thirty-six #2
The man was impossible. Infuriating. And my chest ached with something dangerously close to hope.
I leaned back in my chair, trying to look skeptical when I already knew I'd say yes. "A beach vacation."
"Mmhm."
"With you."
His brows furrowed faintly, like the phrasing confused him. "Yes, with me."
"And not a staff retreat disguised as a vacation?"
He laughed under his breath, shaking his head. "Not unless you're planning to write me a policy brief on the beach."
The image of Brooks sitting under a cabana with a margarita and a stack of papers flashed in my head, absurd and sweet at the same time. I pressed my lips together to keep from grinning.
"A few swimsuits, huh?" I asked.
"Just a few." He let his gaze drag over me, deliberate enough that heat rose to my cheeks. "You'll need options."
"Options," I echoed. My phone buzzed against the counter, but I didn't look at it. "And what if I say no?"
"Then I'll find another way to make it up to you." His voice dipped lower, quieter. "But you won't say no."
"Confident."
"Certain."
His thumb traced slow circles against the back of the chair, and I could feel it even though it wasn't touching me.
I dropped my gaze to my plate, then back to him. "Fine."
"Fine?"
"I'll pack the bag."
The smile that broke across his face was quick, sharp, and gone too fast—but I saw it. Really saw it. His shoulders dropped a little, like he'd just set something heavy down.
"Good," he said. "Monte will be here soon."
He leaned down and kissed the top of my head—brief, too brief—and then straightened, already heading back toward the office with that new looseness in his stride.
A minute later I slipped into the bedroom and started tossing things into a carry-on—half practical, half impulse.
When I came back out, Brooks was already rolling his suitcase toward the door, jacket draped over one arm. He paused when he saw me wrestling with the zipper on mine, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth before he leaned in to kiss me again.
This one was quick too—just a brush at the corner of my lips, enough to make my pulse skip.
"I'll grab this," he murmured, taking the bag from my hand before I could argue.
I barely had time to smooth my hair before his phone buzzed. He glanced down, then up at me. "Monte's here."
The car ride passed in a blur. Monte had the trunk open before I even reached the curb, moving with that quiet efficiency that made him more like a shadow than a driver.
Brooks's hand lingered at the small of my back as he guided me inside, close enough that I could feel the warmth through the fabric of my dress.
The city slid past in streaks of glass and steel.
My stomach knotted tighter the closer we got to the airport, the reality of it setting in.
I thought we'd be weaving through terminals and TSA lines, the chaos I grew up knowing on every family trip.
But when Monte turned toward a separate entrance, my chest actually tightened.
The building didn't look like an airport at all—sleek and quiet, with a private drive that swallowed us whole.
Brooks caught my expression and his grin widened, boyish in a way I hardly ever saw.
"You've never flown private, have you?"
I shook my head slowly, still staring. "Do I look that obvious?"
"A little," he teased, his voice low. "Don't worry. You'll like it."
Inside, it was nothing like the airports I knew. No lines, no crowds, no overhead announcements barking about delayed flights. Just polished floors, hushed voices, and an attendant who greeted Brooks by name like they'd been expecting him all morning.
And then there it was on the tarmac—a gleaming white jet, the stairs already lowered, the engines humming like something alive.
I stopped walking for half a second, the weight of it catching me off guard.
Brooks glanced over his shoulder, caught my expression again, and came back to take my hand. His fingers laced through mine, warm and steady.
"Come on," he said softly. "It's just us now."
The stairs looked impossibly narrow, the kind of thing I felt sure I'd trip on in front of him. But Brooks stayed just behind me, his hand brushing the small of my back as if he'd catch me before I even had the chance.
Inside, the air was cooler, scented faintly with leather and something floral I couldn't name. It didn't look like a plane at all—more like a living room in the sky. Plush cream seats arranged in twos, a long sofa along one wall, tables already set with polished glasses and folded napkins.
I froze just inside the doorway, my mouth parting before I could stop it.
"Brooks," I whispered. "This is... insane."
I didn't know what to do with myself at first. Sit? Explore? Pretend like this wasn't overwhelming? In the end, I sank into one of the wide seats, the leather sighing under me, and smoothed my palms over my thighs like that would keep me grounded.
