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She wilted into the leather upholstery. Her feet hurt, her back ached, her head pounded. In fact, as she put some concentration into it, Anya realized that the only part of her that didn't hurt in some manner was her left elbow.

Too bad I can't say the same thing for the one on the right. She grimaced at the memory of ramming it into the pole on the shuttle to the airport terminal. She hoisted herself out of melted position and started shoving her possessions under the seat in front of her. Seat 11A, the last row of business class, on an eleven-hour flight from London to Los Angeles. Rubbing at the ever-present knot of muscle at the back of her neck, she rummaged through her purse for the tension headache medicine she'd purchased in the airport Boots.

Ah, lovely, legal codeine, she thought as she pushed two of the pills through the protective packaging and swallowed them with a swig of the water thoughtfully placed between the two seats of the 767. With any luck, she would not only get rid of the throbbing pain, but also get some fantastic drug-induced rest. She tossed the box of pills back into her purse, and then pulled out the novel she'd brought with her. She pushed the purse back beneath the seat, and pretended to read the book while the rest of the passengers filed on board.

In reality, she was playing one of her favorite head-games: making up lives for the people passing her by. First there was the quiet, perfectly mannered elderly couple who looked as though they would be connecting in Atlanta to swing down to Florida for walks on the beach, to be followed by lots of tea. In Anya's world, they were headed to Vegas to perform their world-renowned S&M act at the Red Door.

The next contestants were the newlywed couple, the ones barely able to keep their hands off each other long enough to stow their carry-on luggage. They were only being so obnoxiously lovey-dovey because the bride was trying to pretend that she hadn't walked in on her new husband shagging her bridesmaid cousin during the reception.

The businessmen dryly discussing the latest developments in the plastics industry on their way to their economy class seats were obviously members of a drug cartel, smuggling contraband in as-yet unnamed orifices.

The game got harder to play as the flight filled up and her medicine kicked in; she kept losing the thread of the story. Finally she put the book down and shifted to face the empty seat next to her as she drifted off to sleep...

* * *

The last passenger to board, he made his way down the aisle to his seat. Business class, he thought, a smirk crossing his face. How very executive transvestite.

A few people glanced up to see who the latecomer was, but apparently his comedic efforts had been lost on the international business traveler demographic. The few double takes he got were probably more based on the eyeliner he was wearing than the professional accolades he had received.

The flight was nearly full. Karon, his public relations person, had been unable to book them both into luxury accommodations for this last minute trip, and was taking her seat in economy. He looked down the aisle and caught her eye. He shot her a final, if slightly guilty, wave and continued toward his seat.

As he pulled up to 11B, he let go of the last hope that he might get to stretch out for a nap. A woman who looked to be in her mid-twenties already occupied the window seat. Poor little rich girl? She didn't look like the rest of the seating section, as she wasn't a middle-aged, bespectacled, besuited man. Was besuited a word? He pondered for a moment. Well, if it wasn't, it should be. She was leaning against the wall of the plane, already fast asleep. She looked so peaceful that he hated to disturb her.

He gingerly lowered himself into his seat and tried to fasten his safety belt without waking Sleeping Beauty. At the click of the belt, she stirred and looked over at him.

"Are you part of the cartel?" she said groggily.

"Um, no," he was too surprised by the question to form a more rational response. "Are you?"

"'Course not," she muttered as she turned and went back to sleep.

American, he thought, dark brown eyes, disheveled blonde hair that came from a bottle. An expensive bottle, he amended. Skillfully done. Average height, curvy body. No, not curvy. Damn it, he should be able to come up with a better description than that. A body that made a man remember that Mother Nature was a woman. A body with more curves than an Alpine road.

Oh, fuck it, I give up! He wondered how he was going to pull off the role if he couldn't get the lingo down. This was a great opportunity, a bonafide leading role with in a high profile flick. The actor they'd cast had to pull out at the last moment - and they thought of me. The idea bubbled through his head like the flavor of a fine wine: an A-List director needed an actor who could carry a movie and he thought of me.

Never mind that he had a world comedy tour starting in six weeks for which he hadn't put a single concept together. And a voice role commitment. And three DVD commentaries he needed to complete. Add to that family and friends and the list of responsibilities went on and seemed to grow larger each day. He felt the panic welling up inside, and reacted to the frightening emotion as he had since he was a child, since his mom died: block it out. Focus on what's at hand right now. Don't think, don't feel, don't worry.

He pulled out the script, a thriller where he was playing a private investigator. Can't quite get the mind-set. Probably because no P.I. would notice that the highlights were well done. As he flipped through the pages, his eyelids started drooping... and finally he stopped fighting the wave of sleep as the plane reached its cruising altitude.

* * *

Anya slowly came back to reality, one sense at a time.

Sound, as the flight attendants started their in-flight service. Wheels rolled, carts jostled, and meals were offered.

