The flight attendant comes by again, asking if we need anything else. I order another whiskey because the meetings in LA were tedious as hell and I need something to take the edge off.
Three days of sitting in boardrooms with men who think they’re dangerous because they’ve readThe Godfather, negotiating territory agreements that shouldn’t require negotiation in the first place.
The Italians are getting sloppy, pushing into areas they know are mine, and I had to spend seventy-two hours reminding them why that’s a bad idea without actually starting a war.
Exhausting and necessary, but Christ, I’m tired of playing nice.
Catherine declines another glass of water, and when the attendant leaves, she returns to her sketching. I should probably do the same, pull out my phone and deal with the messages Declan’s been sending about the Petrov situation, but I don’t.
Instead, I watch her.
The way her hand moves across the page is quick and confident despite the slight tremor. She reaches up and pulls the mask down for a moment to take a sip of water, and I catch a glimpse of her face properly for the first time.
Sharp features, a mouth that curves slightly even when she’s concentrating. She bites her bottom lip while studying her sketch, teeth pressing into soft flesh that I’m suddenly very aware of, then pulls the mask back up.
No ring on her finger, no tan line suggesting there used to be one. Traveling alone, sketching exit routes while wearing a mask most people have stopped bothering with.
Interesting.
Not my business, but interesting.
She’s either cautious by nature or has a reason to be, and I find myself curious which one it is. Most people in first class are too entitled to worry about emergency procedures. They assume money will protect them from anything going wrong.
She’s different.
Whether that’s a good thing or a red flag, I haven’t decided yet.
“What do you do, Cassian?” she asks without looking up from her sketch.
The question catches me off guard, which doesn’t happen often.
“Import-export,” I say, because it’s technically true and vague enough that it doesn’t invite follow-up questions.
She glances at me, one eyebrow raised. “That’s the most boring answer you could’ve given.”
“What were you expecting?”
“I don’t know. Something more interesting than import-export.”
“Maybe I’m a boring guy.”
Her laugh is soft and disbelieving. “You’re definitely not boring.”
“How would you know? We just met.”
“Call it intuition.”
I lean forward slightly. “And what’s your intuition telling you about me?”
She holds my gaze. “That you’re used to getting what you want. People don’t say no to you very often.”
Fuck. She’s not wrong on any count, and the fact that she’s not intimidated by it is more attractive than it should be.
“And that makes you curious?” I ask.
“Maybe.”
I don’t rush to fill the silence.
