Spark Me Tenderly: Before Him
Description
Floris Blossom knows her name sounds like a botanical experiment gone wrong, and yes, her parents have a lot to answer for. But armed with relentless optimism and a smile that refuses to quit, she's landed the job of a lifetime: flight attendant on billionaire Maverick Finley's private jet. There's just one problem-her new boss communicates exclusively in monosyllables, treats her like she's a window with legs, and cycles through fiancees faster than most people change their coffee orders. He's cold, impossibly tall, and looks at her like she's personally offended him by existing. She should hate him. She definitely shouldn't notice the way his jaw tightens when he's annoyed, or wonder what it would take to make those green eyes actually see her. When Floris witnesses yet another polished arranged fiance fail to crack his armor, she can't help but wonder: what kind of man goes through women like disposable accessories? And why does some reckless part of her want to find out?
Chapter 1
Feb 18, 2026
[Floris’ POV]
My hands won't stop trembling as I adjust my uniform in the cramped bathroom mirror. The navy blazer fits perfectly—I made sure of that, trying it on six times before my shift—but my fingers still fumble with the buttons like they belong to someone else.
I catch my reflection and force a smile. Fake it till you make it, right?
For a second, the fluorescent lights flicker, and I'm somewhere else entirely.
Hospital antiseptic burning my nostrils. Machines beeping in sterile rhythm. My mother's hand squeezing mine so hard it hurt, her voice cracking as she whispered, We're safe now, baby. We're safe.
I shake it off. That was too many years ago and today is about the future, not the wreckage behind me.
My phone buzzes, and I snap a quick selfie—uniform crisp, smile bright, anxiety carefully hidden behind mascara and determination—and send it to Gemma with the caption.
Me: *photo attached* Day 1 of being fancy <3
Her response is immediate with a string of money emojis followed by.
Gem: GET ME THAT BILLIONAIRE GOSSIP OR DON'T COME HOME.
Me: What if he's boring?
Gem: IMPOSSIBLE. Rich people are never boring. They're either hot or evil or both. INVESTIGATE AND REPORT BACK IMMEDIATELY!
I'm still grinning at my phone when I step onto the Finley private jet, and then I forget how to breathe entirely.
The cabin looks like something from a magazine—extremely expensive cream leather seats and mahogany accents polished to a mirror shine. The kind of understated luxury that whispers ‘I have more money than you'll ever see in your lifetime.’
I run my fingers along the armrest of the nearest seat and immediately pull back, terrified I've left a smudge on something priceless.
"You must be the new girl."
The voice comes from behind me, clipped and cold and I turn to find a woman in an identical uniform. Her dark hair pulled back so tight it looks painful and her name tag reads ‘Marina.’
Her expression meanwhile reads ‘I've already decided I don't like you.’
"That's me," I say, extending my hand with what I hope is a winning smile. "Floris Blossom. I know, I know—my parents were either hippies or sadists. Jury's still out on that one, honestly."
Marina doesn't take my hand. She looks at it like I've offered her a dead fish, then raises one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "The galley is through there. Stock is already done. Don't touch anything unless you know what you're doing."
"Got it. Don't touch things. Very helpful guidance, thank you so much. Any other tips? Favorite snacks? Hidden talents? I'm great at icebreakers if you want to try one—"
"Mr. Finley will board in ten minutes." Marina cuts me off with the efficiency of someone who's had a lot of practice ending unwanted conversations. "He prefers silence—no unnecessary conversations, no hovering. Serve when asked, disappear when not."
"Silence. Disappearing. My two greatest skills," I lie cheerfully.
Marina's mouth twitches—not quite a smile, more like she's suppressing the urge to push me out the emergency exit at thirty thousand feet. "We'll see about that."
She disappears into the galley, and I'm left standing in the cabin alone, heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape.
Ten minutes. I can absolutely not embarrass myself in ten minutes. Probably. Maybe. The odds aren't great, but I'm choosing optimism as always.