Taste, as the cottony aftereffects of the codeine ran through her taste buds. She rolled her tongue around her mouth, trying to clear a path through the grime.

Smell, something clean and male. Sniffing the air, she instinctively tried to burrow closer to it.

Touch, the feel of a strong shoulder under her cheek, offering comfort as only human contact can.

And finally sight, as she opened her eyes to discover she had shifted in her sleep and was now using the shoulder of the complete stranger sitting next to her as a pillow.

Her mind snapped fully awake. Mortification rolled through her in waves of hot fuchsia. She was sprawled across him. And to make matters worse, she discovered as she peered sideways at the man, he had leaned his head on hers and was taking his own nap. All she could see clearly was the edge of his jaw. She was trapped underneath a fuzzy-looking, Caucasian stranger. Oh, God, how embarrassing! What do I do now?

Anya considered her options: 1) Pull her head quickly off his shoulder and deal with the embarrassment of random airplane cuddling. 2) Pretend to be asleep until he woke up and moved. 3) Shit, I can't think of a third option.

That left two functioning options from which to choose. Option 1 had the lure of quick fix to it, but then she realized that they were only four hours into the eleven-hour flight. Option 2 had a definite longevity issue. Seven hours would be a long time to sit in agony waiting for someone who could, for all she knew, be an Olympic-level snoozer.

But it wasn't agony. It should have been, but it wasn't. The man was an unusual combination of hardness and softness. Usually, when she leaned against a man, it felt awkward. A muscle too developed or a collarbone too sharp, something was always off kilter. This felt different. This felt on kilter. His hand was resting on her leg. It curled around her inner thigh, with the thumb on the top. She imagined she could feel every ridge on his thumb, that it was burning a tattoo onto her. In her mind, she could see herself examining her leg in the shower, matching her thumb to the print of a stranger.

Unexpectedly, it didn't seem extraordinary to stay right where she was, wrapped in the arms of a stranger. She closed her eyes.

* * *

He knew the moment she woke up. A slight shift, a change in breathing patterns, or just innate knowledge, he couldn't explain which. He had been awake for about an hour.

He had been surprised, of course, to find himself intertwined with his pretty neighbor. Surveying the state they'd been in, it was hard to tell how they'd ended up in this configuration. He was slouched over the armrest and had his head resting on the headrest of her seat. His right arm lay between them, and his hand was curved under her black-stockinged inner thigh, right where the denim mini-skirt she was wearing ended. She had snuggled into his chest, her face tipped appealingly toward his neck. One arm had snaked its way across his waist. As he sat motionless, he focused on the sensations of her leg under his hand, the curve of her breast on his arm, and the light, moist feel of her breath on his neck. These were peaceful emotions, he thought. A feeling of trust, of homecoming almost. With an edge of lust, undoubtedly, as he resisted the urge to slide his hand a few inches higher. He felt a warmth spreading through him. An inner calm. Perhaps this was the enlightenment they'd talked about in the yoga classes he'd taken, the feeling of being at one with yourself. Odd that he only found this feeling of oneness with another person, he mused. What did that mean?

Then he heard his father's voice in his head, saying, "Never look a gift horse in the mouth." He rubbed his cheek against her head. Her hair felt like thick silk on his skin. Sayings were so odd anyway. Who would look a gift horse in the mouth? Or any horse for that matter. Horses' mouths were singularly unattractive.

And he sat there, thoughts running through his head like electricity through a copper wire, clearer than they'd been in months. He'd been too busy, too preoccupied, too everything to even stop to think. There'd been the filming, and the rehearsals, and the performances, and the offers, and the awards, and the tour planning, and the endless interviews, and everything rushing by too quickly to stop to think about direction and life and what really matters.

He was forty-one. He had a flat he hadn't stepped foot inside in nearly six months. He had a tour starting in less than a month and not a clue what he was going to ramble on about. He had a new niece he'd only seen in photographs. His roots had loosened, and he was starting to sway. He could see now that if he kept up this pace, he might fall. Another project, another script, another phoned in interview... they were all weights on him.

He knew she was awake, but he had no intention of moving. He was afraid if he stopped touching her the clarity he had, the electricity he felt, would short out. He closed his eyes.

* * *

The cabin bell dinged.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are making our final approach into the Los Angeles airport. Please return all seat backs and tray tables to their upright and locked position in preparation for landing."

Anya jolted awake. There was no pretending now. She straightened in her seat and turned to get her first clear look at her mystery man.

He was looking at her through sleepy blue eyes. His expensively tousled hair was not quite brown, not quite blond, not quite red. A red streak on his cheek was evidence to their connection recently severed.

She didn't know what to say. Had she imagined the bond between them?

A crooked smile began to grow on his face. When it reached his eyes, they warmed tenfold. Her pulse followed suit. He reached a hand to her face and tucked a few loose strands of golden hair behind her ear.

"Hi, I'm Eddie."