There's something in his voice—concern, maybe, or disapproval—that makes my spine straighten defensively. "I'm twenty-four, not fourteen. I don't need his permission."
For a moment, Grant just looks at me. Really look at me. His eyes are this impossible shade of gray-blue, the kind of eyes that probably make corporate rivals squirm across boardroom tables. But there's something else in them now, something that's making me incredibly uncomfortable.
"No," he says finally, his voice quieter. "I don't suppose you do."
The flight attendant begins her speech on exit rows and oxygen masks, and I turn back to my notebook, not knowing what else to say.
I can feel the heat of him beside me, the subtle scent of his cologne—something cedar and citrus. Normally, I would be taking it in, breaking down the notes.
Instead, all I can think is that he smells incredible. And he looks even better.
"So," Grant says, and I can hear the smile in his voice even though I'm not looking at him. "Why are you heading to Florence?"
I take a quick glance at him. He's angled toward me, one arm resting on our shared armrest, his attention entirely focused on me in a way that makes my pulse pound.
"I’m starting a fragrance business," I say. "I'm meeting with a perfumer there. Daniela Conti. She's one of the last traditional distillers in Tuscany, and she's agreed to let me study her methods for a week."
"Perfume," Grant says, and there's a note of surprise. "I heard you were still doing that."
Still. Like it's a phase. Like it's something I'll grow out of.
I feel the familiar flash of defensive anger, the same anger that rises every time my father asks when I'm going to "get serious" about my career. "Yes,I'm stilldoing that." The words come out sharper than I intended. "This trip is research."
Grant holds up a hand, and I catch a glimpse of his watch—understated, elegant, and stupid expensive, no doubt. "Hey. I wasn't questioning it. I think it's—" He pauses, and when he continues, his voice is warm. "I think it's incredible, actually. That you're pursuing it."
The anger deflates, leaving me feeling suddenly exposed. "Oh.... thanks."
"Your father talks about you, you know. About the lab space you set up in your apartment, the formulas you're developing." Grant's mouth quirks. "He pretends to be baffled by it, but I can tell he's proud. Even if he doesn't know how to say it."
My throat tightens unexpectedly. "He has a funny way of showing it."
"David has a funny way of showing a lot of things."
There's something in the way Grant says it, a familiarity born of decades of friendship, that reminds me exactly who he is. My father's best friend. His college roommate, his business confidant, the man he calls at midnight when he's had too much scotch and wants to reminisce. They've known each other for over twenty years.
Which makes this—the way my heart is racing, the hyperawareness of every point where our bodies nearly touch—completely inappropriate.
I force myself to look back at my notebook. "What about you? Do you have business in Florence?"
"Property acquisition. There's a building near the Arno I'm looking at—sixteenth century, needs a complete restoration. I'm meeting with the preservation board."
Of course he is. Grant Cross doesn't just buy buildings; he resurrects them, turns them into architectural showcases that get written up in magazines. His real estate empire spans three continents. He's the kind of wealthy that doesn't feel real, thekind I've only ever glimpsed from the outside, at those family events where he and my father trade stories.
"Sounds complicated," I say.
"It is." He stretches slightly, and his shoulder brushes mine. The contact is brief, innocent, but it sends a shock of awareness racing down my arm. "But I like complicated things. Simple is boring."
“This trip was last minute, which is why I’m sitting back here… in the middle seat.”
Oh, well that makes sense. Otherwise, he’d be up front in first class.
I risk another glance at him and find him watching me with an expression I can't quite read. The plane chooses that moment to accelerate, engines roaring as we hurtle down the runway, and then we're airborne, the ground dropping away beneath us.
I turn back to my notebook and I try to focus on it, on anything other than the fact that Grant Cross is close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body. That every breath I take is laced with the scent of him.
This is going to be the longest nine hours of my life.
"So tell me about this company," Grant says once we've reached cruising altitude. He tugs the sleeves of his sweater up slightly, revealing tan forearms. "What's your target market?"
