Chapter 4 Ray
Ray
Miles Covington in jeans is something I was not prepared for.
I'm standing outside the terminal with both our bags—mine, a beat-up duffle I've had since college, and his, a sleek black carry-on that's never had a scuff on it—when he walks up, and my brain just stops working.
He's in dark jeans and a gray crewneck sweater that fits him in a way his suits never let me appreciate, and his hair is slightly different, less rigid, like he maybe didn't spend twenty minutes sculpting it into submission this morning.
He looks younger and like a completely different person, and I'm staring. I need to stop staring.
"You're early," he says, which is his version of hello.
"You told me to be on time. I overcompensated." I pick up both bags and nod toward the doors. "Ready?"
"I can carry my own bag."
"I know you can. I'm being nice. It's this thing I do."
He gives me a look but doesn't take the bag, which I count as a win.
We head inside and join the security line, and I'm trying very hard to act normal when nothing about this feels normal.
I've only ever seen Miles behind a desk in his sharp suits and perfect ties, and I had a handle on the attraction.
I did. It was manageable when he looked like a weapon.
But this — the soft sweater and the glasses and the way his jeans fit — this is making me stupid.
"What are you looking at?" he says, eyes forward.
"Nothing. I've just never seen you in jeans before."
"I own jeans. I'm a person."
"Could've fooled me."
His mouth does that twitch again — the almost-smile he won't let happen — and I'm going to be thinking about it for the rest of the day.
We get through security without incident, unless you count the TSA agent who made Miles take off his watch and belt and shoes and the little noise of irritation Miles made that I found way more attractive than a person should find anything that happens at airport security.
We're at the gate for about thirty minutes before boarding starts.
Miles sits with his laptop open, already working, because the man doesn't have an off switch.
I sit next to him and eat a breakfast sandwich and try not to watch him type.
He types fast. His fingers are precise on the keyboard, and his brow furrows when he's concentrating, and I think about those fingers doing other things, and then I shove the rest of the sandwich in my mouth.
"You have mustard on your face," Miles says without looking up.
"Thanks."
"Other side."
I wipe the other cheek. He glances over, and his eyes do a quick sweep of my face that lasts about half a second and makes my skin warm. "Got it," he confirms, and goes back to his screen.
We board in business class, which is nicer than anything I've ever flown, and I'm pretty sure Miles requested the upgrade because the idea of being in coach for six hours would physically pain him.
Our seats are together, with a shared armrest between us.
The space is comfortable by airplane standards, which means my shoulder is basically touching his at all times.
He settles in with his book—something thick and legal-looking that he definitely packed to avoid talking to me. I try to get comfortable, adjust my seatbelt, look out the window. The plane starts taxiing and Miles turns a page.
He smells different here. At the office there's always the air purifier and the coffee and the general smell of the building between us.
But here, sealed in together with nowhere for it to go, his scent is right there.
The suppressants are doing their job, mostly, but I'm getting more of him than I've ever gotten before, and I can't stop breathing it in.
My whole body is paying attention in a way that is going to be a problem if I don't get it under control.
I shift in my seat and try to think about literally anything other than how good my boss smells.
"Stop fidgeting," Miles says.
"I'm not fidgeting. I'm getting comfortable."
"You keep adjusting your seatbelt."
"It's a weird seatbelt."
He sighs and turns a page, and I catch the edge of a smile he doesn't want me to see.
Outside the office, without the fluorescent lights and the desk and the weight of the entire firm between us, he's different.
Softer isn't the right word—Miles is never soft.
But there's less armor. The edges are there but they're not pointed at me for once, and I keep wanting to lean closer, which is a bad idea for a lot of reasons.
I don't lean closer. I look out the window and watch the clouds and remind myself that I'm on a work trip with my boss and this is professional and I need to keep my shit together.
We fly in mostly-silence for about an hour.
Miles reads. I watch a movie on my phone with one earbud in.
It's almost peaceful, except for the part where I'm aware of every single time his arm moves on the armrest, and the part where he fell asleep for about ten minutes and his head drifted toward my shoulder before he snapped awake and straightened up without acknowledging it.
I acknowledged it. Internally. Extensively.
Then the flight attendant starts making his rounds with the drink cart. He's our age, maybe a little older, with dark hair and a friendly face, and he's good at his job—smiling, making small talk, remembering who asked for what. He gets to our row and leans down.
"Can I get you two anything?"
"Water," Miles says, not looking up from his book.
"I'll take a coffee," I say. "With creamer, if you've got it."
"Sure thing." The flight attendant—his name tag says Kyle—pours the coffee and sets it on my tray, and his fingers brush mine when he passes the cup.
"There you go." He holds eye contact a beat longer than necessary and smiles.
He's got a nice smile. Good jawline. The kind of easy, confident energy that I recognize because I have it too.
"Let me know if you need anything else."
"Will do. Thanks, man." I smile back, and Kyle moves on down the aisle.
Miles turns a page of his book. Then turns it back. Then turns it forward again.
I drink my coffee. A while later, Kyle comes back through, collecting cups. He stops at our row again.
