoke through the phone. And I hated it. I
wanted
to carry my own bags, I wanted to fly by myself on commercial flights, and while he was joking about having someone else carry my coffee, it wasn’t that much of a joke. Given half a chance, Ian would get someone to do it. “I thought we settled the travel thing.”

“Why are you fighting me,
Sweet?”

Oh, that’s another thing.
I was sick of his pet names for me. Sure, in the beginning they were cute and endearing. But now they sounded to me more like an avoidance of using my real name. Or maybe like the name of a pet. Actually, he’d called me that, too—his “pet”—and too often I felt exactly like one, and the leash was way too short.

“
Ian…” I didn’t know what to say without releasing the floodgates and letting all my frustrations spill out. And since that wasn’t a discussion I wanted to have in public, even one in which people would hear only one side of the conversation, I didn’t say anything.

“What is it?”
Ian asked.

“They’re calling my flight. I have to go.
”

“Call me when you land.”

I took a deep breath, looked around the terminal, gripped my suitcase handle and said, “Will do,” in a terse and borderline sarcastic manner.

I ended the call,
relieved and looking forward to a couple of hours of not having to deal with Ian.

I only had myself to blame, of course. I had gotten into a relationship that wasn’t for me. In fact, i
t wasn’t for most women I knew.

I’m
intelligent and independent. I’m also outspoken, something that’s usually said about women in a pejorative way, while those same attributes are seen as signs of strength in men. Most of the women I know—at work and in my personal life—are much the same. That’s probably why I associate with them.

I’m not some radical, bra-burning feminist. For one thing, I spend way too much mon
ey on my bras to set them on fire. And not to put too fine a point on it, but if someone doesn’t like you being yourself, they’re not really worth your time anyway.

So, yes, becoming
Ian’s sub was a mistake on my part. I plead one-hundred percent guilty to that.

Actually,
Ian aside, being a submissive wasn’t for me, no matter who I was in a relationship with.

Call it an error in judgment.

Now it was up to me to rectify the situation.

.  .  .  .  .

I managed to avoid Sam as we finally boarded the plane. I had no reason to talk to him, and I wasn’t especially in the mood for any conversation after my phone call.

I’d also made a quick call to the Atlanta store to let them know I’d be in later than anticipated
due to the flight delay. Not that I had to check in and get approval; being from the corporate office, I didn’t have to answer to anyone at the store level, but I did want to keep them in the loop. Plus, I’d spent too much of my morning feeling and acting uncharacteristically annoyed. Calling ahead was the polite thing to do, and something I’d normally do anyway, so it helped me feel more like my real self.

Sam
had boarded first and as I got on the plane I saw that he was in a first-class seat. I was in coach. My first thought was: maybe someday I’ll be sitting there, too. But when I made it to my seat, I was just thankful that I was aboard a commercial flight rather than Ian’s plane.

The
flight wasn’t crowded, unusual for a Monday morning, and it looked like I wouldn’t be sitting next to anyone, always a plus.

I got my belongings
situated, and watched as more passengers boarded, hoping the two seats next to me would remain unoccupied.

I had been loo
king down, turning on my iPad, when I heard: “I’m 21-A.”

I looked up and saw
a woman about my age, maybe a little older, with long blonde ringlets of hair framing her face. Judging by the way she was dressed—conservative blue pantsuit—I figured she must be in finance, or maybe a lawyer.

I got up to let her th
rough, she thanked me, and I sat back down, more than a little disappointed.

I returned my focus to my
iPad and put in the earbuds. I didn’t have any plans to start the music. I just didn’t feel like any idle chit-chat that morning.

As we readied for takeoff, I leaned into the aisle a few times, trying to catch a glimpse into first class.
I wondered why Sam was traveling alone. The last I knew, he was married, and he had told me his wife traveled to all his games.

.  .  .  .  .

Sam and I met about eight years ago when I was a personal stylist assistant at Barneys. He came in one day and was escorted to the back of the store, where I worked assisting some of our more affluent and famous clients. Sam qualified as both, but I remembered him as being different from many of the rich men who came into the store.

I was never a baseball fan, so I wouldn’t have known who he was if my then boss hadn’t introduced him by
his name and position—second-baseman for the Yankees.

To be honest, I’d always had the impression that athletes were kind of stupid, that while their bodies were finely tuned, their brains…well, not so much. I suppose that was due to the jocks I had known in high school. The
guys all the girls chased, but who could barely string two coherent ideas together in an intelligible sentence. For years, I was convinced that they were getting preferential treatment in the classroom to keep them eligible to play their respective sports.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not as though this belief defined my existence
. In fact, I didn’t dwell on it much at all. For the most part, it was just something I assumed was true and it had little bearing on my life since I was more interested in artsy guys anyway. Particularly musicians.

I know, I know. Lots of people look at musicians the way I looked
at athletes. But there was something so intriguing about the brooding, detached guys who, deep down, were sensitive and would own up to their emotions.

Or maybe they just did that to get in our pants.

