Chapter 10
Ikeep my eyes closed, even though every inch of me knows she’s staring. Daggers. Curious, sharp, and sweet all at once.
I don’t say a word, waiting to see what my little kitten does first. There are at least sixty empty seats on this plane, yet here I am, dropping into the aisle seat of her chosen row. My chosen row.
“Gallagher.”
I crack one eye open. There she is, Catalina Arismendi, all crossed arms and raised brows, just about ready to give me a ticket for trespassing. We’re on a last-name basis now, I see. I let a slow grin tug at the corner of my mouth. “Kitten?”
Her blush is instant, blood rushing up her neck, flooding her cheeks. Christ.
My feckin’ blood has been rushing to a very different place all week every time I’ve seen her bent over her camera bag, laughing at some rookie’s stupid joke, flashing that smile that damn near kills me.
I’ve had to get myself off to thoughts of her more nights than I care to admit.
Thoughts of that smile—and that ass. God, that ass …
Christ above, Gallagher. Cop yourself on.
“Are you serious right now?” Her voice cuts through my thoughts, saving me from myself. “There are like … a million seats open.”
“Yes,” I state, leaning back, arms behind my head. “But this one is mine.”
She narrows her eyes. “And what exactly makes it yours?”
“For starters”—I gesture lazily toward the overhead numbers—“row twenty-three, my jersey number, my lucky number.”
She rolls her eyes so hard I half expect them to get stuck. Cute. So fucking cute I want to haul her over my knee and … Nope. No, Roger. Get a grip.
“That,” she says, pointing at the row across the aisle, “is also row twenty-three. Three empty seats, same number.”
“Ah,” I murmur, letting the corner of my mouth twitch upward. “Clever little kitten, but”—I tap the small letter on the side of my seat— “this is seat G … G for Gallagher, so … my seat.”
She huffs, leans back into her chair, and goes quiet.
I let a beat of silence stretch before I add, “If you’d like to move, I’m happy to get up. Maybe you’ll like seat A across the way better.”
No answer. Just the click of her headphones, her gaze flicking to the window like I don’t exist.
I smile, and cross my arms over my chest. She has no idea what she’s in for.
I lean my head back against the seat, eyes closed, pretending to sleep. I can feel her looking at me, her gaze burns hotter than the Florida sun, and my feckin’ blood rushes straight south because of it.
It’s torture, the good kind. The kind I’ve been denying myself for years.
I grip my biceps, folding my arms tight to keep from doing something stupid, like reaching over, tugging one of those loose strands of hair behind her ear, and finding out if her skin is as soft as it looks. Sweet Jaysus.
Feckin’ hell. You’re about to make a bloody fool of yourself on a team plane. Keep it together, Gallagher.
I haven’t let myself get this close to anyone in a long time. Not really. The last time I gave someone a piece of me, she proved she only wanted the parts that came with perks—a fancy house, a famous boyfriend, the lifestyle. Not me. Never me.
I’ve had enough disappointment to last a lifetime.
Family, friends, lovers. Every time I’ve trusted someone to stay, they’ve left or used me.
So I built a wall around myself that no one could climb, but somehow, this girl …
this girl with the messy ponytail and the soft hoodie and the sunshine smile …
she’s halfway over it without even trying.
It’s not just how incredibly painfully hot she is—though feck me, she is—it’s the way she is. Genuine, funny, unapologetically herself. I’ve been watching her all week from the corner of my eye, pretending not to notice while I noticed everything.
She loves what she does.
I’ve been on bigger teams than this one, with much bigger budgets, fancier marketing departments, entire PR teams dedicated to making players like me look like gods, yet I’ve never seen anyone so dedicated to actually showing the world who we are.
She doesn’t just take a picture, she tells a story with it.
She makes the lads want to give her something to work with, makes them laugh, makes it look real. Even I can see that.
I don’t do social media. Not really. I have the mandatory account because it’s expected. I post the pictures someone else took, a quick thanks to the fans, a generic game-day post. That’s it. I’ve got three hundred million people following me, and I’ve never given them anything real.
But this week …
This week, I logged in. I actually opened the app. Followed the Strikers’ official account for the first time since I signed the bloody contract, and then I went down the rabbit hole.
Hundreds of posts, videos, pictures. Not just of the team. Of me. Of moments I didn’t even know someone captured. She makes me look like the kind of man I almost wish I was, the one people want to believe in. She does that.
It’s me in the picture … but it’s her making it more.
I just can’t stop thinking about her.
What else is hiding behind that beautiful feckin’ smile? What other magic could she make without even trying?
The engines hum beneath us as the plane lifts off, the city shrinking below.
I feel the subtle shift from her seat as she gets more comfortable, pulling her laptop back up after the captain announces it’s okay to do so, and gets to work.
I keep my eyes closed, pretending I’m somewhere else.
Pretending I’m not seconds from leaning over, from breathing her in, from telling her she’s been living in my head rent-free since the day we met.
Christ, I want her.
The flight attendant comes down the aisle, her smile bright enough to light up the entire plane, but not the right type of bright, or the type I like anyway. She’s practically glowing as she stops at our row, leaning just a little too far into my space.
“Mr. Gallagher,” she says, voice sweet as syrup, “I just wanted to say I’m a huge fan. So excited to have you on board.”
I give her a polite nod, the kind that usually gets the message across. I’m not interested. But she lingers, letting her eyes travel over me in a way that makes my skin itch.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” she finally asks, still smiling as if she’s auditioning for a toothpaste commercial.
