Chapter 6

The flight to Europe was only two hours in and Mark was already bored out of his mind.

Economy seats. Recycled air. A movie he had already seen. The low drone of engines that never quite settled into white noise. He had deliberately chosen a long-haul red-eye for the unstructured time, hoping the monotony would coax the power back the same way the empty weekend had. So far it had only given him a stiff neck and the slow, restless itch under his skin.

He watched a flight attendant move down the aisle with the drink cart, mid-twenties, neat bun, professional smile that never reached her eyes. When she paused beside his row to hand a ginger ale to the man across the aisle, Mark reached.

The transfer was instant.

Suddenly he was standing in the narrow galley space between carts, weight balanced on sensible black heels, the starched blouse and pencil skirt feeling crisp against unfamiliar skin. The attendant’s name tag read Jordan. Her memories supplied the rest in a quiet rush: three years on this route, tired feet, the private tally of which passengers were difficult and which were invisible.

Mark glanced down the aisle at himself, slumped in 28C, eyes half-closed in feigned sleep. A small, wicked impulse took him. He felt Jordan's neat, professional hands respond as he uncapped a miniature bottle of whiskey and poured it into a plastic cup, the liquid catching the dim cabin light. He walked the short distance back down the aisle, her sensible pumps clicking softly against the floor, and set the cup on the tray table in front of his original body.

"Compliments of the crew," he said in Jordan's polite voice, but he let a thread of something warmer slip into it—a playful, almost private edge that made his own reflection in the window seat look up with a hopeful, drowsy curiosity.

His own body met Jordan's borrowed gaze. Mark felt it from both sides at once: the cool, professional set of Jordan's features above him, and the slow, lopsided smile spreading across his own face down in the seat. Jordan's hand reached out, fingertips brushing the sleeve of his shirt in a tiny, deliberate touch that lingered just a moment too long. Mark felt his own pulse quicken in his chest, and felt a subtle …