“Don’t tell them that!” The younger woman glares at her mother as she skulks past us, steaming coffeepot in hand.
“I’ll get the Reuben, please,” George murmurs as he gingerly sits back on his stool. “And I’ll pay. I’m not a hero.”
“That’s what the best heroes say.” Sam offers him a wink before jogging back to the kitchen. I think she might be planning to elbow Billy out of the way and make the sandwich herself.
My brother chuckles as he heads to the bathroom, leaving me alone with George.
How long can he stand to be around me?I wonder.Will he break out in hives from all his suppressed disdain?
More likely that I will.
I could wander away, find another task to busy myself. But this diner is my territory, and I refuse to give him an inch of it.
Other than those inches his well-formed ass is claiming on the stool, I guess.
George stares at the sugar packets, and I stare at his forehead, my eyes tracing over the short hairs. Randomly, I ponder if they would be soft or scratchy against my palms.
Does he shave his head himself? Does he crop it close to his head and let it grow out? Does he ever miss spots? When I overlook an area on my legs, the little tease of stubble annoys the heck out of me until I can take my next shower.
Does he use his razor in the shower?
A vision pops into my mind then, of George soaping his skull before dragging a razor over the skin. Steam billowing up around him, suds slipping down his neck…down his chest…down his—
Stop it! Bad brain!
I clear my throat and try to keep my thoughts from showing in my eyes. George Bunsen would be appalled to know I’ve started having dirty fantasies about him.
Still, as much as he dislikes me, hedidsave my life, like Sam said.
“Thank you.” My voice comes out only slightly strained. I forget if I ever spoke the words yesterday in all the wildness that followed our emergency landing. “You saved us both.”
George’s lips tighten to a straight, displeased line, and I bet Shawn had to physically drag the guy here. Even when I’m grateful, he doesn’t want to be in my presence.
“When are you going to fly again?” he asks.
I flinch, not expecting the question.
The surety that I will fly again.
Tomorrow!My heart begs. But my heart has never made the rules.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly.
George scowls. Unfortunately, the angry expression looks good on his face. “The longer you wait, the worse the fear will get.”
I huff an unamused laugh. Fear isn’t what’s keeping me grounded. “Yeah. I bet. But I don’t own a plane or have a license. And…” I trailoff, not wanting to discuss my money troubles with a man who is so rich he hasn’t even considered that I can’t afford to take regular plane rides. But I throw my shoulders back, determined not to feel shame. “I don’t have the income I need to pay to use someone else’s to learn.”
George’s expression twists, as if confused by my explanation.
Does he think I work in a diner because I like to have syrup stains on my shoes?
“You’re twenty-four,” he says, like my age means something.
But realization comes quick.
He knows about the trust.
The trust that doesn’t exist. The reminder has my gut cramping with guilt.
