CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Sports played on the television in Angela’s living room. She sat on the edge of her bed. Alive. Terrified. She didn’t know what to do with John Patterson’s questions, but worse, she didn’t know what to do with Sawyer. Or with herself.
Angela had never felt more alert than in the ten seconds that Sawyer held her elbow. If this was what desire was… then Paul had been right. She’d been frigid— with him . She wasn’t cold or unfeeling or uninterested. But she was far, far out of her element and experience.
And she was embarrassed. Sawyer had touched her arm, and she could hardly catch her breath.
Her phone chimed. The noise was an instant antidote to the heady fluttering that left her unable to think straight.
Angela dug her phone free. The text notification from her mother hit as if a bucket of ice-cold water had been dumped over her head.
The messages grounded Angela in the present, reminding her of their family’s dysfunction. They repeated that the breakup with Paul was a mistake and that her mother worried for Angela’s mental well-being. The texts kept coming. Paul’s name and her mother’s disappointment continued message after message until Angela couldn’t handle it. She typed one word— ENOUGH —then muted the conversation and tossed the phone aside.
She should’ve been angry. The text-message diatribe confirmed why John Patterson had arrived in Abu Dhabi and grilled her. But the anger didn’t come. Angela was still floating, high as a kite because she wasn’t broken inside.
Angela quickly packed a bag appropriate for investigative work in North Carolina: shorts and casual shirts. A bathing suit and cover up, just in case they found time to hit the beach. No pencil skirts, starched blouses, or high heels for this trip. Her toiletry bag was on the light side. Everything fit neatly inside a small duffel bag. It wasn’t the go-bag that Sawyer would have, but she was ready to leave town for an unknown length of time.
“All right,” she called, slinging the bag over her shoulder. “I’m ready.”
He appeared at her bedroom door. “Is that what you’re wearing?”
Apparently not. She kicked off her heels, shooed him out the door, and changed into something more like she packed. But not before making a mental note that Sawyer did not seem fazed by their conversation and hadn’t noticed how she reacted when he’d touched her arm. Thank the Lord for that miracle. There was no need to make her first field job more complicated.
Besides, he didn’t have long-term relationships. She was just out of one. He wouldn’t be interested in her anyway. They were friends, and she wouldn’t screw that up.
“All right, a second time.” Angela waltzed out in flats, jeans, and a black cotton shirt with three-quarter-length sleeves and a boat-neck collar. Chic and comfortable. “Do I look okay?”
“You always look good.” He pulled the bag from her shoulder. “But now you look more comfortable.”
Her stomach flipped. The light and airy feeling had to stop. She didn’t have time to understand and manage it. The sensation might’ve shocked her, but, as with every other uncomfortable feeling, she could control it. Angela refocused on what Sawyer had said. She was comfortable, which was the only thing needed for a fifteen-hour flight.
Just as Sawyer said, the arrangements had been made. An SUV waited to take them to the airport, where a private jet waited on the tarmac. Their luggage was taken as they were shown into the cabin. Blankets, snacks, and drinks were offered as they chose an L-shaped couch, and before Angela could open her book, the captain was taxiing down the runway.
Hours later, Angela awoke to dim lights and white noise. She wasn’t sure what time it might be, but it was dark outside the windows. She had stretched onto the long part of the couch. On the shorter chair section attached to the couch, Sawyer had fallen asleep next to her. His arm rested by his side, his hand close to her face. His legs draped across a footrest as he reclined. His blanket dangled off his lap. Angela reached over to right it.
“Thanks.” His eyes remained shut. He didn’t move.
She pulled her hand back quickly. “I didn’t realize you were awake.”
Sawyer repositioned himself onto his side, looking down at her. “On and off. After dinner, you were out like a light.”
She laughed quietly. “Are you comfortable?” There were other couch configurations. He didn’t have to sleep in a reclining chair.
He brushed strands of her hair off her face. “I’m good.” His fingers lingered, skimming over her cheek as her pulse thundered. His eyes weren’t on hers but where he touched until he pulled away. Then they locked onto hers.
The intensity stole her breath. She didn’t know what to say, and even if she did, Angela couldn’t speak above a whisper for fear of shattering the warm, all-encompassing hold between them.
A flight attendant walked through the cabin and asked if they needed anything. They didn’t, but the warm moment disappeared. Sawyer took a long drink from a water bottle. Angela turned onto her back and stared at the curvature of the aircraft’s sloping ceiling. Why didn’t Sawyer do relationships? Why did she want to know? More importantly, how could she have gone her entire life without someone touching her arm or cheek like he had? Familiar and gentle?
