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 fewtimes, 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 atmelike 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.
Chapter 11
Idon’t know what his deal is. When he first dropped into the aisle seat, I thought maybe he was joking, or lost, or secretly hoping to torment me until we landed. The plane has plenty of empty rows, but athletes can be superstitious—lucky socks, lucky numbers, lucky rows. And if twenty-three is his, who am I to argue? I could have moved if I wanted to.
I didn’t want to.
Because honestly? Sitting next to him is… not the worst thing in the world. Not with that smell—God, he smells good. Masculine, musky, clean sweat and something warm, almost smoky. Cedarwood mixed with the memory of someone wrapping you up in a blanket after the sun goes down.
Then there was the whole thing with Ruby. The woman was practically leaning into his space, but he didn’t even look at her twice. He asked for his sparkling water like she was a vendingmachine and ignored every attempt at flirting. And when she gave me the wrong drink, he, Mr. Permanent Scowl himself, actually defended me. Told her off in that deep, Irish rumble that made my stomach twist.
And it was… hot. So freaking hot.
I don’t even know what to make of him. One minute he’s ignoring me like I’m a gnat in his orbit, the next he’s calling mekittenas if he has the right to. What is that about? And why do I like it?
I shake my head and focus on the work in front of me, scrolling through the pictures I snapped earlier this week. The guys practicing, running drills, stretching, talking, goofing off for the camera when they think no one’s looking. My job might be chaotic, but moments like this—editing, creating—remind me I have the coolest job in the world.
From the corner of my eye, I see him leaning ever so slightly, his gaze fixed on my laptop screen.
“Would you like to see the pictures?” I ask, breaking the silence, voice soft but teasing.
