Rorie doesn’t look up right away. She crosses one leg over the other. She’s trying to test my soul. Then finally says, “Fifty percent.”
“Fifty?” I arch a brow.
She shrugs, all nonchalance and quiet steel. “I don’t pitch on anything I haven’t experienced. You can’t fake connection. You have to feel it first.”
There’s weight in her voice. Intent. She doesn’t pitch products—she pitches emotions. She feels everything. Which is exactly why I’m fucked.
A flight attendant appears with menus. “Can I get you anything to eat or drink?”
Rorie barely glances at the menu before shutting it. “Club sandwich. Fries. And areallystrong dirty martini. Straight up slutty.”
The flight attendant smiles.
“Same,” I say, because at this point, I need something solid in my system to counteract the storm swirling through my body. “But bourbon for me, please.”
Eventually, our food arrives. Rorie’s halfway into her sandwich when I swipe one of her fries.
Her head whips toward me. “Seriously?”
“Mine are meh.” I pop it in my mouth. “They’re better when stolen.”
She exhales, shakes her head slightly and mutters, “So I hear.”
It’s the way she says it so dryly that knocks something loose in my brain. It’s familiar. Exactly how Textually Frustrated would say it.
For one brutal second, I almost wish she were TF. That’s not possible though.
To distract myself, I stare out the window, watching dusk bleed into night. Below, the ocean stretches endlessly, its surface a dark mirror reflecting the last traces of sunlight, scattering like embers before they disappear entirely.
This trip is going to kill me. And I still don’t know what the hell to do about it. If anything.
My head leans back against the chair. Rorie’s nose is buried in a book, her fingers idly tracing the edge of the pages as she reads.
At first, I don’t think much of it until I catch a few words on the page. Words that make my brows shoot up and a slow, wicked grin tug at my lips.
Well, well, well.
Leaning over, my smirk curves. “His fingers teased along her wet folds, spreading her open as he?—”
Rorie flinches, slaps the book shut. “Jesus, Nolan. Do you mind?”
“Oh, I mind very much.” I grin like the menace I am. “I’m very interested in this literary masterpiece. What was the next line? His fingers stroked the desperate ache between her thighs?—”
“Stop it.” Her cheeks blaze.
“Do you prefer the rough type of book boyfriend? Or the teasing-until-you-beg kind? I can do both.”
Oh my God! Why did I say that?
Rorie’s eyes narrow.
I grin, sheepishly, watching the way her lips part ever so slightly, the way her pulse flutters at her throat. And it’s in this exact moment that I know…
I’m going to fix this broken thing between us.
Rorie exhales through her nose, visibly seething. She might actually throw the book at my head. She twists in her seat, meets my gaze, and lets a slow, wicked smile curl her lips. Then she taps her fingers against her spicy read, completely unbothered.
“You really want to know what mytypeis?” Her voice drops so low it makes my pulse stutter. “I prefer a man who knows exactly how to make me come with words alone, how to read my body without needing instructions, how to drag it out until I’m shaking, begging for more, and still doesn’t let me have it.”