Anyway, suffice it to say that when I was introduced to Sam, I had very little in the way of expectations. But the more I saw him—once every couple of months for a year or so—the more I learned that he didn’t fit my preconceived notion about athletes at all.

I should make it clear that I had no romantic feelings toward him.
He was married, and having any type of involvement with a married man—beyond a friendship or professional one—was out of the question. If I ever compiled a list of things I wanted in my life, an affair with a married man would rank somewhere below getting the Ebola virus.

As we became more acquainted, I came to realize that while Sam was a big sports star, he didn’t let that go to his head, and, even more importantly, he unabashedly stated that he loved his wife more than he loved anything about his professional baseball career.

“I’d give it up in a heartbeat if she asked me to,” he once confided in me.

We’d been talking about their upcoming anniversary, and Sam had asked me to help him pick out something for her. The conversation had led to him sharing more about his marriage.

“Why would she ask you to stop playing
?” I had asked, holding up a few cashmere sweaters I thought his wife might like.

His eyes fixed
on the sweaters, a dead-serious look on his face, he’d said, “She wouldn’t. That was just hypothetical. I’ve never known anyone who had my best interests at heart more than Sandra.”

I remembered him very well, and it had almost nothing to do with his striking good looks—it was more along the lines of how different he was from the usual clients I helped.
He wore his heart on his sleeve, and he was completely devoted to his wife. I never detected a hint of flirting, or even checking me out.

I never saw
a shred of pretense in him. In fact, on more than one occasion he’d remarked about how he would never feel the need to buy high-end clothing if he didn’t have to keep up with all the other baseball players, especially when they were guests on TV shows or attending public events. “I’m more of a jeans and t-shirt guy,” he had said, “and in the winter, a fleece pullover and a coat from Old Navy would do. I can’t stand that wool trench coat.” Since I’d suggested that coat, I apologized. But he laughed it off, telling me he didn’t mean it as a criticism of me.

I saw
Sam maybe fifteen times total back then, and then he suddenly stopped coming to the store. I had his number in my client book, so after two months of not seeing him, I called him and found out he’d been traded to the Milwaukee Brewers. He said he still had his place in New York and that he would come to Barneys for his clothing when he was in town.

He never did.

.  .  .  .  .

Sitting there wa
iting for takeoff, I noticed a strong scent wafting through the airplane cabin. Perfume. Way too much perfume. And it was coming from the girl who had taken the window seat on my row.

I tried to nonchalantly cover my face to block the smell, to no avail. This was going to be a long flight.

When we were finally airborne and leveled out, the captain announced that we were free to move about the cabin, and the flight attendants started coming around, delivering juice and coffee. At first I declined both, but then figured I’d take the coffee. I’d already had enough that morning, but I planned to hold the cup up to my chin so I’d smell that instead of the cloying perfume.

Turning on my
iPad, I was unable to get it connected to the plane’s wi-fi, just as I’d been unable to get my iPhone connected in the airport. Either there was something wrong with these things, or I’d end up taking them to the Apple Store only to have a “genius” tell me the devices were fine but there was something wrong with
me.

I thought about asking
for help from Perfume Girl, who seemed to be having no trouble with her iPad, but I didn’t want to get any closer to her, and if I started talking with her I’d probably have to keep that up for a while and I couldn’t handle the thought of that right now.

“Excuse me.” I stuck out my hand, almost a cry for help, as a flight attendant passed by.

She stopped.

I held up my
iPad. “Is the wi-fi on? I can’t seem to—”

“Again?”

That would be the voice of Sam. I hadn’t seen him coming down the aisle, thanks to the flight attendant blocking my view. She turned to look at him and smiled, a much different smile than she gave me.

He looked at the flight attendant, cocked his head toward me and raised his eyebrows as he
said, “She’s not very good with these things. I’ll get it working for her.”

He edged past her and started to move toward the middle seat. I
quickly pulled my legs up to let him by, my knees pressing against my breasts.

“
You know, I could have gotten up,” I said.

He plopped
down into the seat. “Too late.”

God, this was embarrassing.
I wanted to escape from the plane, maybe use one of those inflatable slides that deploy during airline emergencies. But of course we were thousands of feet in the air, so that wouldn’t work. If only I had a parachute.

Sam
looked at me with a grin, then his brow furrowed and he took a sniff, then another, his face scrunching up like he was disgusted. “Wow. What’s—”

I shook my head rapidly.
Whispering, I said, “Not me,” then with a thrust of my chin, indicated that it was the girl in the window seat.

Sam
’s eyes widened and blinked a couple of times. His lips made an O shape and he mouthed the words: “Too much.”

I said, “
Ya think?”

Sam
held out his hand and for a moment, I wasn’t sure why. Maybe I was getting high off the perfume.

He looked down at my lap. “The
iPad.”

“Right. Sorry.”

I handed it to him and watched as he touched the screen. Without looking at me, he said, “How long is your stay in Atlanta?”

“Three days.”

He looked at me. “Same as mine. Maybe we’ll be on the same flight back too.”

“Maybe so.”
And maybe by then you’ll figure out that you used to know me.

He looked back to the
iPad, and said, “Do you know anyone in Atlanta?”