Chapter 13: Midair Confessions
The polished mahogany of the jet’s interior felt cool under Aurora’s fingertips. She stared out the floor-to-ceiling window, watching the lights of Madrid recede into a scattered galaxy, then a distant, hazy glow. The city where he’d scored a hat-trick. Where he’d been carried on the shoulders of roaring fans. Where, just hours ago in a hotel suite that cost more than her yearly rent, he’d whispered things in Spanish against her skin that still made her thighs clench.
Callum’s hand rested on her bare thigh, his thumb tracing idle circles. His touch was a brand, a claim. She was dressed in borrowed luxury—soft cashmere leggings and a silk top from a bag he’d had delivered to the hotel. He wore crisp, dark jeans and a white dress shirt, untucked and open at the collar, the one he’d change into for the press waiting at the private terminal back home.
“Regretting it yet?” His voice was a low rumble, competing with the engine’s hum.
“The reckless international affair with a famous footballer, or the third glass of champagne?” she asked, gesturing with the flute in her hand.“Either. Both.”
She took a sip, the bubbles sharp and clean. “Ask me after the hangover.”
He smiled, but it didn’t fully reach his eyes. They held a faint, preoccupied shadow. The shower felt like a lifetime ago. The frantic, desperate joining, followed by that cold, silent exit as his phone buzzed incessantly on the floor. He’d taken the call in the other room, his voice a muted, professional murmur. When he’d returned, the shutters were down. He was Callum Nordskov, the commodity, already packing, already moving. The Uber had arrived thirty minutes later.
The jet hit a patch of turbulence. A sudden, violent jolt.
Aurora’s hand jerked. The champagne launched from her glass in a golden arc, splashing directly onto the pristine white of his shirt, soaking into the fabric over his chest.
“Shit.” The word escaped her in a horrified whisper.
She froze, staring at the dark, spreading stain. Callum looked down, then slowly back up at her. His expression was unreadable for a heartbeat—that flat, public mask. Then, it cracked. A slow, wicked grin transformed his face, erasing the distance, bringing her Callum back from wherever he’d gone.
“Clumsy,” he murmured, his voice dripping with false admonishment.
“I’m so sorry, I—” she stammered, setting the glass down with a clink, fumbling for a napkin.
He caught her wrist. “Now you’ll have to help me take this off.” His fingers went to the first button, slipping it free with practiced ease. He guided her hand to the second. “Go on. You made the mess.”
Her face burned. She glanced toward the front of the cabin, where a closed door separated them from the crew.
“They’ve seen worse,” he said, as if reading her mind. “And they’re paid not to look.”
Her fingers were clumsy against the fine mother-of-pearl buttons. Each one revealed more of him: the taut skin, the sculpted lines of his chest, the faint marks from her nails the night before. The stain spread right over his heart, a damp, translucent patch. When the last button was free, he shrugged the shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall in a heap on the plush carpet.
He sat there, bare-chested in the oversized leather seat, the cabin lights catching the definition of his torso. She stared, unable to help herself.
“Gratuitous,” she muttered, rolling her eyes to break the spell.
“Always.” He leaned forward, bracing his arms on his knees. The playfulness in his eyes softened into something more contemplative. “Madrid was something else.”
“The match?”
“The match was good. The rest of it…” He trailed off, his gaze intense. “Watching you watch me. Knowing you were in the crowd. Taking you back to that room.”
The memory washed over her: the noise of the stadium fading into the quiet of the suite, the way he’d peeled the dress from her shoulders, his mouth following the path of the fabric. The desperate, quiet need that had followed the public spectacle.
“It felt stolen,” she said quietly.
“It was.” He reached out, tucking a damp strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered on her jaw. “I liked it. Felt real. Until the fucking phone rang.”
The unspoken words hung between them. Until reality came back.
“What did Mara want?” Aurora asked, her voice barely above the engine’s drone.
“Damage control. There were photos. Not of you,” he added quickly, feeling her tense. “Of me leaving the stadium alone. Speculation about where I went. Who I was with. The usual toxic gossip cycle. She just wanted the narrative ready.” He sighed, a rough sound of frustration. “Sometimes I think I should just invite them all into the fucking shower. Give them what they want. Then maybe they’d leave the rest alone.”
The image was jarring, a brutal invasion of the sacred, private space they’d shared just hours prior. Aurora’s stomach turned. “Don’t say that.”
He looked at her, really looked at her, his green eyes searching. “Why not? It’s the truth. My life is a series of moments for public consumption. The pitch, the interviews, the sponsored parties. The only things that are mine are the ninety minutes on the grass and…” He stopped.
“And what?”
“And this.” He gestured between them, a faint, uncertain motion. “Whatever this is. Which is currently making me break about twelve clauses in my conduct agreement.”
She knew he was trying to lighten it, but the weight of it settled in the cabin, thicker than the champagne stain on his shirt. “Do you regret it? Bringing me?”
“No.” The answer was immediate, absolute. “I wanted you there. I wanted you to see that part of me. The only part most people ever get.” He leaned back, running a hand through his hair, leaving it in its characteristic, messy state. “Did you… like it?Any of it? Or was it just a chaotic mess of noise and overpriced hotels?”
She thought of the soaring feeling in the stadium, the collective gasp of eighty thousand people as he’d chipped the ball over the keeper’s head. The pride that had burned in her chest, secret and fierce.
“I’ve followed your team since I was twelve,” she said, the confession feeling more vulnerable than anything she’d done with her body. “My dad’s fault. Saturday mornings with him, watching the matches. It was our thing.” She took a breath, avoiding his stunned gaze. “So yeah. I liked it. I know what that hat-trick meant. I know you made that defender look like a training cone. It was… brilliant.”
Silence, except for the jet’s engines. Then a soft, disbelieving laugh.
“You are full of surprises, Aurora Bellweather,” he said, his voice warm with wonder. “A secret football scholar. And you never said a word.”
“You never asked.” She finally met his eyes. “You just assumed I was a literary snob who’d never get it.”
“I’m an idiot.” He reached for her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. His palm was warm, his grip firm. “Next home match. You’ll come. Sit in the family box.”
The offer was huge. A key to a gilded cage. “Won’t that just fuel the speculation?”
“Probably.” He shrugged, a fluid movement of muscle.“Let it. I’m tired of hiding good things.” He brought her knuckles to his lips, his eyes holding hers. “I want you there.”
The turbulence had settled. The plane sailed smoothly through the dark. The stain on his shirt was already drying, a wrinkled, sugary patch. Outside, there was only blackness and the endless hum. Inside, his hand in hers felt like the only solid thing in the universe.
“Okay,” she whispered.
He leaned across the space between their seats, his free hand cradling her face. He kissed her, slow and deep, tasting of champagne and promise and a future that felt terrifyingly, exhilaratingly public.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers. “Good,” he murmured. “Now, about that mess you made. I believe you were in the middle of an apology…”
He nodded toward the discarded shirt. Then his gaze dipped to the silk of her top, a playful, challenging gleam returning to his eyes. A silent suggestion hung in the air, as potent as the champagne.
The jet hurtled on through the night, carrying them toward a world of floodlights and headlines. But for now, in this quiet, metal tube in the sky, there was only the sound of their breathing, and the unspoken agreement that the apology, however it unfolded, would be a private, and very thorough, affair.