Chapter 4
Chapter four
Dane
Goddamn rain.
As triggers go, nothing makes me want to rip off my ears and relocate to the fucking desert.
As soon as I hear the slow, hypnotic beat, feel the moisture soak into my skin, I’m back there in hell.
On the side of a misty highway, rain pouring from the heavens as if it could extinguish the flames.
Heal their charred bodies. Wash the blood away.
By the time the police called me to the scene, it was already too late.
The second the car veered off the road, it was too late.
Maybe if it hadn’t been raining, they wouldn’t have skidded out of control.
Maybe if I hadn’t been working late, I would have been the one driving them home.
The word maybe keeps me awake at night. All I know is that there were a million variables that could have played out that day.
Instead, that was the card fate dealt us.
And as bitter pills go, I’m choking on it.
The sound of heels slapping on metal airplane steps has me instinctively turning for the door. A glance at my watch tells me she’s five minutes late. Sloane is never late.
“You’re late,” I clip as she barrels through the door, her dark hair, longer than I remember, dripping wet, flowing over her shoulders.
Her cheeks are flushed, a pink spot blooming on the tip of her button nose.
Blue eyes, bright and gleaming with barely suppressed annoyance.
The damp fabric of her sweater clings like a second skin, highlighting curves I have no business noticing.
Fuck.
I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.
Her jaw tightens, but she fashions her face into something resembling a polite smile, edging closer to a grimace.
“Sorry, Mr. Black, I was at the hospital,” she says in that robotic voice, like she’s reading lines from a script.
With a heavy thud, she places a mountain of plastic colored folders I didn’t notice she was holding on the nearest surface.
I raise a brow. “I said we’re going to London for two days, not moving there.”
I ignore the hospital mention. I make a habit of never speaking to employees about personal issues; it muddies the waters.
“I wanted to ensure I had all the information for this meeting. I know how exacting your standards are.” She flashes me a smile that’s just a little too sweet to be sincere.
So I didn’t imagine the smart mouth today.
She has no idea who she’s dealing with.
I grip the armrest tighter as she scoops up her dripping hair and scrapes it into a ponytail. Her damp sweater clings tighter when she shifts, droplets sliding down the line of her throat, disappearing under the fabric.
I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me.
Sure, before today I could see that Sloane was an attractive woman, but I never once harbored thoughts like this—no better than a hormonal teenager salivating at the merest outline of her full breasts.
As soon as London is over, I’m calling one of the many women that clutter my phone to fuck this itch right out of my system.
Failing that, I’ll transfer her to a different department.
Or I could take a darker path, a twisted voice whispers. Play with her a little, watch her pushback until I remind her who’s boss.
“Is there somewhere I can change out of these wet clothes?” she asks, her gaze flicking over the cabin, wide-eyed despite herself.
The jet is one of the most luxurious kinds. Cream leather stitched tighter than her smile, polished walnut, and lighting so soft it makes control feel optional. A sliding door at the back hides a bedroom and a shower. Excess she’s clearly never stepped into.
I point lazily. “Closet’s on the left, bedroom to the right. Use whichever you want.”
She lingers, fingertips brushing the back of a seat like it’s not real.
There’s awe in her eyes; she tries hard to smother.
It does something to me, watching her navigate this world like she’s trespassing.
I’ve seen women in this jet naked on silk sheets, begging for more.
None of them ever made me hard by looking at the damn furniture.
I drag a hand down my face, shifting in my seat as she heads for the bedroom. Only when she turns do I catch the backpack slung over her shoulder.
A backpack.
On a transatlantic business trip.
Does she think this is a camping expedition?
I’ve never seen Sloane outside the office. This is the first time I’ve asked her to travel with me. The first time I’ve let any assistant into this space.
Which circles me back to the same fucking question—why the hell did I bring her?
The cabin door opens, and today’s flight attendant arrives with a dinner menu and a freshly prepared whiskey.
“I made it exactly how you like it,” she purrs, suggesting she knows me as she sets it down on the table in front of me.
“Let me take your jacket, sir.”
She leans over me, ensuring her breasts are right up in my face, her perfume thick enough to choke out the oxygen.
Christ, could she be any less subtle? Although she does seem kind of familiar.
