Tasha Zima

Chapter Two

Sideways

Vivian drifted back to consciousness slowly, the acrid sting of burnt wiring cutting through the fog in her skull. Her ears rang—dull, insistent—and for a few long seconds, she couldn’t place herself. Smoke. Pain. Cold air. The silence after a scream.

What happened?

Then it hit—hard and fast, like the crash itself.

“Oh, hell,” she muttered, lifting a shaky hand to her forehead. Her fingertips came away wet and red. Shallow cut. Not life-threatening. Her ribs ached. Something deep in her hip throbbed. But she was alive.

Barely.

Thank God she’d stayed buckled.

Then her eyes snapped to Noah.

He was slumped in his seat, too still. Eyes closed. Bloodless under that impossible calm.

A jolt of pure panic lit up her spine.

“Noah?” Her voice was cracked, raw from smoke or fear or both. No answer.

She shoved it down. The fear. The heat rising behind her eyes. Panic was a luxury she didn’t have the time—or permission—to feel.

Unbuckling her belt with clumsy fingers, she pushed herself upright. The cabin tilted slightly, but she held. She staggered across the chaos and dropped beside him, pressing two fingers to his neck.

Pulse.

Strong. Steady.

The breath she didn’t know she’d been holding punched out of her.

“Thank God,” she whispered. It came out fractured.

She checked his head—no blood, no swelling. His skin was pale and too cool, but intact. He looked more like a statue than a man. Untouchable. Even now.

But he was touchable. And breakable. And mortal.

She rested her hand on his scalp—just for a second—and then pushed herself to her feet. Shelter. Water. Food. Her father’s voice came back sharp and clear, the way it always did when things went sideways.

Vivian moved like a machine through twisted metal and ruined opulence. Leather torn open like skin, wood panels shattered like bones. The sky stretched above her where the ceiling should’ve been. Her breath came in short bursts.

Waves.

She could hear waves.

They were near water. Not that it helped.

The private bedroom had held—barely. Disheveled. Cold. But intact.

Shelter: secured.

“Water,” she muttered, ducking into the galley. Miraculously, the cabinets were still upright. Bottled water. A selection of pop. Nuts, jams and crackers, little bags of chips, little bags of cookies, protein bars. Fruit. And, of course, more champagne.

She stared at the label on the Dom Pérignon and let out a dry, hollow laugh.

“Of course Noah travels with enough champagne to host a gala.”

It seemed so perfectly him she almost cried.

She moved quickly, methodically, transferring everything to the bedroom. Her body was working—numb and efficient. That was good. She needed numb.

If he wakes up…

No.

When.

That thought dragged her back down the wreckage-strewn aisle with a bottle of water in hand. She knelt beside him again. Still unconscious. Still breathing.

“Noah,” she said softly. “C’mon.”

Nothing.

She took a long sip of water. Her hands trembled, but she steadied them. Braced herself.

“Alright, Blake,” she whispered, shifting her grip under his arm. “You’re not freezing on my watch.”

She unbuckled the belt, looped his arm over her shoulders. His body was deadweight—heavy, awkward. Her muscles screamed with every step. Her ribs burned. He groaned once, but didn’t wake.

“Easy,” she muttered, half to him, half to herself. “I’ve got you.”

It felt like climbing a mountain underwater. Every step uphill. Every breath earned.

But she got him there.

To the bed. Out of the wind. She eased him down carefully, brushing damp hair off his brow. His skin was still cold, but better. Less alarming.

“Rest,” she whispered. Her voice cracked.

Roof, water, food… Noah.

They’d survive. Probably.

She stepped outside into the icy wind, scanning the landscape. Craggy cliffs. Sparse trees. No road. No help. No salvation.

Just cold, howling winds and some small patches of snow and ice.

Back inside, she hunted again. A side compartment caught her eye—oversized cashmere blankets, neatly rolled.

Luxurious. Ridiculous. Perfect.

“Cashmere,” she muttered, hauling the stack out. “Fancy and flammable. Pity I can’t burn you.”

She turned the bedroom into a fortress. Blankets layered thick, pillows stuffed into broken seams. She tucked one around Noah, carefully, up to his jaw. His cheeks—pale before—now showed the faintest flush.

She froze.

And then her knees gave out.

A dull thud as they hit the floor. Hands braced against the mattress. Her breath shook.

The adrenaline was gone.

She was no longer in motion.

And the stillness was terrifying.

No sobbing. No screaming. Just tremors. Tiny, controlled. Contained.

She bent her head to her arm, closed her eyes, and inhaled.

Five in. Five out.

She focused on that. The breath. The rhythm. The one thing she could control.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Okay.”

Behind her, Noah stirred.

A twitch of his brow. A sound—small. Not conscious.

But alive.

She reached out, brushed the cold sweat from his temple with a trembling hand.

“You’re not dying on me,” she murmured. “Not happening. I had plans for you. Some flirting. Maybe more. But not… this.”

Vivian laughed once, shaky and quiet.

She sat back, wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. Assessed the room. Took stock.

She was bruised, bloodied, scared out of her goddamn mind.

But she wasn’t broken.

Not yet.

Noah Blake was going to wake up and find one hell of a woman waiting.

Vivian sat on the edge of the bed. Her white suit was torn, bloodied. Ruined. She peeled it off without ceremony, folding it neatly. The motion gave her control. If everything around her was chaos, she could choose order.

In camisole and underwear, she slid beneath the blankets. The cashmere didn’t warm her fast enough. Her teeth began to chatter.

Her eyes drifted to Noah.

Clothes trap cold. Skin shares heat.

She didn’t debate it. She was too tired to pretend.

“Sorry, Noah,” she muttered, crawling over. “This is officially above both our pay grades.”