Fewer than forty-eight hours ago, Angela had cried tears after a man had called her frigid. As it turned out, she was simply a woman who hadn’t been in the right situation yet.
Sawyer wasn’t a situation, though. He was a friend. But knowing that didn’t keep her mind from replaying how his touch rocked her body.
He didn’t do relationships. Romantic relationships were complicated. Her next one needed to have no agenda. No strings. Casual flings at work were a horrible idea. She closed her eyes and tried to ignore Sawyer. It wasn’t working.
In the future, when she was ready, an agenda-free relationship would be nice. One that made her lungs stop working as Sawyer had earlier. How would she find someone like that?
“You have a lot on your mind,” he said. “Don’t you?”
Startled, she felt a blush crawl up her cheeks. “More than I know what to do with.”
“Want to talk to me about it?” he asked.
Ha. Absolutely not.
“Wimp,” he teased.
Angela curled into her blanket. “Why don’t you have someone?”
His gaze narrowed as if that wasn’t where he thought the conversation would go. “Like a girlfriend?”
“Yeah. You said you don’t do relationships. It seems like such a final statement. I’ve seen you date beautiful women. No one sticks. Why?”
He stared at the ceiling as though a good answer might have been hidden in the panels that concealed the oxygen masks. “Never enough time. Not enough interest. You know how it goes.”
“No, I don’t.”
His intense gaze dropped to her. “I don’t think that’s what you were thinking.”
“Don’t change the subject from you to me. I’m curious.”
“You’re much more interesting.”
“Did you have a bad breakup?”
“Are you thinking about Paul?”
“He’s the furthest thing from my mind.” Her nose scrunched. “I wonder if he had his political plan from day one. Like back in college. I mean, why did he want to date me? To rule DC one day?”
“I doubt it was that diabolical.” Her question appeared to catch Sawyer off guard. “It’s because you’re hot.”
Fire swept across her cheeks again. “Come on! I’m serious.”
“So was I. You’re beautiful.” Sawyer counted off with a finger, adding, “Kind, funny, smart, resilient.” He lifted his other hand. “Interesting, trustworthy, a good listener with sky-high integrity—and”—he winked—“you’re hot, sweetheart.”
“All right, Sawyer. Enough.”
“You asked. I answered.” He shrugged. “If that idiot never mentioned your finer points—”
She scoffed. “People don’t walk around listing their significant other’s attributes.”
His eyes locked with hers for a long moment. “Maybe they should.”
White noise hummed around them.
“I don’t want to talk about him anymore,” she said.
He nodded.
“Promise? Because he keeps coming up. I’ve thought and talked about him more in the last couple of days than I have in years. We can pretend he never existed. That no one exists outside this plane.”
Sawyer pulled in a chest-expanding breath and let it out slowly. He kicked off the blanket and stood up.
Again, her stomach dropped. She’d said the wrong thing. “What are you doing?”
He held out his hand.
“Sawyer?”
“Give me your hand.”
She did. Her blanket fell as he pulled her up. His hand hooked around her waist, pulling her stomach to his, lingering. Gone was her control. Gone was any barrier that would hide her racing heartbeat.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
He tugged his bottom lip into his mouth as though considering a thousand possible answers. The corners of his mouth teased her. The seriousness in his eyes promised more than she could handle. Somewhere in between, his warm, hard body tangled against hers, and there was nothing but vulnerable truth. “Pretending that no one else exists.”
He reached to the floor, grabbed her fallen blanket, and then lay on the couch where she had slept. Sawyer pulled Angela down and folded her against his side, spooning her body. Her head rested on his bicep as though it were her pillow. Sawyer laid the blanket over them, as calm and cool as possible. His rock-hard body enveloped her as his arm draped over her hip possessively. Breathless, she tried to make sense of his actions.
“Good night, Ange.”
The easy lull of his breath slowly melted away her surprise. She puddled against him, confident she’d never fall asleep while jumping through the mental calculus needed to understand what was happening. One thing was sure. She wanted to be kissed.
He slept. She imagined. He held her close. She dreamed. What if his confidence and her lack of experience were balanced? What if their friendship was good enough that she could tell him what she wondered, what she needed?
What if…
What if…
“What if” was enough of a lullaby that she let herself fall asleep and dream of possibilities.