“It’s the fastest way to travel,” he said, hands flexingonce on the steering wheel. “And I just need to get back to Tabby.”
She smiled and lifted her hands in mock-surrender. “Today is a judgement-free day. Honestly, I thought you were going to Christian Grey it and fly us there yourself, so, hey, at least you don’t have a pilot’s license.”
Deacon’s poker face had never been particularly strong, and now he looked like a man balancing on the edge of a secret.
Her hand clamped over her mouth. “Oh my god, you do. You have your pilot’s license.”
His eyes narrowed slightly as the corners of his lips curled. “What happened to today being judgment-free?”
She made a zipper gesture across her lips and locked it but then unlocked and unzipped it. “It’s not judgment, it’s…reaction.” Her jaw dropped, then she shook her head. “Of course you do. That was a reaction. Today isnota reaction-free day.”
He exhaled, a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.”
Just like in the hospital a week ago, the vulnerability in him was almost radioactive—palpable, humming, demanding to be fixed or at least acknowledged. Jenna had always been the type to reach for a toolbox when confronted with a problem, be it a crying baby or a leaking faucet or a man whose heart was a tangle of wires and code.
She instantly reached out and touched his forearm in afriendlymanner, the wayfriendssupport each other. “Hey, it’s gonna be fine. Whatever happens, you’re gonna be fine. What mom wouldn’t want a rich, hot, honest, generous, kind, funny, hardworking, amazing father as a son?”
He studied her, the way a safebreaker studies a lock,not for the flaws but for the elegant machinery inside. Then his lips twitched into a pure, unguarded smile. “You actually complimented me.”
She felt her nose twitch and tried to school her features into something more neutral, but she could sense the betrayal in her own face, so she tried to play it off. “Just call me Dionne Warwick, because that’s what friends are for, baby.”
His smile grew, and she knew she’d been caught. The blip wouldnotrepeat. She made a silent vow, this road trip, or air trip, or whatever the hell it was, would remain platonic, even if it killed her.
He opened his door, and she waited in the passenger seat as he came around because even as a “friend,” he still insisted on being a gentleman, and she couldn’t be mad at him about that.
They crossed the tarmac together, greeted by the pilot, who introduced himself as Captain Morse and gave them a quick, thorough rundown of the flight plan with the efficiency of someone who’d spent a lifetime condensing complex information for nervous millionaires. The inside of the jet was even more surreal than the outside, all soft expensive leather and walnut trim with a subtle, omnipresent lemon verbena scent that was probably a thousand dollars a bottle.
Jenna tried to play it cool, but as she slid into the seat opposite Deacon, she couldn’t resist running her fingers over the stitching. She wasn’t a member of the mile high club but had always felt the pang of curiosity. If she were ever going to join, this would be the place to do it, not in a Southwest bathroom but in a private flying penthouse.
Platonic. Platonic. Platonic.
The jet’s engines fired up with a roar that pressed her into the seat. She looked to see if Deacon was showing anysigns of in-flight panic. He stared down at his phone, face stony, scrolling with the same intensity as a surgeon counting sponges mid-operation. She’d never seen him like that before.
She cleared her throat. “Are you a nervous flyer?”
He didn’t look up. “No, not at all…it’s just.”
“Oh. Right. Sorry.” Jenna bit her tongue, feeling like an idiot. Of course, he was on edge, this trip was about crossing an emotional state line, not a geographical one.
The jet began its slow taxi. She looked out the window, the world outside shrinking until the hanger was a blur, and she let the silence stretch until it almost hurt.
When they were airborne and cruising, she tried again. “If you want to talk about anything, I’m here,” she offered, her tone soft, not pushy. “We’ve got ninety minutes and no place to hide.”
Deacon set the phone face-down on the tray, his fingers drumming a nervous tattoo against the wood. For a minute she wondered if he was going to change his mind, have Captain Morse turn the plane around, fake a stomach bug, or claim he’d left the iron on at home.
Instead, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and spoke with the unblinking honesty of someone who hated lies more than he feared pain.
“I just don’t understand what the point was of lying to me. What did they gain? And since they lied to me originally, why not keep it up? Why tell me half the truth, or a quarter of the truth?” He stared out the small window. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
Jenna pretended to consider the view out her window. She could see the fringe of the Sierra Nevadas, the landscape below as remote as the conversation she was not having. The temptation to say something, to fix it, ran so hot it made her teeth itch. This was not her monkey or hercircus. It was not a thread she needed to pull on, which she had a very bad habit of doing. She couldn’t count the number of accidental affairs she’d exposed by pointing out inconsistencies in stories from the women and men seated in her chair. Yet to her own husband, her own best friend, she was as blind as a bat with glaucoma.
She bit the inside of her cheek. She would not, could not, play detective with Deacon’s life. Not unless he asked her to.
But Deacon was watching her now, his gaze sharp despite the exhaustion softening the set of his mouth. “What?”
“Nothing.” She shook her head.
He didn’t blink. “Tell me.”