"How's the coffee?" he asks, and he's looking at me, not Miles.
"It was great, actually. Better than what I make at home."
"That's a low bar. Airline coffee is nobody's best." He grins, then his eyes dip down to Miles's book. "You headed out to that fancy resort for a conference?"
"Yeah. My first time. You been?"
"I've done this route a bunch. The resort's gorgeous. Great bar, too, if you're looking for something to do after the panels." He says it casually, but the implication is there, and I'd have to be dead not to pick up on it.
Next to me, Miles has gone very still. His book is open in his lap but his eyes aren't moving across the page.
I know I should just say thanks and let Kyle move on. I know that. But there's a part of me that wants to see what happens if I push it.
"I'll keep that in mind," I say, and I let my voice drop into the register I use when I'm actually flirting. "I could definitely use a local's—"
Miles's grip lands on my wrist.
He doesn't squeeze. He just puts his fingers there, on the inside of my wrist where my pulse is hammering. I lose the rest of my sentence. I'm not even sure what I was saying. All I can feel is the press of Miles's fingertips against my skin, cool and deliberate.
"We have an early morning tomorrow," Miles says to Kyle. His voice is perfectly polite. His fingers don't move. "Could we get some water when you have a chance?"
It's nothing. It's a completely professional sentence from a completely professional man. But he's still holding my wrist, and Kyle looks down at that, and then looks at me, and something shifts in his expression.
"Sure thing," Kyle says, easy and unbothered. "I'll bring that right over." He gives me a quick, knowing smile—no hard feelings—and moves on down the aisle.
Miles pulls away like he's been burned.
I stare at the seat in front of me. My wrist feels hot where he touched me. My dick is half-hard. I'm not breathing right.
Miles picks up his book. Opens it to a random page. His face is completely neutral, but the flush is creeping up his neck, and the fingers that were just on my wrist are gripping the book with enough force to bend the cover.
"So," I say. My voice sounds weird to me. "That just happened."
"Nothing happened." His voice is flat. "I reminded the flight attendant that he has a job to do."
"Right. By grabbing me."
"I didn't grab you. Don't be dramatic."
"You put your hand on my wrist while I was talking to another guy. What do you call that?"
"Garcia." He turns and looks at me, and his eyes are ice. "Drop it."
I should drop it. I know I should. Miles is giving me the look that makes grown men apologize for existing. But I've never been good at leaving things alone, and I don't want to drop it. I want to pull on this thread until the whole thing unravels.
"You were jealous," I say.
"I was professional."
"Bullshit."
His jaw tightens. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me. That wasn't professional, that was jealous. You didn't want him talking to me and you shut it down."
"I shut it down because we're on a work trip and you were acting like you're at a bar on a Friday night." His voice drops, sharp and cold. "You flirt with everything that moves. It's embarrassing."
"Yeah, I do flirt with everyone. That's never bothered you before."
"It's always bothered me."
The words come out fast, like he didn't mean to say them. His mouth snaps shut. The flush on his neck darkens.
"It's always bothered you," I repeat, slowly.
"That's not what I—" He stops. Takes a breath. "Your behavior reflects on me and on the firm. That's all I meant."
"That's not what you meant."
"Garcia, I swear to god—"
"What? You'll fire me? Write me up? You grabbed my wrist because some guy smiled at me and now you're pretending it was about work?
" I'm keeping my voice low but my blood is up and I can feel my alpha instincts doing something stupid, something possessive and hot, because Miles is flushed and angry and the ice is cracking and I'm the one doing it.
"Just say it. Say you didn't want him flirting with me. "
"You are unbelievable." He's almost whispering now, his voice tight and furious. "You are the most unprofessional, reckless, infuriating—"
"Say it."
"—person I have ever had the misfortune of—"
"Miles."
"Don't call me that."
"Then stop lying to me and I'll call you whatever you want."
His eyes are burning. I've never seen him like this. His breathing is fast. Mine is faster. We're close, too close, our faces turned toward each other in the dim cabin. I can feel the heat coming off him.
The cabin lights dim. Around us, people are settling in, pulling blankets over their laps, adjusting eye masks. The plane gets darker and quieter and it's just us, the two of us, surrounded by sleeping strangers.
"This conversation is over," Miles says. But he doesn't turn away.
"Okay," I say. I don't turn away either.
We sit there. The anger is there but it's shifted into something else, something heavier, and my cock jerks again. His breathing hasn't slowed down, and neither of us is pretending to read or sleep or do anything except sit in this unbearable space between us.
I pull the thin airline blanket over my lap because I need to, and I see Miles's eyes track the movement. He looks at the blanket. He looks at my lap. He looks away, fast, but not fast enough.
"You're hard," he says, and his voice is barely a whisper, and I can't tell if it's an accusation or a question.
"Yeah," I say. "I am."
He closes his eyes. His fingers are white-knuckled on the armrests.
I put my hand under the blanket. Not on myself. On the armrest between us. My fingers are an inch from his, under the blanket where nobody can see.
"Tell me to stop," I say quietly.