Chapter 10 #2
He looks at me. Then at the bag. Then back at me.
“Must be a very big pair.”
“Careful, Mr. Sinclair,” I say as I walk toward the jet. “You’re starting to sound curious.”
His footsteps follow behind me.
“I’ve been curious for months, Ms. Cross.”
I nearly miss the first step onto the plane, which would have been a perfectly poetic way to die. Death by flirtation. Very on brand for me lately.
I catch myself on the railing and refuse to look back at him. “Careful, Mr. Sinclair. Curiosity can get a man in trouble.”
His voice is right behind me. “I know.”
Of course he says it like that. Low and calm, like he isn’t currently trying to burn my life down with three words and a sweater.
I step into the jet and immediately feel wildly out of my tax bracket.
The inside is cream leather, dark wood, soft lighting, and polished metal.
There are seats facing each other, a small sofa along one side, a table already set with bottled water, fruit, and pastries that look too perfect to be eaten by real people.
A smiling flight attendant takes my coat, and I clutch my laptop bag like it contains state secrets instead of presentation notes and one extremely questionable packing decision.
Mason steps in behind me and the cabin suddenly feels smaller which is impressive, because it’s bigger than my first apartment.
“First time on a private jet?” he asks.
I glance at him. “What gave me away? The dead-eyed panic or the fact that I’m trying not to touch anything?”
His mouth curves. “Both.”
“Wonderful.”
The flight attendant gestures to the seats. “You’re welcome to sit wherever you’re comfortable.”
Comfortable? That’s adorable.
I choose a seat facing forward because I like the illusion of control, then tuck my laptop bag under my feet and sit.
Mason takes the seat across from me, where I have no choice but to look at him.
Dark sweater. Jeans. Strong thighs. One ankle crossed over the other like he isn’t the reason every nerve in my body is currently sending emergency alerts.
The flight attendant offers us coffee. I say yes because I need something to do with my hands. Mason says no because apparently he has decided to make eye contact his beverage of choice.
Once we’re settled, the cabin door closes and the plane begins to move. My stomach moves with it.
Mason says, “You don’t like flying.”
“I’m fine with flying.”
“Your face disagrees.”
The plane picks up speed. My heart does the same.
I stare out the window as the runway blurs, trying to breathe normally while my body prepares for certain death.
Then the jet lifts. I don’t even notice Mason switching seats until my hand shoots out for the armrest only for him to grab it.
His fingers close around mine, and the panic in my chest does not disappear.
It changes.
Because now I’m not thinking about the plane. I’m thinking about his hand. The size of it. The strength. The way his thumb moves once across my knuckles, barely there, like comfort by accident. I should pull away. I don’t.
But neither does he.
For a few seconds, neither of us says anything. The city falls away beneath us, gray and glittering under the morning light, and I sit there holding Mason Sinclair’s hand like it is normal.
When the plane levels out, I should let go. I don’t do that either.
Mason’s gaze is on our joined hands. Then on me.
“Better?” he asks quietly.
“Yes,” I lie.
His thumb stills. I know he hears the lie.
Instead, he says, “Good.”
I pull my hand back before I start doing something embarrassing, like memorizing the shape of his palm.
“Thank you,” I say, looking out the window.
“You’re welcome.”
The flight attendant returns to check on us, and I have never been so happy to see another person in my life. She sets coffee in front of me, along with a little plate of pastries, then disappears behind the partition. I take a sip of coffee and immediately burn my tongue.
I set my coffee down and reach for my laptop. “We should go over the presentation.”
“We have eight hours.”
“Great. Plenty of time for me to overprepare.”
“You’re already overprepared.”
“Compliment number two. Are you feeling ill?”
“No.”
“Did someone hit you on the head?”
“No.”
“Is this the softer side of Mason Sinclair?”
His eyes hold mine.
“Maybe.”
My pulse trips. I hate when jokes walk into traffic and become something else.
I open my laptop too quickly. “Let’s start with the retailer demo.”
“Fine.”
For the next hour, we work and I try not to notice that he’s still next to me.
His shoulder is close enough to brush mine whenever either of us moves.
His scent keeps distracting me. Clean soap.
Warm skin. Something dark and expensive that probably costs more than my electric bill.