Blonde hair twisted in a loose bun, eyes wide with the kind of expectation that suggests she thinks I should remember her.
I can’t be sure, but we could share some long-forgotten transatlantic history.
Well, in my case, it is, although her dewy-eyed fascination suggests she clearly hasn’t.
“Would you like the safety demonstration now?” she says, her sultry tone suggesting safety is the last thing on her mind.
Her smile slips when her gaze lands on the handbag in the seat beside me. It slips further when Sloane saunters out of the bedroom, damp hair scraped into a ponytail, casual as anything.
“I hope you don’t mind I left my wet clothes in there?” Sloane says, oblivious to the assumption the flight attendant is making.
“Oh, sorry, sir—I didn’t realize you had company with you today.” The flight attendant stiffens and retreats so quickly it’s almost comical.
Sloane’s eyes follow her exit, narrowing as realization dawns. Horror creeps across her face, like being mistaken for my companion is her personal nightmare. Not exactly the reaction I’m used to.
“Unless you’re planning to roast marshmallows around a campfire, can you put that backpack away and sit down? We’re leaving.”
She glances at the backpack and then shoots me a side-eye before tossing it in the overhead and buckling in without a word.
As the plane lifts, she fixes her gaze on the window, watching New York shrink beneath us. Her foot bobs restlessly. I don’t need to be a mind reader to tell she’s nervous. Sloane is usually the picture of composure, but now she has this deer in the headlights look.
I try to lose myself in work, but I catch every flicker of her eyes when she thinks I’m too absorbed in my laptop to notice. Each glance pricks at me, stealing my focus. I’ve reread the same damn line in my proposal ten times before I snap, spinning to face her.
“Is there a problem, Sloane?”
“No, of course not.” A faint crease appears between her brows. “Is there anything you need from me, Mr. Black?”
There are plenty of things I want from you, none of them repeatable, but I shove the thought away before it shows on my face.
“I’ll let you know if there is,” I say, voice gruff.
She nods, still uncertain, like she doesn’t quite understand why she’s here.
The truth is, I’m starting to wonder the same because it’s becoming painfully clear I can’t think with her in my orbit.
I’ve never let a woman derail me at work. Not once.
I wrench my gaze back to the laptop, forcing myself into the Bexley numbers.
Leverage ratios, debt covenants, projected divestitures.
I should be deciding which assets to bleed first, which executives to cut loose in the opening round.
Instead, my focus splinters every time she shifts in her seat, crossing and uncrossing her legs, the faint slide of fabric over skin, fidgeting with that damn pen like she can’t decide whether to take notes or stab me with it.
So I do what I’ve always done when control threatens to slip—I bury myself in hard facts and figures, let the numbers numb me until the rest of the world fades.
Lost in the zone, I’m not sure how long passes before I gesture vaguely to her pile of folders. “Sloane, do you have the numbers on how close Bexley is to tripping its covenants?”
Silence. Nothing but the faint whirr of the engines.
My frown deepens, and I finally turn. She’s fast asleep, one hand still wrapped around her phone, the other curled possessively around that damn pen.
I force myself back to the screen, but the numbers bleed together. My gaze strays again, tracing the fall of her hair—long, dark, her ponytail fallen loose, spilling over her shoulder like I could wrap it around my fist while she chokes on my....
Damn. I need to get a grip right fucking now.
I should look away. I fucking try to. But I can’t.
Her lips are a deep red that shouldn’t be allowed on a work trip, the kind I could lose hours tasting. And those lashes—dark, impossibly long, flickering against her skin every time she blinks.
It’s then I notice the tension in her posture. The stiff line of her shoulders. She’s uncomfortable. With a muttered curse, I reach over and lower her seat back, more to stop myself staring than to comfort her.
Yeah, who am I kidding?
Her hand shoots out instinctively, catching mine. For one suspended second, I don’t move. Can’t. Her palm is small, warm, clinging to me like that’s where it is meant to be. And I don’t let go.
Not until sense prevails and I slide my hand out of hers.
I retreat to my seat, back to my laptop, trying to pretend I’m still capable of stringing numbers together. The rest of the flight blurs past in a haze, the skyline shifting, melting into new colors, new time zones.