Chapter 17
Cade: What time are you and lover boy getting into town?
Cade: Or what, you’ll hit me with your tiny ineffectual fists?
Chloe: I mean it, Cade.
Cade: I’m your brother, it’s my job to give your new boyfriend hell.
Chloe: *Fiancé
Cade: Yeah, about that... Do you even know this guy well enough to agree to marry him???
CHLOE
“Just ignore half of what my family says. We show our affection by trying to embarrass one another.” I nibble on my thumbnail as we begin our descent.
I’ve spent the last hour and a half fretting over every eventuality of this trip.
I love my family dearly, but they are one big, chaotic, messy bunch who have no filter.
A recipe for disaster, I’m now realizing.
“Chloe, relax. I can handle your family.” Zeke rolls his eyes as he drains the last of the amber liquid in his crystal glass opposite me.
We’re flying private—shocker. And most people would probably sell their soul to experience this type of luxury travel, but the beige on beige on fucking beige interior has done nothing but amp up my anxiety, mile by mile.
“Mmhmm,” I reply noncommittally. “Oh, and my brother will probably give you shit, but he’s just protective. He’s a big softie, really.” My eyes bounce between the clouds and the sea of green and grey landscape coming into view below.
“Good. He should give me shit,” Zeke says easily and I glance over to see him watching me intently. So intently my skin prickles.
“Why?”
“Because I’m very publicly not the marital type, and my intentions are far from honorable.
” Something dark flashes across his gaze, and I shift a little in my seat as my stomach muscles lock.
He chuckles, one corner of his lips tipping up knowingly.
“Because the engagement is fake, Chloe. Get your mind out of the gutter.”
I huff and tear my eyes away from his. The curtain that separates us from the crew opens, and as if summoned by the soft clink of Zeke’s empty glass on the table, a young, pretty stewardess appears with a refill.
My teeth grind together as I watch her smile widely at him, leaning over to switch out his drinks.
“Do you need anything else, Mr. Guerra?” she asks breathily, pausing with her fingers on his glass.
My eyes flit back to his, and I try very hard to keep my face blank.
I don’t want to examine why this pisses me off so thoroughly, but I want to tell her to screw off and then screw off some more when she gets there.
Zeke’s decadent mouth splits slowly into a dazzling grin and he glances at the attendant.
“No thanks baby, I’m good.”
I scoff, unable to prevent myself. Baby. Pass me the fucking barf bag.
“Something wrong?” Zeke prompts, his deep voice like molten silk slipping down my back.
“Nope.” I force myself to stare out of the window as the attendant leaves, looking disappointed but with her cheeks flushed a rosy pink.
“You sure?” The assholes knows. He knows exactly what he is doing, and that irks me even further.
“Tragic,” I mutter, ignoring him.
“Pardon me?”
“I said it’s tragic,” I repeat, louder this time, swiveling to meet his gaze. Senseless anger takes control of my tongue. “A rich, sad old man, hitting on his flight staff on his private jet. How very original.”
“Is that what I’m doing?” he muses calmly, picking up his fresh drink and taking a sip.
He examines the glass absently as he continues, swirling the liquid.
“Because while you were in the bathroom, she told me she would be happy to offer me a private service in the master suite. And yet, I’ve spent this whole time watching you instead.
” My eyes widen and my lips part as he meets my gaze again.
He leans forward in his seat and I instinctively shrink back into mine at the intensity on his chiseled features.
Electricity dances in the air between us.
“Jealousy looks fucking perfect on you, mi fuego.” The words are so deep they are almost just a rumble.
My breath catches in my throat, my heart hammering into high gear.
I should look away, but I’m trapped. Pinned in his dark snare.
“I’m not jealous,” I breathe. Lies, my brain screams. “I just don’t take kindly to being made to look a fool.”
“Liar.” He smirks, tipping a lazy index finger my way before draining his drink in one.
“You don't think if I wanted to take you back there myself, I would?” I challenge, tipping my chin. I’m playing with fire, and I’m careening toward getting burnt at breakneck speed.
This man incenses me. He gets under my skin and prods right where he knows it will rile me up.