James Webb boards first—Mr Finley’s executive assistant I’ve heard about during the interview, and when I greet him he offers a polite nod back. But when Maverick Finley boards… I understand immediately why the tabloids can't stop writing about him.
Holy whiskers!
It’s like meeting everyone’s romance book boyfriend in real life. Religious experience.
He's tall—and not just tall, but towering. Broad shoulders strain against a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my car, and when he turns to hand off his coat, I catch the way the fabric pulls across his back, the suggestion of muscle beneath all that expensive tailoring.
Sharp jaw, perpetually tense like he's grinding his teeth against something he won't say. Dark hair kept precisely styled, not a strand out of place. And his eyes… God, his eyes.
The color of sea glass in winter, pale green and just as cold.
He moves like he owns not just this plane but the sky around it, and honestly, he probably does. The air feels thinner when he enters, like his presence sucks the oxygen from the room and doesn't apologize for it.
I forget how to swallow. Which is ridiculous. I've seen attractive men before. But something about Maverick Finley makes my pulse stutter in a way that feels less like attraction and more like a warning.
Danger, my lizard brain whispers. Run.
I metaphorically run towards him instead.
"Mr. Finley," I say, stepping forward with my brightest smile. "I'm Floris Blossom, your new flight attendant. It's so wonderful to meet you. How was your morning? Beautiful weather we're having today. Not that you can tell from up here. Well, you can once we're flying, but—"
He looks at me, more through me, really. Like I'm a window and he's trying to see something more interesting on the other side.
"Water," he says.
One word. Then he settles into his seat, opens his laptop, and becomes a statue made of expensive fabric and utter disinterest.
"Water. Perfect. Coming right up. Sparkling or still? We have both. Actually, we have like six kinds of water, which seems excessive, but you're the boss, so whatever you prefer—"
"Still." He doesn't look up.
I retreat to the galley with my dignity in tatters and my hands shaking for an entirely different reason than they were this morning. Marina is waiting, arms crossed, her cold smile sharp enough to cut glass.
"Word of advice?" she says, leaning against the counter with the casual cruelty of someone who enjoys watching newcomers fail. "Don't bother. He doesn't see the staff. He barely sees anyone, actually."
"What do you mean?" I ask, busying myself with the water.
Because I desperately need something to do with my hands that isn't wringing them together. Marina glances toward the cabin, lowering her voice with the relish.
"See that woman about to board? That's fiancée number... what, four? Five? I've lost count at this point. They never last."
I peer through the galley window just as a woman steps onto the jet.
She's stunning—designer clothes, hair that looks professionally windswept, the kind of elegant that requires generational wealth to achieve. She carries herself like she knows exactly how beautiful she is.
Which makes it even worse when Maverick doesn't rise to greet her. Doesn't smile. Barely acknowledges her presence beyond a brief nod that could mean ‘hello’ or you're ‘blocking my light.’
The woman's perfect composure flickers, just for a moment—a crack in the porcelain—before she settles into the seat across from him and launches into conversation.
I catch fragments of her monologue drifting back: something about a gallery opening, mutual acquaintances, a charity gala she's organizing.
He doesn't look up from his laptop. Not once.
Marina smirks beside me with obvious satisfaction, then drifts back to work, leaving me staring at the scene before me.
The beautiful fiancée is trying so hard, leaning forward, laughing at jokes he isn't making. The billionaire who treats her presence like background noise. The tension filling the cabin like smoke, so thick I can almost taste it.
What kind of man goes through fiancées like disposable accessories?
Then Mr. Finley's gaze lifts suddenly, and his eyes meet mine through the galley window. For one frozen second, those green eyes pin me in place—sharp, assessing, seeing something I didn't mean to show.
My breath catches just as my heart does something stupid and reckless. Then he looks away, dismissing me entirely, and returns to his laptop like I never existed at all.
I press my back against the galley wall, hand over my chest, and feel something dangerous spark to life behind my ribs. Something that feels a lot like… curiosity. Something that feels even more like trouble.
This job might be more complicated than I thought.
Spark Me Tenderly: Before Him
30 Chapters
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