Chapter 4 #2
By the time the lights of London burn beneath us, I’ve hardly slept a wink. It’s impossible with her lying there, lips slightly parted, her skirt bunched a little too high, looking like every wet dream I’ve ever had.
Sleeping Beauty clearly doesn’t have the same problem. I almost envy her. Since the accident, sleep has become a rare commodity. Sleep leaves room for silence, and silence is when the demons crawl in. The demons I keep at bay with work and women.
I glance out the window as the plane slows and jerks to a stop. A black limousine already waits on the tarmac, gleaming under gray skies. I shrug into my jacket, but when I look back, she’s still out cold.
“Sloane.” My voice comes out rougher than intended.
Nothing.
I crouch and brush her arm with my hand. “Sloane.”
This time, her lashes flutter. She blinks against the sunlight streaming through the window, hand rising to shield her face.
“Did you say Sloane?” Her voice is groggy, disoriented. “Is Sloane okay? Where is she?”
Her eyes finally lock on mine. For a blissful heartbeat, her mouth curves into a slow, lazy smile—and Christ, it hits me right in the goddamn balls.
It takes a second for her brain to catch up, but as soon as it does, the smile evaporates.
Panic sparks across her features. She jolts upright, tugging her skirt down, smoothing her hair back with quick, frantic fingers.
“Shit, shit, fuck...”
I stand, plucking her backpack from the overhead and holding it out, one brow lifting. “I’ve had better morning greetings, but full marks for originality. By the way, do you always refer to yourself in the third person, or is that a pre-coffee ritual?”
She breaks into nervous laughter, her eyes darting everywhere but at me. I’ve made a career out of detecting bullshit. So why can’t I shake the feeling she’s hiding something?
“Oh God, did I sleep the entire flight?” She presses her fists into her eyes like she can erase the evidence.
“Like a baby.”
“How about you?”
“How about me, what?” I frown.
“Did you get some rest?” She gnaws down on her bottom lip as if she overstepped the mark just by asking a simple question. The truth is, I’m not used to people asking me those kinds of things. It’s usually about what people need from me.
“I don’t need rest.”
“Everyone needs rest.”
“I’ll rest when I die.”
“Well, that will happen a lot quicker if you take that attitude.” She scoops up the pile of colored folders, holding them to her chest like she’s preparing herself for battle.
“So, as well as a traveling filing cabinet, you’re also a lifestyle guru.”
She rolls her eyes in good humor, flashing that lethal smile that tugs at something I’m unwilling to unpack.
“It’s just basic biology.” She shrugs.
With her free hand, she pulls her hair loose, smoothing it down with her palm. Something about the action is oddly fascinating, but I pull my head back into the game.
I slip back into business mode, my tone clipped and steady. “Come on. Car’s waiting. We’ve got an hour to clean up before Bexley.”
The air is chillier than expected as we exit the plane to gray skies, the sun a faint shimmer behind the blanket of clouds.
A border officer meets us at the bottom of the stairs. I hand over my passport and step aside, glancing towards the car. Sloane hesitates beside me, fingers hovering at the opening of her bag.
“Don’t tell me you forgot it?” I say.
“Of course not.” She lets out a quick, breathy laugh, then pulls it out and hands it over. That deer-in-the-headlights expression flickers back—something I rarely see from Sloane.
The officer checks the documents and waves us through, and she’s already moving for the car like she can’t get there fast enough.
I don’t have time to dwell on it. The second I have a phone signal, it rings. I answer without slowing, already shifting gears. By the time we reach the car, I’m knee-deep in negotiations, barking orders that echo off the glass.
Sloane slides in beside me, silent, clutching her backpack to her chest. I keep talking—about numbers, deadlines, markets — for most of the ride, but out of the corner of my eye, I see her press her forehead to the window.
The city is unfolding before her: the gray sprawl of London streets, the sweep of bridges, the centuries-old stone standing proudly against glass towers.
Her eyes widen with awe as she drinks it all in.
It’s obvious this is her first time. Obvious and disarming.
For a dangerous beat, I let myself imagine her like this in Paris. In Rome. In Tokyo. Wonder lighting up her face, turning the hardest cities soft just by looking at them. The thought lodges sharply in my chest.
I shut it down instantly.
I don’t look at her again until the car rolls to a stop in front of the Mayfair Hotel, its marble entrance shimmering under light drizzle.
I mute the call long enough to turn to her. “Take one hour, then go ahead to Bexley,” I tell her. “I need to jump on a conference call with New York. The driver will take you—make sure the meeting room’s ready. I’ll follow on after.”
She blinks, clutching her bag tighter, but nods. The driver opens the door, and she hops out, her dark ponytail bouncing as she disappears into the hotel.
I watch her go, jaw tight, every instinct screaming I should have left her behind. Not because she’s unqualified.
But because I don’t know if I can stay the hell away.