The attendant appeared, graceful as ever, offering champagne. I hesitated, but Brooks took two flutes and passed one to me before raising his own.
The bubbles kissed my tongue, sharp and sweet, while the engines thrummed louder. I felt the wheels shift under us, the smooth roll forward, the tilt of acceleration that had always made my stomach lurch on commercial flights.
Only this time, it was different. No cramped seats, no strangers brushing my elbows. Just the steady hum, Brooks sitting close enough that his knee brushed mine, his hand covering the armrest between us.
When the jet finally lifted, it didn't feel like leaving the ground so much as being carried. The skyline dipped away, the ocean spreading out like glass, and for a second, I forgot to be nervous.
Brooks leaned back, eyes fixed on me instead of the view. "Not so bad, is it?"
I shook my head, my pulse still fast from more than just the takeoff. "Not bad at all."
His smile was quiet, almost private. He reached over, threading his fingers through mine, and for the first time in weeks, I felt the distance between us shrink.
The hum of the engines settled into a steady rhythm, soft enough that I could almost forget we were suspended thousands of feet above the ocean. The champagne fizzed in my hand, the flute cool against my fingers, and Brooks hadn't let go of my other hand since takeoff.
It was subtle—just the curve of his thumb stroking over my knuckles, absent but steady, like he wasn't even thinking about it. Except I knew he was. He always thought about everything.
We talked in pockets, little bursts of conversation that gave way to quiet. Him pointing out the coastline below, me laughing about how tiny the cars looked. Then silence again, the kind that wasn't uncomfortable but heavy, charged.
At one point, I shifted in my seat and my knee brushed his. He didn't move away. Instead, his fingers slipped from mine and curved warm over my thigh, just above the knee. Not high. Not dangerous. Just there.
I turned my face toward him, ready with some small comment, but he was already watching me.
The kiss started soft—just his mouth catching mine for a second too long. Then another, slower this time, until my champagne glass tilted dangerously in my hand. I set it down on the table, his hand sliding higher up my leg as he leaned closer.
His tongue teased against mine, gentle, exploratory, and I melted so fast it scared me. Weeks had gone by since that night, since the silence that hung between us afterward. He hadn't tried. I hadn't either. The memory of it still sat between us, quiet and sharp.
But right now, with his hand on my thigh and his mouth on mine, I wanted him to. God, I wanted him to.
When the kiss finally broke, I stayed there with my eyes closed, catching my breath. His forehead rested against mine, his hand still warm and steady where it sat.
"Amira," he murmured, low and rough, like he was fighting with himself.
I didn't answer. Didn't want to spook it away.
Instead, I leaned back into him, kissing him again—slower, deeper this time. His fingers flexed against my thigh, inching higher, and I thought maybe he'd finally close the distance. Maybe he'd stop overthinking, stop pulling back.
But then he stilled. His lips softened against mine, then pulled back, leaving me chasing the heat for a second before I realized he'd gone still on purpose.
I opened my eyes. His jaw was tight, his gaze dropped to my mouth like he hadn't made the decision yet.
I swallowed, tasting the champagne still lingering on my tongue. "You stopped."
He brushed his thumb against my leg, something unreadable flickering through his expression. "Trying not to rush us."
Rush us. As if we hadn't already burned through weeks of wanting and not touching. As if this wasn't already rushing straight to my bones.
I turned toward the window, forcing my pulse to slow, the city lights long gone behind us, only ocean and sky stretching out forever.
But his hand stayed there. Steady. Possessive. Like he wasn't letting me go either.
When I finally turned to look at him again, his expression was unreadable—somewhere between restraint and hunger.
"Don't look at me like that," I whispered, though I didn't know if I meant it.
His mouth tilted, not quite a smile. "Like what?"
"Like you're thinking about something you won't say."
He leaned in, so close his breath skimmed my cheek. "I've been saying it. Just not out loud."
The kiss that followed wasn't soft. It was deep, drawn-out, the kind that made my chest ache. His hand slid higher, dragging heat with it, but stopped again—high enough to make my pulse stutter, not high enough to give me what I wanted.
I exhaled against his mouth, frustration curling low in my belly. It had been weeks since he'd touched me like this, and I hated how much I wanted it, how much I wanted him.
My hand rose without thinking, fingers fisting in the front of his shirt. "Brooks..."