I glance at him. His eyes stay on the seatback screen, the corner of his mouth tipping.
“I don’t need hand-holding,” I whisper.
“That’s a shame,” he says easily. “I’ve got big hands.”
Heat snaps low. My brain does unhelpful math—span, grip, everywhere those hands were yesterday. I swallow. “Use them to hold your coffee, Russo.”
The engines spool, vibration rolling through the cabin. My tray table chatters; his thigh brushes mine and stays. The manspread is deliberate. He isn’t moving.
“Russo.” I hiss his name, but it comes out thinner than I want.
He finally looks at me. Calm and unbothered. That slow, wolfish half-smile that says he’s in no rush because he already knows the ending.
“You’re tense.” His fingers brush over the back of my hand resting on my thigh. Just a brief sweep, but enough to spike my pulse.
I snatch my hand back, crossing my arms, but his touch lingers on my skin.
“Relax,” he drawls, settling deeper into his seat. “It’s a long flight. I’ll keep you entertained.”
He flips his tray down and taps the elastic on my wrist. “Lend me the hair tie?”
“Why?”
“Trust me.”
I slide it off. He fishes a plain band from his pocket,threads it onto my hair tie, and holds the elastic taut between us.
“Watch.”
The ring climbs—slow, steady—then stops a breath from my fingertip.
“Say when,” he murmurs.
My pulse trips. “When.”
He halts exactly there, eases the ring free, and drops the tie back into my palm. “Good. I stop when you tell me to.”
I curl my fingers around the elastic and try to remember how to breathe. He settles back, smug and quiet, thigh still anchored against mine.
A few rows back, Wesley calls something about in-flight movies, and the moment snaps. But Nate stays leaned into my space, one arm heavy along the rest, his thigh still pressed against mine, a steady reminder all the way to Montreal.
By the time we roll up to the hotel, December air bites through my coat, breath fogging white. The guys are chirping in the lobby, loud enough that the desk clerk notices but pretends not to hear. Wesley reaches for my bag; Nate materializes, cuts him off with a quiet glare, and takes the handle before I can answer. Wesley’s brow ticks up, mouth curving. He lifts his hands in a wordless surrender and falls in step, amused and silent.
We check in. The clerk slides over a key card, room 812. When we step into the elevator, Nate presses eight. Our rooms are across the hall. His key card beeps first. “Handy,” he murmurs.
“Coincidence?” I ask.
“That’s cute,Trouble.”
I barely havetime to kick my suitcase against the wall before there’s a knock. Two sharp raps, no hesitation.
When I open the door, Nate’s leaning on the frame, hair pushed back, Henley stretched indecently across his chest, his coat folded over one arm.
“Dinner,” he says curtly.
I blink. “Now?”
“Team’s heading out in five.” His gaze skims over me, lingering long enough to trip my pulse. “Grab your purse. Maybe add a sweater; it’s freezing out there.”