“Sparkling water.”
She scribbles something on her little notepad but doesn’t move. Just … stands there, staring. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Catalina waiting patiently, her hands folded over her laptop, trying not to sigh out loud. I don’t like that she’s being ignored.
I glance at her, then back at the flight attendant. “Kitten,” I say, making sure the word lands squarely in her ears, “what would you like to drink?”
Cat’s head snaps toward me. She rolls her eyes so hard I think she might actually sprain something. That finally jolts the flight attendant into motion.
“Oh! Of course. I’m sorry,” she says quickly, cheeks flushing. “What can I get you?”
“Could I please get some water? No ice,” Cat says. “I need to take my migraine medicine.”
“Of course,” the flight attendant—Ruby, her little pin says—replies, and finally bustles toward the back of the plane.
I turn in my seat to face Cat. “Catalina, are you okay? Do you have a migraine?”
She looks a little surprised I even asked. Maybe she’s surprised I called her by her first name. “I’m okay,” she says softly. “I’m just tired. The cabin pressure doesn’t help, and I think I might need a new prescription for my contacts.”
“You wear contacts?”
“Yes,” she says with a small shrug. “I should probably put my glasses on. Would you mind letting me grab my backpack from the overhead bin?”
“Stay put. I’ve got it.”
I unfasten my seatbelt, stand, and open the bin above us, then pull down her backpack. I set it gently in the empty middle seat. She thanks me in that soft voice of hers, and my chest tightens before I can stop it.
“You’re welcome, lass,” I murmur.
She pulls a smaller bag from inside the backpack, then zips the larger one closed.
I take it from her hands and slide it back into the overhead bin before settling into my seat and buckling in again.
That’s when she unzips the little bag, moving with careful precision.
Inside, there’s a sleek glasses case and a tiny container for her contacts, and she handles them delicately.
She is balancing a contact lens on her fingertip when Ruby returns.
“Your drinks!” she chirps, carrying a tray.
There’s a clear glass filled with sparkling water for me … and a flimsy paper cup with iced water for Cat.
I look at the tray, then at Ruby.
“What is this?” I ask.
She hesitates. “Your sparkling water, Mr. Gallagher?”
“No,” I say, my voice low, my accent sharper. “What is this?” I nod toward the paper cup.
“Uh … water for her.” She glances nervously at Cat.
I arch a brow. “Why is it in a paper cup?”
She blinks. “That’s just …”
“And why does she have ice when she asked for no ice?”
Ruby swallows. “I-I’ll fix that.”
“Do that,” I say, leaning back, calm but firm. “And if you’re going to treat the back of the plane like it’s first class, then do it for both of us.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Cat is frozen, her fingertip in the air with the contact lens perched on it like a delicate little bubble.
“Careful, lass,” I murmur, softer now. “Put that up, you don’t want to drop it.”
She blinks, flustered, and does as I say, and I can’t help the way the corner of my mouth tugs up.
I lean back, arms still crossed, pretending not to stare, but I’m not fooling anyone, least of all myself. The way she blinks a few times, hazel eyes wide as she carefully pinches the contact from her eye … Christ, I shouldn’t find that hot, but I do.
And then she slips on those glasses.
Feckin’ hell.
She’s like some sinful little schoolteacher, hair up in that ponytail, lips pressed in concentration as she props her laptop on the tray.
She’s typing away, completely lost in her own world, bottom lip caught between her teeth making a lad want to misbehave.
I could watch her like this for hours. The things I’d do to make her fall apart just for me …
Ruby reappears, her smile stretched just a little too bright, the kind that doesn’t quite reach her eyes this time.
I don’t bother looking at her as I pop the tray table down on the empty middle seat and set both glasses of water there.
Hers without ice, as requested, and mine sparkling.
“Bring some snacks too,” I say, my voice low.
She hesitates, nods quickly, and scurries off, color rising in her cheeks.
I catch Catalina glancing at the drinks, then at me, lips pressed together like she doesn’t know if she should thank me or ignore me. She takes a pill from her bag and tips her head back, swallowing it with one smooth motion.
I feel it all the way south.
My hand curls over the armrest, knuckles tight. Feckin’ hell, Gallagher. Get a grip.
The hum of the engines is the only sound between us, save for the soft taps of her keyboard. I let my head roll slightly to the side, just enough to watch her without getting caught.
She’s all focus now, fingers flying, lips pursed, eyes flicking across the screen behind those glasses.
Christ. I didn’t think she could get any sexier, but here I am, sitting in row twenty-three like a fool, imagining what it’d be like if she looked at me like that instead of her laptop. Sharp. Intent. Hungry.
I shift in my seat, trying to find a position that doesn’t make my … problem … more obvious.
She lifts both hands to the back of her head, undoing the elastic holding her ponytail. I watch, helpless, as her long dirty-blonde hair spills down over her shoulders, sliding like silk against her.
When she brushes it off one shoulder, I catch the tiniest whiff of her perfume—something warm, maybe vanilla—and I swear I almost groan out loud.
Get a grip. For the love of God, cop on before you do something you can’t take back.
It’s like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me … but she doesn’t. She can’t.
I don’t chase women. I don’t get flustered. I definitely don’t sit on planes fantasizing about the girl next to me.
Yet here we are.
And I know—I know—if she so much as glanced at me right now with that soft, curious look she gets sometimes, I’d be finished.
God, I’m in feckin’ trouble. Row twenty-three just became my personal hell, or maybe heaven. Christ, I can’t tell the difference anymore.