Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Jenny B. Jones is a four-time Carol-Award winning author who writes YA and Christian Romances with equal parts wit, sass, and untamed hilarity. When she's not writing, she's living it up as a high school speech teacher in Arkansas. Visit JennyBJones.com and SouthernBelleView.com. Twitter @JenBJones

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

There You'll Find Me

Thomas Nelson

Chapter One

—Travel Journal of Will Sinclair, Abbeyglen, Ireland

Miss?"

I pulled out an earbud as the flight attendant leaned over me. "Yes?"

"We have a few seats available in first class. Would you like to have one of them?"

Seats like recliners, meals that didn't taste like burned Lean Cuisines, and no guy in front of me leaned back 'til he was in my lap? "Yes, please."

I grabbed my backpack and followed the woman through the narrow aisle, dodging two ladies on their way to the bathroom.

Five more hours of the flight to Shannon, Ireland. I couldn't get there fast enough. But a cushy seat would surely help pass the time.

"Here we go." She smiled widely, and her eyes brimmed with an excessive amount of enthusiasm for a good deed she surely did every day.

Thanking the flight attendant, I slipped into the seat, the leather crunching beneath me, and set my backpack at my feet.

"Have fun," she said.

Have fun?

I glanced at the guy beside me. He leaned against the wall, his head propped into his hand, a Colts hat covering his head and shielding his eyes from view. From the stillness of his body, he had to be asleep.

I settled in, pulled out my travel pillow, zipped up my hoodie, and burrowed. Reaching for the newspaper, I opened to the second page, where the article from the front left off.

... The latest bombing in Iraq has been claimed by terrorist Hassan Al Farran, ringleader of the al Qaeda cell thought to be responsible for the deadly blast in Afghanistan that killed a schoolhouse of children, as well as CNN correspondent and humanitarian Will Sinclair, son of hotel magnate Marcus Sinclair. On the Most Wanted list, Al Farran is number four in command in the Taliban and continues to elude capture.

As the familiar churning began in my stomach, I took a few deep breaths. One day the pain wouldn't be as fresh as if the loss of my brother had just happened. Instead of two years ago. My counselor said I should've been past the anger stage. But I wasn't.

But on October twentieth, perhaps I would be.

I continued to read the article, but it provided no new information, and soon the words swam and blurred until I finally had to close my eyes and rest for just a bit in the dimmed lights of the plane.

* * *

"The captain has turned on the Fasten Seat Belt sign. Please remain in your seats and refrain from moving about the cabin."

Somewhere in the fog of my sleepy brain, the flight attendant's voice registered, but I couldn't seem to pull myself to the surface. So tired. And warm. And comfy.

"Sir, your friend needs to put her seat belt on."

"As much as I like a lovely girl leaning on my shoulder," a lilting voice whispered near my ear, "I think you might want to listen to the flight attendant."

My head lifted with a jerk as the plane shuddered. "What?" Where am I? What time is it?

The boy beside me laughed, and after I blinked a few times, I saw him more clearly.

Snapping myself in, my cheeks warmed. "Was I just—" "Sleeping on me?" He nodded his head, his blond hair peeping out from his cap. "Yeah."

"And did I—"

"Drool?" His voice carried a hint of Ireland. "Not much."

Gray eyes. Chiseled cheekbones. A grin that revealed a dimple. A voice low enough to send chills along my aching neck. A smile that would send most teen girls into a squealing fit of adoration and hyperventilation.

"Oh my gosh—"

"Shhh." He pressed one finger to his lips. "Don't say a word. I've gotten this far without being bothered."

"Beckett Rush."

He flashed that million-dollar grin again. The one that earned this nineteen-year-old the lead role as the darkly romantic Steele Markov in a franchise of films such as Vampire Boarding School and Friday Night Bites.

"If you stay mum about this, I'll give you an autograph." He leaned close. "But you should know I've given up signing body parts."

I blinked twice, my mouth open in an O.

"I know, it's shocking," he said. "I guess the flight attendant thought she was doing you a favor sitting you next to me, but—"

"I don't want your autograph," I finally managed.

Beckett tilted his head and flashed those gunmetal grays. "Okay. One picture. But later. After we land, and I've had my breakfast."

"I don't want your picture either." I scooted away from his seat. "The last thing I want, Mr. Hollywood Party Boy, is to be photographed with you, where it will surely land in some trash magazine. As if I need any more of that."

His frown was the first genuine facial expression I'd witnessed. No doubt, Beckett Rush was not used to anything but fawning and fainting from teenage girls. And their mothers.

"Have we met?" he asked.

"No." Digging into my backpack, I pulled out a magazine and flipped past the glossy cover. None of the girls looked like me. They were all rail thin, unlike my size nine. Scrawny legs, where my own were muscular from years of cheerleading. And their hair displayed artful compositions of chaos and grace, while my long, dark locks were stuffed into a messy bun on top of my head after an endless day of travel.

"Are you sure, so?"

"Quite." Returning the magazine to my bag, I retrieved the sheet music I'd been working on for weeks. My audition piece.

"Because now that I get a good look at you, you seem familiar."

I swiped my fingers through my brunette bangs until they offered a little coverage. "I have one of those faces."

"And you've certainly a strong dislike of me." I could feel his eyes study me as I reread the first eight measures. "As if I've done something to you."

"You have not."

"Then—"

"It's your type," I said, without looking up. "I know your type."

"Well now, that's interesting."

His cologne filtered my way and clung to my shirt where I'd fallen asleep against him. I probably had crease marks on my face from his shoulder. How embarrassing.

"Did you have a good nap, then?"

Boys like him were only after one thing. And I was done with him and his entire species. "Fine. Thank you."

"Since we've established who I am . . ." He lifted a blond brow when I didn't respond. "The next line is where you tell me your name. I think if you're going to drool on me, we should at least be on a first-name basis."

I sighed and looked toward the window where I saw nothing but dark sky.

"You look like a Myrtle to me," he said to himself. "Maybe a Mavis. But I could be wrong."

"Finley." I tried to rearrange my mussed hair with my fingers. "Finley Sinclair."

Silence. Then his eyes widened. "Of the hotel fame?"

Here we go. "My dad might own a hotel or two."

"One or two thousand." And then new understanding dawned. "You've had quite a year. I think I saw you on the cover of People some months back. 'Hotel heiress sneaks into club and parties the night away.'"

"That was last spring." And I had worked my tail off making amends, getting away from what my dad had called my crazy season. Thank goodness any small amount of...