Chapter 12
Recent transactions:
I’m still reeling from our win as we board the plane back from Rome to London City Airport. Much to Spencer’s preferences,
the only flights we could find on the way back to London were British Airways. The plane is small but somehow finds enough
room to have a business class section, to which Spencer attempts an upgrade for himself.
“I am the CEO of a TechRumble second-round company,” he says with a proud smile to the tired flight attendant.
“Oh my god, stop—” I pull him by his collar and drag him toward our economy seats. “You’re so embarrassing.”
“What? You don’t ask, you don’t get! The plane isn’t even fully booked!
” he protests, pointing to the two remaining unoccupied business-class seats as I shove him down the aisle toward economy.
I glance over my shoulder, shooting an apologetic look at the line of disgruntled passengers waiting behind us.
The flight attendants tuck carry-on bags into the overhead lockers as the low hum of the airplane provides a meditative background
noise. My chest deflates as I relax into my cramped seat; at least after the chaos of the past three days, I can use this
time to go over the plan for Paris.
“Welcome, folks, to the British Airways flight 796 from Rome to London City Airport. I’ll be your captain, John, and we have
Patricia and Jasper on board as your flight attendants for this relatively short flight from Rome. There may be a small amount
of turbulence due to some heavy cloud coverage, so please make sure to keep your seat belts fastened whenever you are in your
seats. For our passengers in business class, we have a selection of . . .”
Movement among the air stewards catches my attention, and all the noise in the cabin goes quiet as Dominic Odericco steps
onto the plane. He doesn’t make eye contact with anyone while gliding through the cabin. He is swiftly followed by his assistant,
a tall, handsome, tousled brunette whom I last saw almost naked last night.
Eyes wide, I slump down in my seat, praying to the aeronautical gods that they aren’t seated anywhere near us. Watching them
through the gap between blue patterned chairs in front, I quickly realize that, of course, they are seated up front in business
class.
“Why is your face so red?” I hear Spencer’s voice permeate the radio silence in my brain.
I turn to face my brother. “It’s not.”
“You’re beet red,” he says so loud a woman across the aisle looks over to inspect me too, turning my face even hotter.
Spencer finally spots the source of my discomfort. “Oh, look, it’s Dominic. We should go say hi.” He stands up, trying to squeeze past me.
I pull him back down into his seat with a thud. “If you make us known to them, I will throw you out of this plane at peak
altitude.”
“Them?” He looks at me with a sly smile. “Oh.” The occasional twin telepathy thing kicks in when I need it least. “What did
you do?”
“I didn’t do anything.” I crack open my complimentary bottle of water to try and bring my internal mortification-ometer down. “Okay, fine, I may
have ended up in that guy’s room last night.” I take a nonchalant sip.
Spencer gives me the look, the same look Dad gave both of us after we’d smoked cigarettes for the first time at a party and
came home stinking of it.
“Are you serious?” He smacks me with a rolled-up sky magazine. “Who?”
I subtly point at Oliver, who is setting up his laptop for the flight. “That guy.” Oliver turns to talk to Dominic, accentuating
his dark tousled hair and soft lips. The butterflies in my stomach take flight as I remember that mouth on me.
“Ohhhhh, the hot assistant? Nice,” he says loudly, causing several more people to turn around in their seats. “When did you
have time to shag him?”
I widen my eyes at Spencer, creeping farther down in my seat and smiling politely at the elderly woman opposite me. “Screaming
baboons have more tact than you. We didn’t actually have sex, but it doesn’t matter because it’s never happening again.”
Spencer arches a brow. “Why? Was it bad?”
I swallow the dryness in my throat from either a light hangover or pure humiliation. “It definitely wasn’t bad . . .” My thoughts
briefly drift back to my hands gripping his hair in the shower, and my legs turn to jelly. “But it can’t happen again because
I’m a professional, and even just a casual situation would be way too complicated to take on right now.” I throw my hands
out and away from each other to emphasize my point.
He shifts in his seat to face me. “Yeah, but if he fancies you, and you fancy him, how is that complicated?”
“He’s Dominic’s assistant. He’s a conflict of interest.”
“Forbidden fruit, some might say.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me as he slides on his headphones. “Hard to resist a ripe, juicy
plum.” He pops his lips on the p.
“Ew.” I roll my eyes and put my headphones on too, clicking play on the most recent Dr. Bernie podcast episode.
