My palms itch to cup her face and beg her to run away with me. To forget whatever she has planned and let me take care of her. But I need to slow my roll or risk scaring her off for good.
The flight attendant sets down our lunch trays, neat little rows of sliced meats, cheese, salad, bread, and yogurt. I barely register mine for watching her. She starts to peel back the yogurt lid, angling it toward herself.
Without thinking, I reach out and gently place my hand over hers.
Grace stills. Her wide eyes flick over to meet mine, and that indescribablethingis back again. That quiet, electric pull on my heart from months ago. The one that hasn’t loosened its grip on my heart since the moment she and that paw print covered tank top stepped into my world.
Fuck. My heart is pounding against my sternum. This can’t be one-sided. It just can’t be. I grit my teeth. “Open it away from you,” I say softly. “If you peel it facing toward yourself, the cabin pressure can make it erupt…” I nod toward her chest, instantly wishing I’d kept my gaze on her face. “All over your clothes.”
“Oh.” Her cheeks bloom with that familiar blush. The same gentle, surprised color she wore the night we danced and laughed and pretended we were engaged. WhenIpretended I wasn’t already falling for her. The sweet rosy expression filled with wonder that only burned brighter when she came on my tongue.
I have to adjust myself under my napkin.Shit, man, keep it together.
She gives me a small smile, uncertain, and achingly familiar before peeling the yogurt away from her this time. “Thanks,” she murmurs.
I nod, but my heart is pounding like I’m bracing for a storm. Because the truth is, whatever she’s walking back into in Vegas… I have a feeling I’m about to tear it apart with my bare hands.
A little while later,our trays are cleared, and Grace slowly curls onto her side, turning away from me.
It shouldn’t hurt like this. I’m thirty-four years old for Christ’s sake. But it does. Like pieces of my heart being torn off within my chest, as if someone is whittling away at it with a dull knife.
This is my cue. Just let it go, Ben. She isn’t interested. She’s a nice girl who has her own life. Whether you’ve fallen hard for her or not, you have no right to judge her. Be there from a distance if you want to support her, but she’s an adult who can make her own choices. Get your head out of your ass.
You’re just feeling rejected that her choices don’t include you.
I’ve made it abundantly clear I have money, comfort, options, and she still doesn’t want me. No more wondering if she’d only want me for what I could give her. No second-guessing motives. After you return home, you need to move on.
My lunch churns like acid in my belly. The heartburn causing me to shift in my seat. Yet, I’m still tempted to ring for the flight attendant and ask for a scotch. Okay, two. And part of me wants to turn toward Grace and demand answers. Ask her why she’s going back there. I want to shake some sense into her, tell her she deserves better than the world she’s stepping into. That while sheisworthy of appearing on magazine covers, they should be of theSports IllustratedorVictoria’s Secretvariety.Vogueeven. Not these cheap skin mags that are dimming her radiant light. I want to scream that she deserves someone who’ll guard her like something precious.
Because she is.
Hell. When did I become so pathetic?
The rest of the flight stretches on in heavy silence. Her back remains to me. My eyes fixed on the ceiling, unmoving, while my mind spirals.
I can’t help wondering if my brother would’ve known what to say. If Devon would’ve swept in with his charm and protected her before she ever stood in front of a camera, before any of this could touch herlife. The thought guts me. Hell, I’d rather see her with someone else, even my egotistical brother, if it would protect her from walking into situations that don’t honor who she is.
I’m jolted into consciousness as the wheels finally kiss the runway. The cabin stirs, and we silently gather our things. I force myself to keep my distance, staying far enough behind her to pretend I’m not watching her every step.
I will not follow her.
I will not follow her.
I will not follow her.
As we reach baggage claim, the doors slide open to the bright chaos of taxis, shuttles, and rideshares. I nearly accept this is it. That Max will have to reach out if she’s in trouble, while I sulk in the shadows.
But then she slows. And stops. Her shoulders fold inward, her hands come up to her face, and her body begins to shake.
My breath catches in the back of my throat.What is happening? Without thinking, I’m by her side in an instant, pulling her whimpering form against me. “Shhh. Shhh. It’s okay, baby. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
She continues to sob, eventually trying but failing on multiple occasions to speak.
I lead her over to a couple of chairs in the corner of baggage claim, removed from the majority of travelers who are surrounding the luggage carousel. Pushing her hair back behind her ears, I swipe at the tears streaking down her face. “Better?”
She shakes her head.
My heart is cracking in two. Do I tell her? That I know about the magazine? The very last thing I want to do is make her feel cornered. Confronted for her decisions. Ultimately, it’s her body. She’s allowed to do whatever she wants. Whether it makes me want to go on a killing spree or not.