She unfastened his jacket, peeled away his shirt. Pale skin. Bruises. Nothing fatal. Relief hummed under her skin.

Her hands shook as she reached for his belt. Her voice filled the silence.

“This relationship is off to a terrible start. You crashing on me without a proper date? On Valentine’s Day? Bold move.”

She undid the button at his waistband—just as he stirred.

A groan. Rough. Low.

Noah’s brow twitched. His lips parted.

Somewhere deep in his subconscious, Noah Blake—cynic, strategist, survivor—registered warmth.

“Dr.. Winters… Are we… negotiating again?”

The voice was rough. Faintly amused. And maddeningly familiar.

Vivian froze, her hand still poised at his waistband, heart flipping so hard she swore the whole bed shifted. Slowly, she looked up and met his eyes.

Half-lidded. Unfocused. But pure Noah—wry, infuriating, alive.

Her breath caught, then rushed out in a shaky huff.

“Relax,” she managed, voice more clipped than she wanted. “Your plane crashed. You’re concussed. And if I don’t get your stubborn, half-frozen body under these blankets, we’re both going to end up as designer ice sculptures.”

He blinked slowly, his gaze trailing over her. Cashmere. Bare skin. Context catching up with him in hazy pieces. The corner of his mouth curled.

“Are you always this practical?” he murmured.

No. Not even close, she thought.

But she said, “Only when lives are on the line. Now lift your hips.”

He let out a half-huff of disbelief, but obeyed.

God, he was heavy. And warm. And far too handsome for a man who’d just survived a crash. She tried to focus on the task—sliding off his trousers and adding them to the growing pile of ruined luxury—but her cheeks were already burning. From the cold, from the exhaustion, from him.

And still, she tucked them both under the mountain of blankets, letting the heat between them rise.

Noah exhaled sharply, shifting closer. His body found hers on instinct. Like he’d done this before. Like he trusted her.

“You’re not gonna let me die, are you?” he murmured, voice soft against her skin.

Her arm wrapped around his back automatically—steady, firm, maybe the only thing in her world that wasn’t trembling.

“Not a chance.”

His head dropped to her shoulder. His breath warmed her skin.

“Good,” he whispered. “I’d hate to miss what happens next.”

She rolled her eyes, but the smile came before she could stop it. Pure reflex. The kind that didn’t need permission.

“Sleep, Blake,” she murmured. “That’s what’s next.”

He hummed, content and fading fast, his weight settling into her like he belonged there. His defenses, his wit, all of it fell away. All that remained was the warmth of his body against hers—and the echo of everything they weren’t saying.

Two CEOs, once circling each other at thirty thousand feet, now tangled under cashmere on a nameless tiny island. One heartbeat. One breath.

Vivian let her eyes close. She matched her breath to his, slow and steady, even as the thoughts kept circling.

They were alive.

They were together.

And things were about to get very, very complicated.

***

Warmth.

Not the champagne-and-cashmere kind. Real warmth. Anchoring. Alive.

Noah drifted toward consciousness like wading through fogged glass. Each movement dragged, each thought slow to catch. His head ached, not sharply, but in waves. He tasted smoke on the back of his tongue. And cold.

Something’s wrong.

Then—

A breath against his chest. A bare leg, pressed warm and smooth against his own. The weight of another body, tucked against him like they’d always fit this way.

He opened his eyes.

The ceiling was wrong. The angle. The light. Everything off-axis.

The crash.

The impact.

The gut-drop. The tearing metal. And then—dark.

He shifted instinctively, and the warmth shifted with him.

Not a blanket.

Vivian.

Correction: a mostly undressed Vivian Winters. Draped across him beneath a ridiculous heap of designer blankets. Her breath even. Her camisole sliding off one shoulder. One bare thigh pressed against his hip.

Noah Blake had survived a plane crash. And this—this—was the first thing his brain chose to focus on?

Yes. Apparently.

He swallowed.

His eyes drifted past her, cataloguing details automatically. A small hole in the wall letting in faint morning light. Cushions wedged expertly into cracks to block the cold. A small hoard of rations—water, bars, fruit—lined up like soldiers. The blankets layered thick, well-placed.

This was not random.

This was her.

She’d done all of it.

He looked down again, gaze landing on the scrape at her temple. The dirt smudged along her jaw. The exhaustion carved into her features, even in sleep. But her body was wrapped around his like something rooted, protective.

Vivian Winters—force of nature, corporate wunderkind, media darling—had dragged him through wreckage. Built shelter. Created order. Preserved warmth.

Saved him.

Something twisted in his chest. Unfamiliar. Unwelcome.

Gratitude.

And worse—awe.

He didn’t do awe.

Noah Blake didn’t get rescued. He bought solutions. Ordered them. Outmaneuvered them. And yet here he was—alive because a woman he barely knew had kept him breathing.

His fingers twitched, brushing lightly along her spine. She stirred, but didn’t wake.

He let out a slow breath. The truth settled in.

She hadn’t panicked. She hadn’t left him. She hadn’t waited for someone else to fix it.

She had acted.

Fierce. Tactical. Magnificent.

And now she was curled against him like a storm that hadn’t burned out—just banked its fire.

He closed his eyes again.

There would be questions soon. About the crash. The island. Rescue timelines. But in this moment—this exact, impossible moment—he didn’t care.

No press. No family. No stakes. No chessboard.

Just her.

Vivian.

He turned his head slightly and pressed a kiss to her hair. Barely there. A whisper of thanks he didn’t know how else to give.

“Thank you,” he breathed.

She didn’t stir.

But she didn’t let go either.

And for the first time in memory, Noah Blake didn’t mind being held.