“You’re serious?” I ask, stalling while I try to make a choice.
“Deadly serious,” he says. His voice lowers. “Come on, what’s the worst thing that can happen? You’re not scared you’ll fall for me, are you?”
I laugh, too quickly. God, I sound like a horse. “I’m not scared.”
“You sound scared.”
“I don’t.”
“Then come with me.”
“Fine,” I snap. “I’ll come with you. Happy?”
He chuckles, warm and rich. “Ecstatic. Go pack a bag. I’ll be at yours in two hours. We’ll head straight to Heathrow.”
“Two hours?” I squeak. “That’s hardly any time at all.”
“You look good in anything,” he says smoothly. “Or, I imagine, out of anything.”
I choke. “Rhett,” I shriek.
He laughs again. The bastard is clearly pleased with himself. “Best get moving, Mrs. Rabbit. See you soon.”
The line clicks dead. I pull my phone away from my face, and I stare at my own reflection on the black screen. My cheeks are flaming. I sit frozen like that for less than a minute before I jump into action. I leap out of bed, shower, and get ready in record time. I throw clothes into a suitcase like a madwoman, muttering under my breath. Casuals, dresses, shoes, something nice for the wedding. God, how does one even know what to pack for an impromptu trip to New York with a man who can make the air hum just by brushing your arm, but who you are not allowed to think of in that way because your heart belongs to someone else?
By the time Rhett buzzes me from downstairs, I’m all packed and raring to go. I glance at the mirror. My hair is curled, and I am dressed in a fitted navy wrap dress with three quarter sleeves that hugs my waist without screaming ‘trying toohard’. I’ve paired it with my nude heels that make my legs look pretty endless, but are still airport friendly. Wish I could travel in my sweats, but one has to suffer to look good. I tug at the hem of my dress one last time, inhale deeply, and grab my suitcase handle.
When I step outside, the sight that greets me is enough to stall my breath. Rhett is talking to someone on his phone. He has one hand placed against a sleek black car. A pair of, no doubt, designer sunglasses pushes his hair back, and his suit jacket is, as ever, cut to perfection over his broad shoulders. He looks glossy, polished, devastatingly male. And when he turnshis head, his eyes sweep up from my heels to my face, lingering in a way that makes my skin tingle. I feel dangerously close to forgetting George altogether.
“You look …” He shakes his head slightly, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Heathrow is not ready for you.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “This old thing,” I dismiss airily.
He bends to take my suitcase from me, his hand brushing mine briefly, and my pulse stutters.
“The tag is still showing,” he whispers, laughter hidden in his voice.
The drive to the airport is smooth, filled with his low-voiced anecdotes about New York, which I confess, I only half follow because I’m too busy cataloguing every flex of his hand on the steering wheel, every shadow of stubble along his jaw.
“So,” I say, forcing lightness into my voice. “You are planning to show me the tourist side of New York. I thought this was going to be business meetings with a side of overpriced coffee for me?”
“It’s called multitasking, honey,” he says, glancing at me with a quick grin. “Besides, there’s something poetic about you letting me play tour guide after London.”
“Poetic,” I repeat skeptically. “That’s one word for it.”
“What’s your word?”
“Risky.”
He smirks. “But you like risky.”
I glare out the window. He’s not right. I like safe and dependable.
At Heathrow, Rhett strides through the terminal with a quiet, prowling grace. Confidence radiates from him. I feel people glancing our way, probably wondering who the woman at his side is. The women wish they were me, and something in me straightens, as if I belong next to him. I want them to think I’m with him.
We check in my suitcase. Oh my, it seems we are flying first class. We are treated like superstars and whisked off into a fast lane. There is no waiting or taking off shoes here. When we reach passport control, Rhett takes my passport from me with an ease that makes me feel I should object, but somehow, I don’t. He’s efficient, calm, and in control. I hate that I like it.
We enter the first-class lounge, and somehow, I find myself holding a flute of champagne in my hand.
