Book Blitz for Frequent Flyers

Featuring "The Friendly Skies"

by

Amanda Weaver

Cassie Sinclair has been there, done that, and has the frequent flyer miles to prove it. She's far too jaded to fall for the engaging stranger seated next to her on her flight to Mexico, no matter how pretty his face or dreamy his accent. But when the flight's re-routed and their tightly packed schedules are blown, she decides indulging in one reckless night with Simon couldn't hurt. They'll have their fun and fly back to their regularly scheduled lives the next day. But fate (and Simon) might have other plans.

"Cass, let's just call this what it is."

She blinked at him, unbearably aware of his hand covering hers. God, could he feel the way her pulse was racing under his fingertips?

"And what's that?" she asked, her voice thick and quiet with nerves.

"A date."

"This is a date?"

He shrugged casually, one corner of his mouth curling up in a smile. His fingers slowly slid higher on her arm. "Yes, a date. We might not have set out to go on one today, but that seems to be where we've found ourselves. So let's go with it."

"On a date." His smile grew wider and he nodded once. He was positively caressing her arm now.

"A date. Which means I'm buying."

She didn't protest when he slid the check out of her reach. After tucking his credit card in the folder, he took her hand again, turning it over and skimming his thumb over her palm. Her breath caught in her throat. Such a tiny, insignificant touch, and yet she felt it in so many places.

"Since we've agreed that we're now on a date, maybe you won't mind me doing this," he murmured, lifting her hand and pressing his lips against the pounding pulse in her wrist. He looked up at her, his lips still brushing her skin. "Okay?"

She nodded. "Okay," she whispered.

"And this?" He kissed the center of her palm, slowly, deliberately, and she was fairly certain she felt his tongue flick out to taste her skin.

She pressed her knees together as her nerves and muscles slowly melted. She wanted to climb into his la

p, straddle him, push his shoulders back, grab him by that tie…

"That's okay, too." Her voice had turned into a rasp.

"You've got some chocolate on your finger," he murmured, his breath washing across her palm. "Right here."

There was no errant spot of chocolate, but she said nothing as he drew the tip of her index finger into his mouth. She thought she might combust on the spot. It didn't last long, just a whisper of his slick, warm mouth around her fingertip and then he let her go, sitting back and smiling with an expression that was nothing short of salacious.

"I've wanted to do that all day."

Like many writers, Amanda Weaver spent her childhood telling stories. College steered her in a different direction and into a successful career as a designer. Several years ago, she picked up writing again to blow off some creative steam. One thing led to another, National Novel Writing Month happened, and here we are.

Amanda Weaver grew up in Florida and now lives in Brooklyn, New York with her husband, daughter and two crazy cats.