I try to focus on bullet points. My body focuses on Mason. Naturally.
“This slide should come earlier,” he says, reaching across me to tap the screen.
His forearm passes in front of me and the soft sleeve of his sweater brushes the side of my breast. The air between us thickens until I can feel every inch of him without a single real touch.
He withdraws slowly.
“Sorry,” he says. His voice is rougher than before.
I look at the screen like my life depends on it. “It’s fine.”
“It wasn’t intentional.”
“I know.”
“I would have asked first.”
My head snaps toward him. His eyes are on mine and my throat goes dry. Asked first. About brushing against me? Touching me? Moving closer? Ruining me?
“All this consent talk before breakfast,” I say, because panic makes me sarcastic. “Owen would be proud.”
His mouth curves, but his eyes stay serious. “Owen would throw me out of the plane.”
“Probably.”
“He’d be right.”
The words land between us.
I close the laptop halfway. “Maybe we should take a break.”
“Good idea.”
Neither of us moves.
Because apparently we are both excellent at ideas and terrible at execution.
A few minutes later, the flight attendant brings lunch.
Small plates. Salad. Fruit. Pasta that looks too fancy for a plane and not nearly comforting enough for the emotional damage happening at thirty thousand feet.
Mason eats like a normal person. I pick at my food and pretend I’m not replaying the way his hand felt around mine during takeoff.
After lunch, I try to sleep. Try being the key word.
The seat reclines almost flat, there’s a soft blanket, and the cabin lights dim enough that I should be able to drift off.
Instead, I stare at the ceiling and think about the man sitting a few feet away, typing quietly on his laptop like he hasn’t been driving me insane since seven this morning.
Eventually, the jet hits turbulence. Not terrible. Just enough to make my eyes snap open and my hand grab the armrest again. Mason’s laptop clicks shut.
“I’m fine,” I say before he can ask.
The plane bumps again, and my hand tightens on the armrest. Mason reaches over, palm up. An offer.
Our fingers slide together.
This time, neither of us pretends it’s accidental.
The turbulence continues for a few minutes. My pulse gradually stops trying to escape my body. Mason’s hand stays steady in mine, warm and solid and far more comforting than I want it to be.
I close my eyes, which is a mistake. Without sight, everything else sharpens. His breathing. His thumb against my skin. The faint shift of his body when the plane dips. The fact that our shoulders are touching.
“You’re good at that,” I say quietly.
“What?”
“Making people feel safe.”
His hand tightens slightly around mine. For a second, I think he won’t answer.
Then he says, “I’m not sure that’s true.”
“It is right now.”
When I open my eyes he’s looking at me. Really looking. His gaze drops to my mouth and my breath catches. My gaze drops to his mouth too. The distance between us is nothing. A breath. A bad decision. A heartbeat.
He leans in first. My entire body answers like it’s been waiting months for that inch. I tilt toward him. His hand slides from mine to my wrist, thumb pressing against the wild beat of my pulse. I want to ask him to kiss me. So badly.
Then the plane jolts enough to make us both freeze and to remind me that we are on a company jet, heading to a work event, and he has a wife whose name keeps cutting through every fantasy like broken glass. I pull back and Mason lets me. Immediately. Which makes it worse.
“I should try to sleep,” I say.
My voice is not normal.
Neither is his when he answers. “You should.”
He stands. I hate that I miss his warmth the second he moves away. He returns to his seat across the aisle, but he doesn’t open his laptop again. I recline my seat and pull the blanket up to my chest. Then, because I have no self-preservation, I look at him. He’s watching me.
The cabin is dim, his face half in shadow, but his eyes are clear.
Hot.
Haunted.
Hungry.
I swallow.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“For what?”
I don’t know how to answer that. For holding my hand. For not kissing me.
For almost kissing me.
For stopping.
So I say, “For the turbulence.”
His mouth curves faintly.
“You’re welcome.”
I turn onto my side, facing the window, and close my eyes. Sleep still doesn’t come.
But Mason stays quiet. And every few minutes, when the plane bumps or shifts, I feel his gaze on me like a touch. By the time I finally drift off, I’m thinking one awful, impossible thing. Amsterdam hasn’t even started yet and we already almost crossed the ocean’s worth of lines.