I know it and yet I can’t seem to stop myself from taking the bait.
The line between business and something else I don’t want to name is becoming dangerously blurred for me.
I want to climb him like a tree and tell him to fuck off all in the same breath.
“You want to know what I think? I think underneath all that bravado, you’re just a little scared to take what you really want.
” He flicks open the top button on his shirt and puts the glass back down.
Bingo. Right on the money. “But you will,” he continues, sliding off his tie.
“Eventually, and when that time comes, I’m going to make you beg for it, mi nina testaruda. ”
A shiver runs through me as he slips effortlessly into Spanish.
God, I want him to whisper that language into my ear while he— The curtain pulls back again and the attendant comes through to collect the freshly drained glass.
The spell between us breaks and I suck in a sharp breath, fixing my attention out the window as he waves off her offer of another drink.
***
There is a sleek black Audi waiting for us on the concourse when we arrive at Cleveland Hopkins Airport, but instead of us getting in the back like we would the Town Car, the keys are handed to Zeke and he folds himself down into the driver's side.
“The crown prince drives himself, now there’s a revelation.
” I flip the sun visor down when I get in and slide across the mirror to check my makeup is still intact after what is already a thirteen-hour day.
We ate on the flight, and I’m ready for a quick swing by to say hello to my family and a very long, very bubbly bath in a cushy hotel room.
“I don’t drive in the city because the traffic drives me nuts.
But everywhere else I do.” Zeke chuckles, using the heel of one wide palm to spin the wheel toward the exit.
I bite the inside of my cheek as I catch the movement out of the corner of my eye, flipping the visor back up.
You know those weirdly mundane things that men do, somehow in such a masculine way that it’s attractive?
Well, driving can be one of those things in my book.
One arm braced against the top of the wheel, the other resting casually on the middle console—he looks hot.
His crisp white shirt is undone a couple of buttons, contrasting wonderfully with his deep, tawny skin.
His hair speckled, corded forearms flexed beneath rolled sleeves, shiny Rolex glinting in the lazy evening light.
Nuclear meltdown-level hot. I can almost hear the sirens blaring in my mind, see the plant workers running toward the radioactive heat spilling over.
Except it’s me. I'm the heat. I’m the one who is melting.
We take the freeway toward Westfield, the town where I grew up.
It feels odd to speed down the familiar roads, having not been here for so many years.
Given that both Tilly and I are in New York, our parents come to us.
Cade is usually halfway across the world in some undisclosed military destination, so it’s rare that we’ll all be together.
I fidget for a good ten minutes before Zeke sighs and reaches over to grab my hand.
“What are you doing?” I rear back slightly at the contact, eyeing his hand like it’s a radioactive spider about to bite me. Yikes, really leaning into the radiation metaphors today.
“Tell me where you want to be in ten years.” He places our linked hands on my thigh, preventing me from further attacking my fresh red nail polish with my teeth.
I blink across at him, my brow furrowed. “Pardon me?”
“I’m trying to distract you—start talking.”
“Your idea of distracting conversation is asking me where I want to be in ten years? What is this, a job interview?” I scoff, drawing my hand out from his when the prickling burn of our skin touching becomes too much to ignore.
“Okay.” He shrugs, drawing his hand back and switching lanes to exit the freeway. “You choose then—ask me anything you want, but start talking.”
My eye catches on the speedometer, and I click my tongue.
It’s edging one hundred miles per hour, before beginning to drop steadily in preparation for our turn off.
“We’ve passed at least five speed cameras, you know.
” He flashes me a devilish smirk sideways, and I roll my eyes.
Boys will always be boys apparently, no matter how old or successful.
“Right—you’re too rich to care about tickets, how could I forget? ”
“At the risk of sounding self-inflated, there’s a list of journalists as long as my arm that would kill to ask me any question they want, and you want to talk about speeding?
” he drawls, flicking on the radio and clicking through stations until he finds one that isn’t garish pop.
The quiet strains of Bach fill the vehicle, turned down so low it’s a background noise rather than anything else.
I file away that he likes classical music in a folder labeled Surprising Things About Zeke Guerra.