Chapter 21
The line at Terminal C is long, and already the senior associates are fidgeting with their watches, passive-aggressively sighing whenever a parent with a stroller clogs the lines.
James is in front of me, of course.
He travels in his own kind of uniform: slate suit, white shirt, navy tie, leather duffel bag with worn initials stamped on the side. He’s not even pretending to make small talk, his eyes fixed on the conveyor.
I watch the way he slips out of his shoes and belt, every movement precise, as if he’s done this a thousand times and never once surrendered an ounce of dignity in an airport.
The rest of our colleagues are a hungry flock, elbowing toward the bins, wrangling laptops and toiletries and, in one case, a half-eaten breakfast burrito that almost causes a catastrophic incident with the TSA agent.
I’m behind him with my suitcase, my purse wedged under one arm.
When it’s my turn to load the conveyor, I try to do it without issue, but the TSA officer is already flagging my laptop, then my toiletries, then my shoes.
I stand on the yellow footprints, watching as James’s belongings glide through the X-ray while my things are detained for further screening.
There is something mortifying about standing in your thin dress socks while a stranger in a blue vest rifles through your bag of travel-size shampoo and conditioner.
When TSA finally releases my items, James is waiting for me past the metal detector, arms crossed, shoes and belt already back in place.
I want to say something witty, or at least self-deprecating, but all I manage is a grimace, my hands full of loose items as I try to reconstitute myself. I quickly slip my shoes back on and stuff everything back where it goes.
He holds out his hand for my suitcase wordlessly, takes it from me, then leads the way to the gate.
The walk is brisk, silent but for the whine of suitcase wheels and the distant drone of gate announcements, all of which sound like they’re being broadcast from underwater.
At the gate, the rest of the team is already there, sprawled in a cluster of seats, laptop bags used to claim them.
James sits at the edge, scanning his tablet with a focus that annihilates any hope of conversation.
There’s a spot next to him, and I take it, ignoring the way my heart sneaks up into my throat at the proximity.
He doesn’t look up, but he does ask, “You okay?” His voice is low, meant only for me.
“Uh, yeah, airports make me a little nervous,” I mutter.
He smiles. “Airports. Me. Anything else?”
“Turbulence,” I say on an exhale. “But I have my Kindle with me, so I’m just gonna zone out and read. I’ll be fine.”
“What are you reading?” he asks, and I hesitate before answering.
What’s the most appropriate way to tell your boss you’re reading smut?
“It’s uh…a romance novel.”
“Uh-huh. And what’s it about?” he presses, but I’m saved from having to conjure up a suitable answer by the overhead announcement that our group is now boarding.
We file onto the plane, James in front of me. He finds his row, tossing his duffle bag into his seat, then turns around. He grabs my suitcase by the handle and hoists it overhead into the luggage compartment. Then he takes his seat and looks at me expectantly.
I glance down at my assigned seat, confirming that mine is next to his.
Sure enough, it is.
I hold my purse close and shimmy into the row, taking the seat next to James. I pull my Kindle from my bag and then slide it under the seat in front of me. I fasten my seatbelt and settle back into the seat, my elbow resting firmly against James’s.
James is scrolling on his phone, and I start reading my smutty little book as the plane finally takes off.
By the time we’re at altitude, I’m deeply zoned out in my book. So much so that I barely register when James says, “So, it’s about cowboys.”
Quickly clutching my Kindle to my chest, I snap my head to look at him. “How long have you been reading?”
“Not long. I started reading somewhere around assless chaps.”
I feel my cheeks heat, and look around to see if anyone else heard him, but no one is paying attention to us. He leans over closer and talks low enough to ensure that only I hear the next thing he says.
“You know, we could probably find a pair in Nashville. If you wanted to dress up,” he says with a wink.
If he wants to play, then I’ll play.
“No thanks. I think I’ll stick with my teeny black dress I brought.”
He smiles wide. “Looking forward to seeing that,” he says as he leans away, putting the space back between us.
We sit in silence the rest of the flight until the landing.
It’s bumpy, the wheels of the plane bouncing on the runway. I grip the armrest tightly, and James casts his eyes down to my clenched hand. He places his hand over mine, giving me a gentle squeeze, and leaves it there until the plane comes to a stop.
I let go of the armrest and try not to look at James as everyone stands and starts the slow, shuffling process of deplaning. The aisle is a human bottleneck, all elbows and overstuffed bags, but James waits for me to stand before he does.
I’m hyper-aware of the way he moves, half a step closer than necessary, one hand on my lower back as we file out past the rows and into the harsh fluorescence of the plane bridge.
We walk through the terminal and out to the passenger pickup, where we find a Sprinter van waiting to pick us up.
We all climb in, but this time, James and I aren’t seated beside each other as he takes the front passenger seat.
His absence during the twenty-minute ride to the hotel shouldn’t bother me, but I find myself wanting to be as close to him as I can be.
I shake off the pathetic thoughts.
This is a work trip, Avery. Focus.
We pull into the hotel and unload ourselves from the van before grabbing our bags from the back.
James leads our group to the lobby and approaches the front desk.
The rest of the attorneys stand in a gaggle, eyes roaming over the details of the space.
The floors are a beautiful Italian marble, and the room is fitted with warm-toned wood furnishings, which contrast nicely with the velvet couches.
When James returns to the group, he has room keys in his hands. He passes them out to the attorneys, who then head toward the elevators with their bags.
My hand is extended out to him, palm up, waiting for mine when I notice there are no other room keys in his hands.
“My room key?” I ask.
“You don’t have one. You’re staying with me.”
The words stun me.
“James. I don’t think that’s a good idea. Won’t the other attorneys see us staying in the same room together?”
“No.”
“Okay, I know you have this hot, broody, minimal talking thing that you do. But I need you to elaborate.”
He shoots me a look that feels like a warning.
We join the other attorneys at the elevator, and when it arrives, the other attorneys step in, leaving no room for myself and James.
“Go ahead. We’ll take the next one. Get settled in and enjoy your rooms. Everyone meet back in the lobby at 5:30. We have the opening dinner this evening,” James says casually.
When the next elevator arrives, we step in.
“Please explain,” I say abruptly.
“I booked all the rooms on different floors. Nobody else has a room on our floor. We’re in the presidential suite.”
It registers that he’s planned this, orchestrated it so that the two of us are in a carefully constructed bubble.
“You thought about this.”
“Yeah. I thought about this.” He pauses. “If there’s any other reason you wouldn’t feel comfortable staying with me, I’ll get you a room. Just say the word.”
I think about it, but it only takes me a second to decide.
“No. I want to stay with you,” I assure him.