Her lips curve. “Is the VIP service part of your contract?”
“No.” I twist the top off one of the bottles. “But a lot of people seem eager to please me, and it’s public knowledge I’ve got a sweet tooth.”
Her eyes light up. “Ah, that’s right, you were a guest on that baking show, the English one!”
I chuckle under my breath. “Aye”
“You ate all the cupcakes,” she says with a smile.
The attendant returns with a tray lined with eight perfect macarons in four colors. I take it, thank him, and pour a flute of champagne before handing it to Catalina. She tries to give it back.
“That’s for you,” I say.
“I usually don’t drink while I’m working.”
“Are you working right now?”
She tilts her head. “I’malwaysworking. During Strikers season, I’m on the clock every day.”
I pour my own glass and raise it halfway between us. “Well, today, we’re celebrating, Miss Kitten.”
Her eyes flick to mine, still uncertain, then she exhales a small laugh and lifts her flute, the glass catching the cabin light.
“To what?” she asks.
“To winning.” Then, after a beat, softer, I say, “And to a great seatmate.”
Her smile falters for half a second before she clinks her glass to mine. “Bottoms up, then.”
The first bottle doesn’t last long. Between the laughter, the teasing, and the sugar, the miles slip by faster than I expect.
We’re halfway through our second bottle of champagne when Robbie—our flight attendant—appears again, balancing another tray piled high with macarons.
“Oh, I couldn’t,” Catalina says.
“We’ll take those,” I say before Robbie even blinks, then take the tray from him.
She’s got a sweet tooth, this one, and she is clearly not much of a drinker. One full glass and two sips in, she’s already gigglier than when we left Houston.
“So, tell me…” She plucks a macaron from the tray shedefinitelydidn’t want, then takes a bite, and I swear I forget how to breathe. Her lips close around it, soft and perfect, and I’m a goner. Completely wrecked. She has no idea what she’s doing to me. “How did someone like you end up as a guest judge on a baking show?”
“Someone like me?” I repeat, half amused, half offended, turning slightly in my seat.
She nods, eyes glinting. “You know… you’re a grump.”
I fight a smile, jaw tightening to keep from laughing. “A grump?”
“Oh, I mean no offense,” she rushes out, cheeks pink. “You’re just so… serious all the time. I would’ve never guessed you’d enjoy something like that.”
She’s not wrong, I am serious, or maybe I just don’t let people see the other side of me, the one that laughs, the one that bakesat two in the morning when sleep won’t come, and the one that remembers his mam by the smell of brown bread and honey.
“I lost a bet. Told someone they wouldn’t be able to score during a match. We wagered that if he did, I’d do something he didn’t want to do. Got too cocky, and, well, he scored.”
Her eyes light up, waiting.
“After the game, he said I had to go on this baking show for him. I thought he was joking, but… I’m a man of my word. So, I went, ate too many cupcakes, made a fool of myself on camera.”
Her jaw drops.