We sit in silence for half an hour as the plane takes off, the seat belt signs go dark, and the stewards have brought a glass
of orange juice and a snack to all the passengers. Eventually, Spencer starts poking me in the arm.
He blinks at me, eyes wide in hope. “Can I have your pretzels?”
“No.” The packet crinkles as I pick them up and move them away from his grabby hands.
He tilts his head and blinks. “But I always have your pretzels?”
I scrunch my face, mouth taut in a line. “What do you mean you always have my pretzels?”
“When we went on holiday!” he says, his mouth agape as though how could I not remember.
“This is not ‘on holiday,’ and the only reason you got them is because you used to cry and cry and cry until Mum made me give them to you to shut you up.”
“So would that technique work now?” he teases, one side of his mouth lifting.
“Sorry, I don’t negotiate with terrorists.” I hold them close to my chest.
I spend the next hour of the flight working on everything I need for my meeting later today. I need to freshen up before we
land as I’m heading straight into a developer meeting with Pacha’s freelance team ahead of the beta launch.
Spencer is fast asleep, his head resting against the closed window. I don’t see him in this relaxed state very often anymore;
he looks so much younger. Despite me only being four minutes older than him, it feels like we have years between us. Not in
an “I’m so much more mature” kind of way, but I have aged faster. He has the privilege of acting his age and being treated
as such. I lock my seat upright, place the bag of pretzels and my orange juice on his tray, and get up to go to the bathroom
at the back of the plane.
There are some rows of empty seats at the back of the plane that I wish I’d seen earlier, instead of having Spencer take up
the entirety of the armrest between us. I rub my neck and shoulders in the aisle and wait for a bathroom to become vacant,
sighing as I roll my muscles from side to side.
“Need some help with that?”
My pulse races at the deep tone. For a second, I think I’m imagining his voice. Flashes of his hands gripping my bare waist,
pushing me up against the wall and dipping his fingers between my thighs. “I’ve been told I’m very good with my hands.”
I turn around slowly, my gaze traveling up a pair of black sweatpants and a navy-blue hoodie with Odericco Investments written across the chest until I hit a pair of amused hazel eyes. The moment our gazes lock, it feels like someone turned
off the gravity in the plane. I don’t know if that is a thing, but we could be in space for all I care as his smirk turns
into a knowing smile.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, clearing my throat to get rid of the shock.
He slides a hand out of his pocket and leans his forearm against the side of the empty back row of seats for stability. “Oh,
I’m just here because I heard this place has really good food. What do you think I’m doing here? I’m going home.”
I roll my eyes. “No, this side of the plane. You’re sitting in business.” I gesture with my free hand down the aisle toward the front of the plane. I glance
and catch sight of the side of Dominic Odericco’s face talking to the flight attendant, my stomach dropping. What if Dominic
sees us talking and gets suspicious? Do we look like two people who showered together last night?
Oliver doesn’t follow my line of sight, his eyes staying trained on me. “Have you been spying on me? Why didn’t you come to
say hello?” He pouts his bottom lip out playfully.
“You know why.” I cross my arms, feeling the heat creeping up my neck ready to color my cheeks crimson. The bathroom door
makes a click as an older lady steps out, smiling at both of us.
“Ma’am,” Oliver says, tipping his chin ever so slightly to the woman, the Southern twang made evident in his accent. For a
second it sounds like he should be wearing a cowboy hat and a lasso over his broad shoulders.
Fuck, I am into cowboys now? Let’s put a pin in that to overanalyze later.
I give the lady a polite smile, as I pull the bathroom door back open to head inside.
As soon as she’s gone, I whip my head back around to him. “I don’t want to be seen with you; it’s too risky.”
His eyes flick to me. “You’re seriously overthinking this”—then they flash with a moment of hesitation—“unless you didn’t
have a good time last night?”
Studying Oliver’s sloping jaw, the need to reassure him bubbles up in my chest, but I swallow it down like a mouthful of thumbtacks
and say in the most neutral tone I can muster, “No, I had a great time it’s just—” I take a long breath. “It was nice to meet
you.” I hope he will walk away, because I’m not sure if I can.
His rosy lips curve upward into a devilish grin. “I saw that Wyst is coming to Paris, congrats.”
“Thanks,” I say monotonically as I step into the bathroom, glancing back at him one last time.
He shifts, his head tilting to keep eye contact. “And will you be coming?”