Girl on a Plane: A sexy, sassy, holiday read. Cassandra O’Leary

and scrolled through his contacts, then hit Ry’s name.

      The call rang out. The message tone sounded, and he went blank. What to say? He’d been kicked out by a woman he hardly knew, who he liked more than he should. Plus, she was his best prospect of a bed for the night. He was sleeping in the hall like a vagrant. And if all that wasn’t bad enough, he had a banging migraine and he was stuck in Singapore in the middle of a typhoon.

      Not the sort of stuff a bloke dumped on his friend in a voicemail message.

      He ended the call, kicked the door with a clunk and sank down on his side. He stuffed the pillow under his aching head.

      Where the hell were his migraine meds? On the plane in his checked luggage? No, of course not. He’d dumped his carry-on bag in the suite when he’d barged in on Sinead earlier. The meds were in his bag, on the other side of the door. Resting comfortably by Sinead’s bed.

      He kicked the bloody door again for good measure.

      Sinead pulled back the covers and arranged a pile of pillows on the bed, making it all pretty and perfect. A thud from the hallway told her Gabriel had flopped in a heap near her door. Most likely. She wouldn’t risk sticking her neck out again to check. She was annoyed at him for trying to trick her. So she told herself. Maybe she was also slightly worried she might invite him inside and wrap herself around his hard body.

      Things weren’t going at all to plan. She’d failed in her bubble bath and girly night-in goals, letting him talk her into dinner. Then she’d ended up at karaoke with him. She’d almost invited him upstairs, but then he’d pulled the invalid card. She should have tested her high heel sprinting skills and made a dash for it long before the Singapore Slings.

      Rounding the end of the bed, she tripped over something low and square. Gabriel’s overnight bag. Shite. He’d probably be looking for it.

      Flight attendant school hadn’t prepared her for this scenario. She’d earned an A+ in tray carrying and advanced smiling, but this? Stranded with a handsome first-class passenger who wants to sleep with you, and you’ve locked him outside your hotel suite without his luggage or a place to sleep. What do you do next? She didn’t want to take it out to him. If she were sitting a test, she didn’t think the correct answer would be ‘search through his bag and personal belongings’. Actually, it would probably get her fired.

      She stared at the offending bag. Willed it to disappear. Her X-ray vision obviously wasn’t working. Who knew what he had in there? Work papers, a laptop? Probably a change of underwear and snacks.

      Nothing important, surely. It would keep until morning. And there was absolutely no reason for guilt about holding onto the man’s bag, or for making him sleep in the hall. No reason at all. Her stomach twisted a little, but it was probably all the cocktails going down.

      She strolled into the bathroom and took care of necessities, then stripped off her clothes. In her own bag, she found a deliciously clean and fresh white T-shirt and matching knickers.

      Once she was changed, she fell into bed. Sure, she was exhausted, but she still had a tiny bit of energy to make snow angels with her arms and legs in the perfectly neat hotel sheets. 1000 thread count, no expense spared. The fabric was smooth and soft as her hair when the fancy hairdresser in Paris ironed it straight.

      Curling up on her usual left hand side of the bed, scrunched in a tight ball, she hugged herself. Gabriel popped into her mind, probably sprawled on the hard floor outside with his pillow and blanket. Part of her was tempted to ask him in. Scrunching her eyes closed, she dismissed the thought. She’d be smart, not soft and emotional. She let the sound of the storm carry her off to dreamland.

      “Good night,” she whispered.

      To no one in particular.

       Thunk, thunk, splice.

      Gabriel squinted his eyes open, letting in the bare minimum light. Weren’t brains meant to be soft and squishy grey matter? Not sharp and stabby swords of torture tearing his skull open. He had no bloody idea where he was.

      Cold, dark space, a hard floor and thin blanket. Pins and needles down one side of his body, a numb leg on the other. His head was kind of jammed against a wall. He’d guess his office floor (it wouldn’t be the first time), or jail (it would be the first time), except the blanket covering him was plush and warm with an expensive feel, like cashmere.

      He raised himself up to sit, rubbing his dead leg with the palms of both hands, rasping over the blanket and his trousers. Looking around, he registered more details. He was in a corridor, outside a hotel room door.

      The night’s events rushed back with the sound of the howling, whipping wind. The storm. Sinead. Drinks and karaoke. The hotel suite and a door in his face. Last but not least, a killer migraine.

      His vision splintered, red and black. Searing pain burned behind his eyes, scrunched tightly closed. Meds. He needed them, now.

      The meds were in his bag, on the other side of the door. He lifted his head and focused. It wasn’t too far away, only a metre. Then he’d tackle getting inside and crossing the room. How would he get in? The concierge would open the door if he could find his phone. Slipping his hand into his back pocket, he found something else. His key card to the suite. He’d had the damn thing the whole time.

      “Bingo.” He slipped it out of his pocket and held it up in the dim light. He doubted Sinead would’ve opened up if he banged on the door, but since he had his own key, he’d use it.

      He dragged his butt to the door and opened it with a soft click. At least Sinead hadn’t locked the inside latch. His head was pounding like someone had taken a meat mallet to his temple.